Dear A — Discardable

Dear A,

Oh honey… I don’t even want to write this one, but if I don’t, I think I’ll be stalked in my sleep, and I need to rest. And you know what? It’s probably not even going to be that big of a deal once I get the words out. Or maybe it will… I don’t know.

I spent the day doing my taxes. That’s it.

Like big fucking deal right?

But you and I both know how messed up that can be for me. Remember the last time I did this? A few years back you were congratulating me, telling me to keep going, and it took everything I had not to scream fuck it and torch it all. I really was fighting my inner ‘crazy woman’ that day. On International Women’s Day, I don’t even like to use the word ‘crazy’, but the reality is, I have that unhinged-archetype inside of me. She just hasn’t come out for almost 30 years.

I don’t think I ever told you those stories. They’re embarrassing really. I went out with this guy once who was dry, but a raging alcoholic, and he and I had a few cringe-worthy screaming matches in our time. The kind you see on bad reality tv with public displays of off-the-hook anger. The kind people watch from across the street. The kind you wake up to at 3am and wonder how the neighbourhood got so bad. He had a room mate who used to throw irons (yes I mean the kind you press clothes with) when she was mad. Her eyes would shake when she’d fight with him. He’d storm through the house, shake his fists and foam at the mouth — and I’m not even kidding. He truly brought out the worst in me. That relationship ended on a threat of suicide. Not mine. I walked out the door and never looked back.

I’ve met my inner ‘crazy’ woman, as in the one who checks out and flips out at the same time. I know when she’s close and she was pretty tight to me three years ago as I stood in the financial ruins of my dead marriage, with a table of proof splayed out in front of me. Remember that? I think I even sent you pictures. I was disgusted that day and wanted to spit every three seconds. It surprised me how sick I felt.

Today wasn’t like that. It wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t angry, or disgusted or anything nasty. I wasn’t at risk of losing it. The fucked-up me is pretty well resourced now. No, today was entirely different. As I sorted through my expenses from last year, I just kept hearing: none of it was real. It was a joke. On you.

Remember, I fell for someone last year. I told you about him. It was weird how some of the details of his life were so similar to yours. Scorpio, athlete, met him on a bus, great chemistry… I didn’t fall hard. It wasn’t love, it was like. Full on like. I spent over a year with someone I simply enjoyed, with absolutely no strings attached other than choosing to have fun. I liked him a lot. So much. We danced, we went to theatre, we got drunk in Vegas, we joked around, we rented a convertible BMW and drove through the desert. He introduced me to his parents, I took him to my best friend’s wedding and then just like that — surprise — I receive a text one day saying ‘I’ll never forget you… blah blah blah blah’.

And that’s what I was remembering today, as I fingered all the receipts.

Surprise.

Like. So what.

Fun. Yeahhhhh so what.

Convertible BMW in the desert… okay, maybe that’s not a so what… maybe that’s a so cool.

But what I’m trying to say is… I spent the day reliving the surprise of how unreliable all of it was.

And then you know what I told myself?

It’s bad.
It’s stupid and I totally know better.

It’s such bullshit, even I want to smack myself.

I just kept saying to myself: See? You’re discardable.

Totally fucking discardable.

Toss-away-able.

There are days we need to be protected from ourselves, and this was one of mine.

And it’s not about worth, which I find really interesting. I don’t run the ‘not enough’ story, or the ‘not worthy’ line either. Nope, my achilles heel is deep down. I know, like I know like I know like I know, there’s nothing I can invest in, ever: be it a person, a career, a financial structure, an idea, or hell, even myself, who comes with an innate promise of value.

Because nothing can, or does.

Innate value? Yes. Sure. Totally. Everything has innate value.

But promise of value? No. Nope. No way. It’s un-promise-able.

Individually we have value. We come into the world with it. But Together? As a two-some? Maybe. Maybe not. Because people change their mind. Shit goes down. Things change. Unforeseeable situations happen. There is never a promise of value other than the one we choose to believe for ourselves.

What a fucking gift that is. Woot woot… we’re promised to feel valuable, as long as we’re alone. Great… yay us.

I’ll go buy another self-help book to tell me once again how we come into the world alone, we go out that way too — that’s where real value lives.

I think I’d like to burn those books right about now.

And now I just took a very self-indulgent turn.

If a writer is talking about burning books, you gotta know I’m kinda broken here.

Oh A… I wouldn’t even want to read this letter.

If you’re still reading, you really do love me. Lol.

I said to my friend D last week who is going through a surprise break-up of her own right now…

I swear, middle age is like middle-earth from Lord of the Rings. There’s a fucking dragon in the cave we’re all voyaging into, and the monster is guarding our treasure. If we walk in straight on, direct like, we die. But if we sneak in like a thief in the night, we just might make it out alive carrying some gold with us.

I said to her: You know what…? We all have monsters. We all walk into every relationship with them. We just hide them under our sweater.

Some of us, will let the monster win.

Others of us, will keep arm-wrestling the bastard, staring it down, soothing its fire, negotiating, listening, directing, forgiving, allowing, and finding a way to live with our monster so we have a real chance at love.

My monster is my neediness. I suffer with separation anxiety. Hellos and goodbyes are often long, drawn out exchanges, ensuring every ounce of a human connection is made.

Because you see, my ugly belief is: everything is up for grabs, therefore ultimately, nothing is ever truly chosen, including me.

Which means, I become totally discardable.

Replaceable.

My value is that I have no value.

And that’s my monster.

It makes me clutchy at 3pm when I have no one to talk to. It makes me a romantic who writes poems to hold on to moments I never want to forget. It makes me open hearted, because I want every moment to go as deep as it can because I may never get it back. It makes me love the shit out of liking someone without having to actually give them my heart.

Because I don’t do that easily.

As strange as it may sound to you, because you know me, and you know my heart. Gahhh A… I swear you hear me before I speak. It’s fucking weird how you do that, and beautiful. There it is.

I don’t give my heart easily.

I have a monster named: discardable who lives with me, and today it won. Today I believed it.

Even when it’s wrong.

So… I’m off to bed, because when I get like this, the only thing to do is shut it all down. There’s nothing anyone could say, even you, who could change the narrative I have running in my head right now.

What I need is sleep.

So night night.

Thanks for listening.

xxT

p.s. magnesium makes me sleep like a baby. Just sayin…