The box tells me the color is ‘Rose Gold’. It permeates those strong salon fumes, a bleaching chemical smell. I let it sit an extra 10 minutes. My hair grabs red, at least these are the words hairdressers have told me throughout my lifetime. Picks it up. Fast. Won’t let go. I wash and condition. Take my skinny comb and trim away dead ends. Lately, I can see them in pictures, lying there in a split and frayed way. Ends need to go. They need to make room for growth.
I’ve been a praying woman all my life. There’s a new dawn rising somewhere in my daily life. A person can feel these things coming on. Old ways are trimmed and find their way draining down into the porcelain sink. They are the dead ends we need to cut off.
You’re nothing but a dead end to me.
It’s been said, “You’ve got to let go of the bad to make way for the good.” Both seemingly can’t coexist in the same realm, not peacefully and definitely not together. Over the last almost twenty years, I wanted to believe he had been a good part to my life. A partner which challenged me. The pushing strength I needed in my weakest times.
Ground below. Sky above.
I can’t see those things anymore. Not in my supposed partner. Not in my confessed mate.
Maybe it’s because the strength always resided in me. The fire had been built and ignited in my belly.
I find no coincidence in his reckless sabotaging, which came at the time I had reached a point I desired to be at in my life. A place he had told me, “You haven’t made it. They have to publish you first.” He used to tell me how I wasn’t a real writer until I made Huffington Post. All these standards, he’d placed on me, and I shattered them.
Every. Single. One of them.
Not just once. I’m not a fluke. I’m not a one time kind of gal. Once you’re in the door, well you better make yourself at home. I’m that kind of gal. Until I decided I didn’t want to be any girl anymore. It’s a control thing. This is my control. This is my redemption. I’m not here to prove anything, not to him. Not today.
Tiny little gold stars placed on charts with bosses telling me I’m great isn’t a world I desire to live in. The truth is I never wanted to publish under my real name. I had been content writing and submitting under a fake name. He said I wasn’t a real writer though. I became real. I stripped myself down to skin, bones, tears, tongue, and exposed everything inside.
All along, never comfortable. Dig the hole deep enough, and you won’t be able to climb out.
I keep writing and posting. I keep all the accounts updated, and I’m trying to smile in the darkness. I keep the words flowing. If you could see where it’s gotten me:
A shitty marriage.
A husband who never touches me. Hates who I’ve become. Hates what I can do.
I thought I had done something good in selling my writing, publishing. I’m hated in my own home for a talent I’ve always had. This. These words have always been in me. I don’t know a life without them swirling and placing themselves onto paper, or a screen.
I live in a home where two adults only tolerate each other.
All our friends are gone. There are no more Friday nights filled with laughter around a table. There is loneliness. Desperation. Possibly hatred. I can tell when I’m tolerated. I don’t know if that qualifies as loathing.
Begging for love. Begging to be seen. To be noticed. To be touched. I’m a beggar.
The only place I exist is in a screen.
I abandoned it. I took little green pills and made it all go away.
He said I needed them, those pills.
I need love. Real Love.
In the course of writing publicly, I have written about two men. Call them “muses” if you like. I know there are many who would love to be immortalized by words which may live forever. Perhaps, just possibly, they would see the beauty in what I can do, in what I have done.
The love I give is always the love I hope to receive. I can see beyond what used to be, the dead hairs being trimmed away.
Let me go.
Let me love.
Let me be loved, for the person that I am.
Hate consumes too much.
A person is not a possession.