Burger King and Vomit Prose
Crawling through a giant blue plastic tube this afternoon, ten feet in the air at a fast-food restaurant, watching my little son crawl towards me with tears running down his face I thought, tiny crushing blows, it is this that I can't protect him from. His best girl friend had found another playmate and they didn't want to play with him, it's everyone's story really, we've all been there. And while I can maybe advise him not to date the girl who will break his heart everytime, it is little tiny heartbreaks like this that I will have to witness over and over again. He recovered quickly, and he and his girl will be thick as thieves by the morning, but I am a little worse for wear tonight, realizing how many little bumps and bruises I will have to suffer with him, again. And that is just it. It's reliving it that's the hardest. He does just fine. I'm the wimpy two-year old. Christ.
So I've been reading writing of this woman who was a friend of mine. And incredibly close friend actually, someone who ended our friendship and frankly, devastated me for awhile. So I'm reading her writing about her life, a period of her life when I was with her daily, if not talking on the phone or writing letters. And the really odd part of the whole story is that I am not in her story. Invisible. I keep hunting for traces of myself, looking for clues. An egg, that's what I've found. A mention of an egg that was mine, that's it. So the story is just ok, vomit prose really. But it is a bit of a struggle to read a story that is partly mine, but to have no voice. I'm struggling with that too now.
And maybe that is what relationships are all about for me. Feeling other people's pain, rejection, victory, experience, but allowing it to be their own. That is a difficult fucking concept for me. As a mother, as a friend. I am really good at taking on other people's crap. Really good. And while I'm working hard to be someone to lean on, instead of someone to carry, it is a battle for me. Especially when I'm at Burger King and my baby thinks he is not loved, even for a split second. It makes me want to eat my weight in Whoppers and be done with it.
So I've been reading writing of this woman who was a friend of mine. And incredibly close friend actually, someone who ended our friendship and frankly, devastated me for awhile. So I'm reading her writing about her life, a period of her life when I was with her daily, if not talking on the phone or writing letters. And the really odd part of the whole story is that I am not in her story. Invisible. I keep hunting for traces of myself, looking for clues. An egg, that's what I've found. A mention of an egg that was mine, that's it. So the story is just ok, vomit prose really. But it is a bit of a struggle to read a story that is partly mine, but to have no voice. I'm struggling with that too now.
And maybe that is what relationships are all about for me. Feeling other people's pain, rejection, victory, experience, but allowing it to be their own. That is a difficult fucking concept for me. As a mother, as a friend. I am really good at taking on other people's crap. Really good. And while I'm working hard to be someone to lean on, instead of someone to carry, it is a battle for me. Especially when I'm at Burger King and my baby thinks he is not loved, even for a split second. It makes me want to eat my weight in Whoppers and be done with it.
