The side of my face draws into a sneer, looking down on that woman who’s talking.
Gosh, look at how full of herself she’s become. She’s speaking a mile a minute and with such conviction, isn’t she? But I know the real her. The one she’d prefer to hide.
Me.
It’s me. I’m the one I want to hide. I’m her.
Awareness of how one is perceived is a tremendous gift and a burden. All I do is second-guess myself anymore.
You never know how people take things, nor how they perceive you. How your own words could hinder, rather than help.
A long, long time ago, a friend and I spoke of this particular self-reflection. As the years have passed, I have a sobering breath, thinking back on that day and the many times since when I was not mindful. Not only in my words, but in my actions. What might have been clear, I might have confused.
Perhaps because of my love of words, that’s the one that hurts my ego most – how my words have not benefitted, despite the intention behind them.
Growing isn’t always linear, though… and I’ve been a work-in-progress all my life.
However, I have to make peace with the person I’ve been in order to make space for the person I’m becoming.
Part of that peace has to come with accepting and forgiving the woman I’ve been for her choices. Forgiveness, however, doesn’t come easy. It goes behind the scenes, too, and knows me on a level I sometimes refuse to see. That’s why the forgiveness comes and goes. Days arrive when I let her be. Other times, I torment myself with her memory. With her failures.
I’m driving in the dark in South Carolina with the humid air blowing my hair against my face. I have to pinch it off my sticky skin. The car looks like the one from The Beverly Hillbillies, except I strapped mattresses to the side as a buffer.
I wink and tap my finger to the side of my head. Smart.
Time goes by, and the knowledge that I can’t see has become unavoidable. Though, I’m barreling on down the road as if I have no choice about it. It’s too dark, I rationalize. Can’t do anything about it now but push on ahead.
It’s wearing me out, only I don’t know it. Pushing forward has shown me I can dig a lot deeper than I ever thought I could; yet, it’s also forced me to ignore everything inside me that says I’ve had enough.
The sound of the air in my ears is soothing, and my eyes close just as my head begins to drop. My tires hit the rumble strips. My eyes widen and my spine straightens with heightened awareness. It’s jarring and upsetting.
I shake myself awake, and on a whim, I throw my arm out the window and cut the mattresses loose.
It’s done before I can take it back. The cord snaps but hesitates. It’s not more than a few seconds, but for me, the moment slows down the way it always does when you think you’re about to die. Then, the rope catches under a tire and rips away. The twin mattresses open to the wind like wings before they rip off and disappear in the brake lights.
It’s crazy. Like something out of a dream.
Was I dreaming? Was someone else driving?
I look around the car as if someone is there in the back seat about to grab me. It’s empty. It’s quiet. The air whooshing in is the only sound, but now, I’m scared to fall asleep. So I hum.
My headlights flash an armadillo on the side of the highway, and I hesitate to say what I think I just saw.
The disgusting crawl of a bead of sweat snakes down my arm, and I shiver. My fingertips have gone clammy and cold. They flex their tacky grip on the steering wheel, moving my body back and forth to reacquaint it with life once more.
But you’re back in the driver’s seat. And, yes, that was an armadillo.
Something relaxes in my chest and the whisper of a grin traces my lips. My eyes close, and I nod.
I know.