He leans back against the couch and exhales. “You thought about what you’re going to do?” His accent a little thicker when he’s getting high.
“I love being behind that glass.”
“But you feel it’s time to move forward.” He completes my thoughts. Thoughts I haven’t even confessed to myself.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve been watching you. You want so badly to fly and you continue to anchor yourself to the past.”
“Bale, you know what roams within me.”
“I do, and that’s why I can tell you it’s okay to let it go.”
With every word that is released from me when I write and every breath I take when I talk to my inner-self about forgiveness and apologies, I feel my heart beat stronger and my shadow become lighter.
“How’s Max?”
“I think he loves me.”
“You think? Any fool could tell you that.”
“I don’t want him to love me.” Although it felt nice to experience Max like that, I know it won’t do him any good.
“He has his own life to live and learn from. Don’t manipulate his feelings. Let him love you. As for you,” he pauses to take a puff from his joint. “Why don’t you work on loving yourself?”
Loving myself.
“I’ll try.”
“You’re the first one who doesn’t accept excuses, so don’t feed me one. No trying. Do it.”
It’s so much easier to feed our demons than release our angels. We succeed at bringing ourselves down and drown in a torrent of water before we attempt love. I could spill darkness from my center for uncountable years, but I cannot give myself a minute to say I’m worthy.
We can all manage light and dark. We all have the ability to work both, but one comes easier than the other. Darkness comes easier to me. Light is a challenge. I can settle for easy, or challenge myself to stand up and fight. Ultimately, light outshines it all.
Bale walks me home and I promise him I will work on being good to myself.
In my apartment, I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and try to smile. My reflection is as reluctant as I am. I look into my eyes and try. “I . . .” I take a deep breath. This can’t be that hard. “I lo–” I struggle to get the words out and give up after the third attempt.
Where the hell did I even get the idea of mirror work?
I stand in the tulip fields and soak in the sun. After a short coach ride, we arrive at one of the fields that has a windmill slowly spinning. Colors. All sorts of colors surround us.
I go off on my own, carefully touching the petals. I feel the velvet under my whisper soft touches. I slowly spin around until I spot Max spying on me. He’s a few feet away smiling broadly. I walk between the aisles, admiring but not picking any flowers. Shades of red, pink, yellow, blue, and white pulling me in. Rows and rows of flower. I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s peacefully beautiful.
Peace. I feel that here. Away from the city and the people, I can clear my mind. I’m once again a little girl running wild. I’m a woman with no hurt. I’m a person, happy.
I lie down on the ground. “What are you doing?” Max approaches me.
“Lying down.”
“The ground is wet.”
“A little dirt won’t hurt me. We’ll all return to the dirt some day.” I let me body mesh with the ground and feel the coolness of the soil soaking through my jacket.
I drag my fingers against the dirt, leaving marks on the earth. Digging more with each swipe of my fingers. Max stares on with amusement. I close my eyes and just feel. The scent of flowers fills my lungs like the soothing perfume my mom would wear.
Max is still standing. Today he is relaxed Max.
“Are you going to lie down?”
“No.” I hear the humor in his voice.
“It’s quite intoxicating.”
“I’m sure.”
“Fine. Will you help me up?” He stares at my muddy hand but grabs it and pulls me to my feet. “Thank you.” I smear a little bit of dirt on his cheek and laugh. I begin to run. I’m laughing a lot. My hair whipping around my face and leaving trails of mud on my own skin.
Max finally catches me and wraps his arms around my waist, slightly lifting me up from behind.
“You’re insane. I love seeing you like this.” I turn around to face him.
“I loved playing in the dirt. I used to spend hours outside just digging and molding. The wetter the dirt, the better. I never made mud pies.” I laugh at Max’s expression. “Not real pies. Didn’t you go to an American school?”
“We never made mud pies though.”
“You don’t eat them.”
“I would hope not.”
“Anyways, I never made them. I preferred to just dig and feel the earth in my hands.” I smear more mud on his other cheek. “They say it’s great for your complexion.”
Max growls. “I don’t need to better my complexion. Will you stop?” He laughs and pulls me to him.
I let myself go surrounded by flowers, genuinely enjoying the moment. There’s something happening in this moment faster than I can grasp it, but I feel it.
Among the wild flowers lies the truth.
We walk slowly with an aisle of flowers between us. I peel the left over mud from my fingers and bend down when I see a leaking sprinkler to wash off the rest. Max pauses with me, in tune with my every movement. A man I’m unworthy of.
As my madness subsides, I question my sanity for rolling around in mud. It felt right at the moment. I felt connected to something. Something from my past that was happy, but also something deeper. The Earth calling to me in a whisper.
For someone who believed in nothing, I sure have a lot of thoughts about the world lately.
I don’t pick any tulips, instead Max and I take our time admiring them in their natural state—growing firm in the dirt as the sun caresses them. I envy their relationship with the sun.
I look to my left and analyze Max. His jaw is set and he’s in his own world. He’s wise beyond this world, and I become curious about where he gained that wisdom.
My curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you so smart?”
He chuckled. “I went to school.”
“No, life smart. So wise. You say these things and make sense of them differently than others.”
“I don’t know that I would call myself wise. It’s just the way I see things. I choose to see lessons in life instead of torture. I choose to see the good.”
Perceptions.
“I read a lot.” I nod, remembering him say that once. Paulo Coelho. I repeat it every time I remember, so one day I remember to buy it. Ironic, isn’t it? Instead of just buying it.
He continues, “I used to love reading Shel Silverstein when I was a boy. Kids my age didn’t understand him the way I did. I used to think I was weird, or morbid. His poetry is very symbolic. The way he expressed truths about humans. Our ignorance. Our intelligence. Our essence. It clicked with me and was always embedded in my mind. Growing up The Giving Tree was my favorite book.”
We begin to walk back to the bus, and I stop in the restroom by the information center and really wash my hands and rinse my face. I stare at myself in the mirror. In the silence of the day, I look deep into my eyes and say, “You’re amaz . . .” I can’t do it. I still can’t love myself.
In the darkness of night I think best. I close my shades as to not get distracted by the specks of light that constantly occupy my time. Counting is comforting. Right now, I need real.
I’ve had a shift in me. Something I’m still not fully at ease with. It’s easier to go back to who I was and what I believed. As confident as I thought I was, I was a real fraud. Confidence doesn’t exude control. It exudes grace. I sure as hell wasn’t graceful. Unless you count getting on my knees and sucking off a guy with sleek movements graceful.
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
I’m struggling to keep the past where it is and live with it at the same time.
It’s a part of me, so I can’t extinguish it. With this comes awareness that the work I do may no longer be satisfying.
I asked Max this afternoon on the way back to the city if his parents were still alive. They are. They’re still happily married, too. Max comes from people like that. He comes from stability and happiness. I don’t. Not because my parents didn’t love me, but because I just don’t surface from that. My mirror image, opposite and the same.
As he spoke about his family, his sapphire eyes turned even bluer.
“Why do you spend so much time here when you clearly are very close to them? Why not just stay in Germany?” I had asked him.
“I see them when I’m in town.” He got a bit defensive. “I like Amsterdam. I like the work I do and how I do it.”
“And you like to travel,” I finished for him.
“Yeah.”
As much as Max fits into a role, he likes to be uprooted. He likes the wandering life. He likes the inconsistency that life’s adventures could bring. And that’s why he likes me.
I close my eyes to refocus. My notebook calls to me and I begin to write all the words my brain cannot think. It’s automatic. As soon as the pen hits the paper, the dam opens and the rush of emotions is incontrollable.
Incontrollable.
I used to pride myself on control. So far I’ve learned control is another illusion. With this conclusion, I admit to my newest accomplice, the moon, that I no longer desire to satisfy men for no purpose. My reward was not the pleasure, but the authority I instilled in the process. Without that authority, it’s meaningless. My whole scheme deflated by the simple realization that my reality was not so. I liked indifference. I liked numbness. I liked blindness when I thought I had the clearest view.
I’m in a position where I need to reevaluate every belief system I have infused into my being. A system of anger, disappointment, and hatred.
I open the shades of my window and stare out at the stars. Barely visible in the light of the city but present nonetheless. I see the twinkling in the distance and I find myself again curious about the world that lives among them. I bet out there perception is null and the only time someone breaks is to reproduce more magic. When I broke, the only thing that was reproduced was more darkness. Soulless. I felt soulless. I still feel it at times. I’m starting to understand souls.
I slept in a sea of ripped up paper and crumbled words. For whatever reason, no matter what I wrote last night, it wasn’t good enough. My mind was jumbled and the clarity that recently has taken over when I write was distant.
To be honest, my main concern was why Max just dropped me off instead of spending the night. Doubts I never knew I had surfaced. Another piece of me unfolding in a world I resisted for so long. A world I thought was for the weak and fools. I was the strong one. I was the successful one because I didn’t rely on emotions to guide me in life. I was the one with an overpowering ego and defying compassion.
Instead of running, I walk the city streets. I move along alleys, staying within the deeper corners. The isolation helps me regroup. I pass by my window, empty under the sun. The others have women pointing to guys and calling them in. I stop and stare.
Was this me? I never took the light approach. I just danced and watched. Men would come in of their own accord. It feels like so long ago when in reality it’s been a few days since I’ve seduced behind that same glass.
I watch the people walking by, pointing and whispering. I watch those eager to enter. And the ones who hope they’ll be chosen, when they’re the ones who have the options. The client always has the upper hand.
The presence next to me crowds my personal space and I allow it.
“Was I ever that cheesy?” I ask about the other women.
“No.” I nod. “You had other reasons for this job. You didn’t need to mask yourself with enthusiasm. People who chose you knew they were getting a different experience.”
I look up at Bale. “Tell me about Evi.”
“Let’s go sit somewhere.”
Bale and I sit in the back corner of a coffee shop and talk. He tells me about Evi and their relationship. He even shows me a photo he has hidden in his wallet. It’s wrinkled by now, but she was beautiful.
They met young and instantly fell in love according to him. He has a wistful look as he talks about her, smiling often at the memory.
“We were happy. Very happy. I wanted to get married and start a family right away. She would always tease that I was a big softie. When it came to anything related to her, I was.”
I smile with compassion as he speaks. Even for having been married, I never experienced a connection like that. Hatred aside, John and I clicked at first, but he wasn’t what others call the love of your life.
“I was devastated when I got the call.” He takes back the rest of his vodka. “I changed that day. I no longer knew who I was because of the hatred I carried, but I loved how it felt. If she wasn’t with me, life wasn’t worth it.”
We both sit in silence. I don’t know what to tell him. I avoid his red-rimmed eyes and drink my Moscow Mule.
“I don’t regret it though. If you think it’s better to be alone than risk getting hurt, you’re wrong.”
I look up at him. “I was already hurt.”
“By someone who didn’t truly love you. This that I’m talking about is different. I’m happy I got to live part of my life with Evi.”
“You’re not all that tough.” I try to tease.
“Neither are you,” he responds. “Why did you want to know about her?”
I shrug. “Bale, I have no idea who I am anymore. I second guess everything I believed in, but I don’t truly believe in happy-go-lucky.”
“Happy-go-lucky doesn’t exist. Happiness exists within reality. We choose to be happy, but we also accept that life has obstacles.”
“I don’t know if I want to keep fucking men for money.”
“I know.”
“It’s what I’ve known for years now.”
“What did you know before? Before John. Before the disappointment.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, it’s time to start recalling.”
I walk home after an intense afternoon with Bale. Despite not getting too into the subject, the emotions were heavy. Two souls who have lost so much, yet here we continue to walk on Earth.
Something halts my steps. I look to the right and see a familiar word. Alchemist. I walk into the small bookstore and pick up the book. I don’t bother to read the synopsis. I simply pay and leave.
Guided by another force, I walk until I reach Zon’s Hofje. There, in a picnic table I once shared with Max, I begin to read about an Andalusian boy in search of a treasure.
A quarter into the book, I begin to lower my guard and stop judging the premise of this story. It’s clear there is a lot to the author’s words. It’s also clear there is truth. Truth I’ve been denying. How can one choose to see the world one way when reality proves another?
We come back to perception. That damn idea will continue to haunt me.
Hours later, I put down the book and stare. Words about life and dreams. Words about gratitude. Words about who we are. Words. I have words of my own.
I rush home and open up my notebook. Scribbles that hold a value far greater than I gave into. I open to the last page I wrote on and begin reading backwards. I skip over words I can’t decode and continue trying to understand what I was so freely expressing these past nights.
I’m confused. I’m lost. Everything I believed in has been altered and I don’t know how to handle that. I never wore vulnerable well. Now it’s the shade that paints me pretty. Or not pretty. I don’t know. Is vulnerable acceptable?
I squint my eyes trying to understand the second part. Something about a fucking bitch and anger. I don’t even know who I was talking about. Myself maybe? The thoughts hold no real consistency or flow. Just words. Words that speak more truth than anything else.
I turn to the pr
evious page. Backwards. Why am I reading this backwards? I must think it will reveal some type of secret message. I wonder if Anne Frank read her stuff backwards. No, she knew what she was writing. She had a good heart.
What does my heart consist of? It’s dark. It’s heavy. It’s opening. No wonder my writing is so mixed up. My thoughts are just as chaotic. Jumping from one idea to another. What does Anne Frank have to do with this? Because a Jewish teenager wrote a diary and was made famous, I think I relate? Jewish. Max. Where does Max fall in all of this?
I feel myself on high alert. Or super charged. Like if I am on speed except I’ve never done drugs. I can’t contain the energy soaring through me, and the more I read, the more intense the feeling becomes.
I don’t deserve more than the life I’ve been living. I don’t deserve happiness and good things. I don’t deserve . . .
I left it at that. I don’t think I need more words to understand my thoughts at that moment.
For someone with a Psychology major, this is a red flag. When you’re the one producing the red flags, you’re blind to them. And blindness is something I’m fantastic at.
I remember that bright-eyed teen with the hopes of saving the world one day. Or at least the world of mental health. She was so optimistic and young. So full of life and dreams. It all escalated from there, and then rolled down hill like Jack and Jill.
John, my mother, family secrets displayed for me. A domino effect with the end result being all the pieces lying on the ground after being knocked out. They exited, but I was left with the remorse and scars from their actions.
I rebuilt myself as a secluded, heartless being. When did I begin this rebuild? I think it was before. I think I knew something was off. Living with a depressed mother will do that to you. Make you question everything. Looking back, I’m not even sure how I survived it. I guess with financial help from my dad. Honestly, I don’t remember much of the past.
I come down from my high and close the notebook. I think that’s enough reading for now. Instead I sit and stare. My mind clearing, my muscles relaxing, my vision blurring as my eyes are unmoving.
Ho’oponopono.
Red Lights, Black Hearts Page 12