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fred is one of those friends. You know, the ones I don't see. I think the last time I spoke to him was in February maybe. I can't remember exactly how he said it, but I know exactly what he observed about me; that I was still playing the game of wanting to change, without actually changing. And he said it without any attachments of good or bad, shoulds or shouldn'ts. It was a good bye of sorts, unspoken.
Fred is one of those friends. You know, the ones you trust absolutely, who are vigorously honest and unreservedly sincere. What he says is truth; unadorned and not necessarily eloquent, but always the truth. He is scrupulous about fear. It is with him, too, certainly. But, no matter how insignificant or vast the fear, he invites it in, sits down with it, gets to know it and takes in its message for him. It's not a confrontation Fred has with fear, it's more like a very serious discussion.
I am obsessive about fear. It comes near and I dash about pulling shades and slamming shutters, and then I run from window to window, peeking out, trying to watch fear's movements, becoming frantic if I lose track of it. It can become quite a frenzy. And that's the point, really; in a frenzy, I needn't live carefully, or be responsible. Fred, he took responsibility, in the Buddhist way, and he is engaged with life. I, on the other hand, have been staunchly refusing to take part in the farce of life (bias mine), maintaining a distant, wry and cynical observation of it all, as if I really am apart from it. Or above it. I maintain a seperation as if I don't care.
But you have no idea how much I lament that seperation, or how fondly I do gaze at you living ones, off in the distance. I'm telling you now, despite my brave face and aloof demeanor, that I am a wailing child who misses all of you and your 'farce' almost more than I can admit.
at this point, another lost friend, Donna, would say, "OK, now what are you going to do about it?" I've always known what I have to do, and I don't think its fear that stops me. I think its pride. I do not want to own my wounds, I want to apologize profusely for bleeding on your carpet, but I won't take care of me. I don't matter: That's really the bottom line. That's how I survived. And I've so diminished the value of being alive that it's not even worth the trouble of learning a new role, of switching from the role of gushing blood and apologies to the new role of dealing with taking care of myself and demanding what I need if it's not offered. And you know, its not just laziness; I have to give up the 'I don't matter' attitude and admit in my own heart that I did not deserve the things that were done to me so long ago. That's the agony that I'm afraid to embrace.
What is change?
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