Wing

I feel like an asshole. I’m weak, and I’m scared, and I fucked it up. In the car on the way over I had all the scenarios. I knew what to say and I knew what to expect, but I did it wrong. I got to the end of the hallway and I thought I was just gonna read my book and wait for the doors to open. I thought I might get to the part where we find out who the murderer is. Then I’d go inside and the judge and I would agree to sustain the order. We’d all nod in settlement, and if you were there you’d do or say something horrifying or ridiculous and generally make a fool of yourself. I was prepared because I didn’t expect you. The most unlikely scenario was you sitting there with all your paperwork attached to your clipboard and wearing the stupid fucking bow tie that I bought for you last year. Patting the seat next you, pleading with me, your hands shaking, your heart making all these promises. For a person who doesn’t show up in life, like… ever, you really pull out all the stops for this kind of circus.

I’m ashamed. I’m disappointed. I’m like one of those people that nobody can count on. Ugh. Great. Then I’m calling my sister,  and I’m saying that I caved. And I think part of her was expecting me to bail, but I wanted her to be proud and celebratory and I wanted her to feel relaxed and safe, finally. I wanted to be successful at this.

But, uh oh. And oh well. You know what my sister says to me on that phone call? EVERYTHING. Every kind, smart, funny, non-judgy, amazing thing there is to say. She tells me why I did it and why it’s alright. She makes it okay because I am this way. She says the only people who stick to life’s plan are fucking freaks, pretty much. She builds me up. She knows my heart. She knows I will always cave but that everything will be okay in the end, no matter how many times I’ve fucked up and, for what it’s worth, I think she can rest somewhat easy because of that. I have to do the brave, risky, stupid things, and I hope that I’m sort of her hero because I am courageous and curious and compassionate. Even though she is really my warrior because she is gracious and patient and wonderful.

I dropped the restraining order today. It was not my intention as I methodically made my way down the corridor. I made a quick decision in the chair next to you at the end of the hall. I felt manipulated. I said I didn’t trust you. It’s not normal. But I don’t love you in a regular way. I love you like… kooky and weird. Like in 4th grade instead of chasing the boys and playing hopscotch at recess I hung artwork in the classroom. I love you like a special obligation for being alive. I didn’t like it back then in grade 4 either but I knew I was okay and it was what I should do. And I definitely didn’t care for allegations by my caregivers that it wasn’t okay, and that I should be more like the other kids at recess, especially when it was those very adults who cultivated that feeling of duty and requirement. But now I love that I love you like I know no better. Wayward. It’s just that sometimes you show up like that dude Kid Rock. Wayward and awesome. And it fucks shit up. I think it’s cool to take my shoes off, and sit on the grass, and drink beers, and be free and go for a ride. Because I trust wayward and weird. But, you know, that doesn’t really ever fly with you. Like… ever. You end up stealing my shoes or some stupid shit like that.

I saw that judge judge me today. I felt his wise, kind, and concerned eyes travel over me, and I sensed contempt when he spoke to you. I know he was there to help me and I guess I’m under the impression that I can just overrule him because the holy spirit has my back. I’m winging it, but I dropped that order. I guess what I don’t need is some piece of paper that tells you it’s not okay to hurt me. That’s not where the truth is or where the protection lies. The safe house is always inside of me. My craft is to till the soil, and stack the timber, and mold the beams into place around me until it comes to life. The work is to cherish the dwelling and honour the sacred land upon which it stands, fierce and vulnerable. The truth is in defending it even when I’m alone and even when I’m tired of fighting.

I did not request to continue the protective order but I do not consent to you. I just don’t want these rulers measuring and constricting our beings. That, to me, is prison; to be bound with you inside this gritty, stringent document. I’d rather just be free, and take a chance that we can continue to move apart from each other somewhat gracefully, and responsibly on our own, and with some dignity. And I guess there are people who don’t get that. Some maybe, like my sister said, who can’t admit their own flaws or are terrified because they recognize themselves in me.

That’s okay. I run towards my pain. And I’m doing all of this with broken wings, one solo, hopeful flight at a time. I know the spirit is in the gravel; where we stumble, where we rest, and where we rise.