Fair is fair

It is the spirit and not the form of law that keeps justice alive.  ~Earl Warren

Sometimes I just want to run away. It gets too much. I feel like I hate my life; like I could have done so much better. But now it's too late. I'm stuck. Trapped.

I hate it when those days come around.

I hate feeling like I want to run away from my husband; from my child. They don't deserve it. And it's definitely not because of them that I feel that way. I saw it in The Mr's eyes today. He had seen it in me. The last time that happened, was also the first time I'd ever heard him even hint at 'forever' not actually happening for us. It scares me, because it controls me. When it takes hold, it's this overwhelming destructive force - laying waste to everything in its wake.

I'm watching him pace around the house as I write this. Tension hovering between us. I still feel the feelings, but I've come far enough to at least recognise them now. I at least know enough stop it. I can not; will not make my family casualties of the internal battle that rages in my own mind.

It's just not fair.

Scars

I read something today. It cut me. It reminded me of an injury of my own - moments long past and wounds not yet healed... This is what I had written about it all those years ago:

To he who scarred my soul, I write this poem.
The one who took a heart of gold and tarnished it to reach his own goal;
The one who borrowed and stole pieces of an identity that wasn't his own;
And patched a disguise that he wore as a robe to add credibility to the lies he told.
To he who scarred my soul, who thinks that I do not know;
That the colours he in time disclosed were the same hue and tone as a heart of stone;
And all the times I was made to feel alone, were manifestations of an emptiness of his own.
A desperate man, out of control. Needing to break me down, just for him to feel whole.
To he who scarred my soul, and left me reeling from the blow.
Who tried to turn this queen into a ho, prostituting my pride for just the chance to be in his zone.
I was a fiend and he was my dope; sprung off the way he made me moan.
The one who had me trapped in a primal hold, feeding off a need I rarely ever showed.
To he who scarred my soul; who took a bud as it was about to grow,
So he could stifle its beauty, thinking it would never know; thinking it had nowhere else to go.
And for longest of times, I travelled his road - in agony as I dutifully carried his load.
But now this bud wants to be a rose, and now he'll reap the harvests of what he sowed.
To he who scarred my soul, your sins will be revisited upon you tenfold.
Hel hath no fury - you know it, you've been told, and soon you'll regret ever having been so bold,
As to ignore a truth that is that old, and think that you could go on living by your own code;
To assume that, for you, the rules would be froze, that your devious ways would go unexposed.
To he who scarred my soul, to he for whom the bell now tolls,
The time approaches when you must stand without cloth or robe, wearing nothing but the lies you've told.
When you must account for your turns along the road, and for how you've used this life that you've been loaned.
And by that time, my testimony will be known; and by your deeds, your fate will be cast in stone.
To he who scarred my soul, who left me in the dark and cold.
The one who had my heart as his home, and then tore it apart as if it was his to own.
There are pieces of me that you grabbed and stole - pieces that I'll never get back I suppose.
But one thing that I know is mine alone, is the power I've gained now that I'm in control.
So to he who scarred my soul, there's one thing you must know;
You may've made me bend, but you could never make me fold; That's one victory that I'll always hold.
Wounds heal and so will the one you left in my soul, though I may carry the scar until I'm old.
And for all that time I'll live in hope, that some good will finally come from this mark on my soul.

On growing up

Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional.  ~Chili Davis

I had to laugh at myself the other day. Chatting to my crazy friends, I quipped "Wow. I can just imagine us twenty years from now - as grown ups - talking all this smack. What will our kids think?"

I laughed. At 28 years-old, I'm still not a grown-up? I sure as hell don't feel like one. What is a grown-up? The idea of it still daunts me. There just seems to be so much attached to it. What does it really mean? I find it terrifying. It seems as if in order to truly be 'grown-up', you have to let go of some(every)thing.

Everyone's familiar with the bible passage that says, "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things." Is that what's expected of me? To put away childish things? But what if I *like* my childish things? 


What if I'm still insecure and like to be affirmed? What if I still want to have it easy; party all night;  Does that make me any less of a 'grown-up'? That phrase in itself implies a definite state - unmistakable and completely measurable. Almost like you need to have taken on a new form, like a catterpillar to a butterfly. The end of the cycle; fully evolved. 


But is that what it is really? Why a grown-up? How about a grown-higher?
Do we ever stop growing up?