Past, Present and Future . . .

Last week I recorded my audiobook. I read my memoir from beginning to end, while the talented Mary Catherine listened carefully to every word. She caught the ones I swallowed, skipped or mispronounced. If my voice was too loud, or too soft, or if my intonation was wrong, she coached me until I got it right.

Careful articulation and long periods of sustained concentration were harder than I expected. Even more difficult was visiting the past. At times, my voice cracked, words caught in my throat, and my eyes welled with tears. Mary Catherine gently told me to take the time I needed and waited patiently while I did.

While some chapters stirred sleeping grief, others triggered regret for the mistakes I had made, and the pain I had caused. I resisted anxious thoughts and kept my voice steady and strong as I read the details of a significant heartbreak, and then another. Back then, I believed I could love men into loving me. Lost in scrutinizing thought, I tripped over words as I mentally compared a more recent relationship to these entanglements of my past. Clearing my throat, I started again, doing my best to ignore a nagging question that had surfaced. Had I conquered old behavior patterns, or was I bound to repeat history?

Doubt lingered and followed me into bed. I laid awake and wondered if I was, in fact, new and improved having achieved the personal growth I proclaimed in my memoir? Or was I full of shit?

I had done the hard work of redemption, and recounted the steps in my book. I had sworn off drama filled dalliances. That was nearly seven years ago. I took a long break from romance and then I met someone.

There was no instant spark, instead a slow steady attraction. I guarded my heart, did all the “right” things and enjoyed the comfort of his company. He set a boundary, he wanted to keep it casual. With no other prospects, I went along for the ride and signed up for the bliss and freedom of no strings attached.

Except, it wasn’t casual at all, at least not for me. In the careful sharing of our stories, we revealed the layers of who we were. I knew his relationship history, who he had loved and who he would always love. I knew his routines, his habits and rituals. This emotional intimacy was my undoing. I caught feelings. He did not.

I fell asleep asking myself if this was just an old story, repackaged.

Back in the studio, I shook off persisting doubt and shifted my focus to reading my final chapters. Harsh words captured a critical and intolerant version of me. I was relentless. For every misstep that led to heartache, I scolded; I should have known better. This old narrative had crept into my psyche, and I wasn’t going to let it stay.

I continued to read. The language and tone gradually softened, and insight emerged from the pages. I was not a single story, or the sum of my mistakes. I had learned to be gentle with myself, to forgive imperfection, and to be at peace with my past. In these passages, I saw so clearly how far I had come. I was NEVER expected to be all-knowing or perfect in any relationship, past, present or future.

I had given love a chance. It didn’t work out. I hadn’t relapsed, I didn’t sacrifice my integrity or settle for less, I let go of what was not meant for me. But that didn’t make the ending any less sad. I found solace in these words . . . a heart free of false hope was a heart open to possibilities. That was progress.

My memoir was never meant to be a proclamation of self-improvement, or a guide by which to live, for me or anyone else. It was a simple story, I lost my way and I found my way back. This happens to everyone at one time or another.

Writing my book was a confession, editing my book was therapy, Reading it aloud, was a review course. Lessons of love and worthiness will continue to challenge me and I have the tools of grace and forgiveness to course correct and move forward.

There is always room to grow.

Xoc