(11/28/09)
The only easy day was yesterday. “Why can’t this be easier?” I keep thinking as I spend another moment laboring over the task at hand. A thousand household duties to accomplish, each and every day, not one less important than that of another. Some might possibly think “Ah, the simple life” to spend day-in and day-out in the shoes of a housewife. But you must understand I’m not your ordinary run-of-the-mill June Cleaver typical housewife. I may run about with the same old everyday chores keeping up the illusion of simplicity. Watching babes, cleaning rooms, mopping floors, cooking and laundry are just a few of the daily tasks that consume my remaining time here on this green earth. Each day churning out the same remarkable wit and charm for the neighbors and loved ones as I use my God given talents to keep a household intact. Little do the loved ones in my life know… the Truth? A Dirty Secret. A long hidden past that I try my best to hide in between dropping off the kiddies and picking up the dry cleaning. This wasn’t always the life for me. Long before I was here… there was her.
Her? She came before I. The other. The real mom, wife, housekeeper and servant to domesticity. This is her life I’m living. A life filled with PTA meetings, Betty Crocker cook-offs, and Family Church night. But it’s too late for all that regret. There’s no turning back. I chose. Her death became my prison. Trapped. Odd as that sounds, it was the case. Somewhere within my tough unquestioning psyche was a glimmer of sympathy. Compassion. A need to resolve a conflict for someone other than myself.
Everyone has a duplicate, a stunt double. Some other person that has absolutely no possible connection or relation to you. To put this quite simply they’re wearing your face. Out there right now masquerading as you. Out there living this life that isn’t yours. So different and remote from who you are and what you know. Don’t believe me? You just haven’t had the opportunity to meet them yet. There are billions of people on this earth just hurtling through space. What are the odds that someone looks like you? Pretty slim, but not a completely unthinkable possibility.
There’s something to be said about taking ones own life. What do you do when you’re faced with your own mortality and it begs for its life? STOP. Hesitate. Realize that’s you lying on the ground in the puddle of blood that edges closer to where you stand. You. In the patent leather Hush Puppies with a responsible heel. You. With the button down grey cardigan with matching headband. You. Proper pencil skirt with the length falling just below the knee. The sheer absurdity of this square little stranger wearing the same face, same grimace and those damn unmistakable eyes. How dare you beg for life?
“Show me!” I growl with outrage and grab the sniveling, bleeding cowardice version of me by the neck pulling upwards. Bleeding. Stubborn. Unmoving. With my gun drawn I motion her upward. “Damn you! Get up! Show me!” I continue to drag the unwilling victim. Here I am trying to give this bawling sheep a reason to live and she refuses. All the sounds that escape from her are quiet no-no-no’s, but she moves. Can you imagine facing the judge and jury knowing you will be sentencing your own death? To say I could understand this woman’s reluctance, well I can’t because I’m not the one dying.
My injured twin leaves a trail of red spilling behind while we cross the open street toward a khaki colored minivan. Bleeding me points. Inside two babes; one, a boy not much older than a year, the other a small girl near the age of four. Both are crying. This bleeding mess of me whines more unintelligible noise. She’s going to die. It’s too late. I can’t help it. From the size and placement of the wound it’s certain she’ll be dead soon. Falling down the dying me, looks up and continues to reach hysterics. Decipher this noise. Dying. The children will be alone. I understand the noise. She’s afraid for the children. What can I do? Lean down and listen. Listen. For the answers. Listen. The final breathes. Listen. Hope I’m not wrong.
Can we be so different this doppelganger and I? Worlds apart.
Sitting, watching the children play beneath the willow tree that fateful day seems so long ago. There’s no more death in their life. Or mine. No sad moment of disappointment to get past. No disappointing past to destroy. The children live with a comforting knowledge that they have a Mother. My old life is a world away. Perhaps I’m better for this change. It often crosses my mind whether I’m an enhanced version of her. Where things different? Keeping up with the illusion certainly is not easy. Do these differences really go unnoticed? You can not go back to who you used to be. There are no open spaces. Can a stranger really fall into the cracks and take over so simply without notice? Imagine it. Somewhere out there another person just like me, wearing my face, stepping into those shoes, filling a void where an opening had been revealed.
**This one started with some notes I rescued from my mobile recently. Which in turn originated from a song. Anyway, it came to life from some reflection last night and lots of writing very early this morning. I had the chance to reflect on the past and certain songs, etc. Those things reminded me of what had been. Now you can be miserable about the past/present or you can look at it with the eyes of someone who has experienced so much and realize that it was necessary. I choose the latter. I'm not bitter for missed opportunities and the great mistakes I've made. I'm just me. Better or worse. I'm probably going to continue to make a ton more mistakes and occasionally screw up. That's just life.
Her? She came before I. The other. The real mom, wife, housekeeper and servant to domesticity. This is her life I’m living. A life filled with PTA meetings, Betty Crocker cook-offs, and Family Church night. But it’s too late for all that regret. There’s no turning back. I chose. Her death became my prison. Trapped. Odd as that sounds, it was the case. Somewhere within my tough unquestioning psyche was a glimmer of sympathy. Compassion. A need to resolve a conflict for someone other than myself.
Everyone has a duplicate, a stunt double. Some other person that has absolutely no possible connection or relation to you. To put this quite simply they’re wearing your face. Out there right now masquerading as you. Out there living this life that isn’t yours. So different and remote from who you are and what you know. Don’t believe me? You just haven’t had the opportunity to meet them yet. There are billions of people on this earth just hurtling through space. What are the odds that someone looks like you? Pretty slim, but not a completely unthinkable possibility.
There’s something to be said about taking ones own life. What do you do when you’re faced with your own mortality and it begs for its life? STOP. Hesitate. Realize that’s you lying on the ground in the puddle of blood that edges closer to where you stand. You. In the patent leather Hush Puppies with a responsible heel. You. With the button down grey cardigan with matching headband. You. Proper pencil skirt with the length falling just below the knee. The sheer absurdity of this square little stranger wearing the same face, same grimace and those damn unmistakable eyes. How dare you beg for life?
“Show me!” I growl with outrage and grab the sniveling, bleeding cowardice version of me by the neck pulling upwards. Bleeding. Stubborn. Unmoving. With my gun drawn I motion her upward. “Damn you! Get up! Show me!” I continue to drag the unwilling victim. Here I am trying to give this bawling sheep a reason to live and she refuses. All the sounds that escape from her are quiet no-no-no’s, but she moves. Can you imagine facing the judge and jury knowing you will be sentencing your own death? To say I could understand this woman’s reluctance, well I can’t because I’m not the one dying.
My injured twin leaves a trail of red spilling behind while we cross the open street toward a khaki colored minivan. Bleeding me points. Inside two babes; one, a boy not much older than a year, the other a small girl near the age of four. Both are crying. This bleeding mess of me whines more unintelligible noise. She’s going to die. It’s too late. I can’t help it. From the size and placement of the wound it’s certain she’ll be dead soon. Falling down the dying me, looks up and continues to reach hysterics. Decipher this noise. Dying. The children will be alone. I understand the noise. She’s afraid for the children. What can I do? Lean down and listen. Listen. For the answers. Listen. The final breathes. Listen. Hope I’m not wrong.
Can we be so different this doppelganger and I? Worlds apart.
Sitting, watching the children play beneath the willow tree that fateful day seems so long ago. There’s no more death in their life. Or mine. No sad moment of disappointment to get past. No disappointing past to destroy. The children live with a comforting knowledge that they have a Mother. My old life is a world away. Perhaps I’m better for this change. It often crosses my mind whether I’m an enhanced version of her. Where things different? Keeping up with the illusion certainly is not easy. Do these differences really go unnoticed? You can not go back to who you used to be. There are no open spaces. Can a stranger really fall into the cracks and take over so simply without notice? Imagine it. Somewhere out there another person just like me, wearing my face, stepping into those shoes, filling a void where an opening had been revealed.
**This one started with some notes I rescued from my mobile recently. Which in turn originated from a song. Anyway, it came to life from some reflection last night and lots of writing very early this morning. I had the chance to reflect on the past and certain songs, etc. Those things reminded me of what had been. Now you can be miserable about the past/present or you can look at it with the eyes of someone who has experienced so much and realize that it was necessary. I choose the latter. I'm not bitter for missed opportunities and the great mistakes I've made. I'm just me. Better or worse. I'm probably going to continue to make a ton more mistakes and occasionally screw up. That's just life.
Anyhow! Watch out! Someone might just be waiting for the opportunity to fill those shoes and live your life. haha. Well, I hope this is appreciated. Enjoy? M.
5/14/10
** all the original post. I decided that I am leaving this one all OG! It speaks to me! Feels appropriate. Completely related... I'm learning to love doing the dishes and I don't think it makes me or anyone else domesticated, tied down, or prematurely a housewife. If you know me personally... it is a long lived truth that I detest doing dishes, so this is a shocker! React if you must! Drop a jaw or two... only if you have to. And as a matter of fact, i am finally in a groove and working on four stories at once. which isn't how anyone thinks. I'll explain later. One is related!! I'm very excited. Again Watch OUT! Someone might be sneaking up to steal your life. Enjoy it! -m.
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