Rotten Apple
As
I look back over the years of my past I see them unfold as spirals winding back
into infinity. In some years the seasons
blend rapidly, the coils fitted snugly, one upon the other, like a tightly
wound spring. While in other years the
coils stretch widely and flow loosely, one onto the next, like a ribbon just
fallen from someone’s hair. This marks
the slowness with which they passed, for they are the years filled with sorrow
and sadness, when time itself seemed to stand still and all the world moved
around me, while I merely existed inside of myself. A shell performing a daily routine so
ingrained, so much a habit, that the only thing that really stands out in my
memories of this time is the loneliness, the sadness of the empty ache
inside.
Moving
back along my ribbon of memories I reach a time when gaps begin to appear,
spaces of emptiness along the spirals.
At first they are only short gaps, marking small sections of time, but
the farther back I travel the larger the gaps, until entire seasons unfold with
nothing to mark their passing, and while I know that I lived and that I WAS
during these times, there are no memories to give acknowledgment of my
existence. I cannot help but wonder what
is perhaps stored in my subconscious of this time.
The
strongest memories call out to me, those of birthdays and holidays, the days of
my children’s births. There are of
course also special memories that I pause to linger over - my wedding day, my
graduation, even the day that I at last received my drivers license. Then there are the private memories, such as
my first kiss, or the first time I felt true sexual excitement, the fear and
embarrassment associated with my first period, which is such a bittersweet time
for a young girl. All the seasons of my
past, the waterfall and sunshine that has produced the garden of my life, and I
think, ‘Where has it all gone?’ All of
the dreams and plans, so carefully made, and then somewhere among life’s daily
toils, so easily forgotten.
I
was always going to BE and DO something important. I grew up as women came of age and I believed
there was nothing I could not do or be or conquer. I learned to be outspoken and that a woman
did not have to be subservient to a man or pretend to be less intelligent in
order to win a provider, they could be the provider, could be equal. However, I was looking for a utopian world, a
world where men saw women for their abilities and their intelligence and not
just their bodies. Where women stood
united and didn’t base their own self worth
on looks alone. I was also
foolish enough to believe that true love existed and that love based on mutual
respect and common interests could withstand the tests of time.
How
naïve I was!! I didn’t realize what a
truly large roll sex plays in the real world, selling everything from a movie
ticket to beer and automobiles. Nor had
I any idea how hard a woman must work to be judged for who she is and what she
is capable of instead of on whether she’s built like a Barbie doll. I thought by speaking my mind I was showing
my equality, instead I have been labeled with titles like opinionated, bossy,
and even Bitch! So, somehow, in spite of
all of my ideals, my determination, my certainty of success, I never became
anyone or anything but myself.
“Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage we did not take
Towards the door we never open
Into the rose garden . .
. .
T.S. Elliott
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