"I'm lying in my bed right now. I'm not going to be able to come," his voice is soft, apologetic.
"You're not coming?" I can't stop the frustration and irritation from poisoning my tone.
"No, I'm sorry. I was almost there but started to not feel well."
"Oh," I say, doubt and mistrust glaringly apparent. "Why didn't you call sooner?"
"I was on the train... you know there's no service. I called as soon as I got home."
The silence over the line is poignant and tense, his confusion and concern collide with my suspicion and anger.
Questions swirl like a tornado through my brain, wreaking havoc and leaving a disaster. I've heard these words before from people I care about. The excuses. Slight untruths to escape a situation.
"Look...I'm going to be direct here," the words are coming so quickly from my lips. I hear the insult and hurt oozing from the dark parts of my heart that harbor past secrets. "If you didn't want to come today, if you didn't want to meet my friends, or didn't want to hangout with me today, just say so. You don't have to make up excuses with me. I expect complete honesty."
A moment of shocked silence then, "Whoa...calm down. It's not that at all. This isn't an excuse. I really wanted to come today. And I almost did, but I really don't feel well. I ate something bad and need to be home. If you'd like to come over and observe me in the fetal position on my bed, you may. If that would make you feel better."
I'm an ass.
"We can talk about this later," I say, sullenly.
When Later comes, I've had more time to dwell on the situation, to re-examine my words and actions. I'm still desperately clinging to some shred of anger, to some hope that I am in the right, that he messed up and this is his fault and that I have a right to feel hurt and upset. That I am not crazy...
But I am.
"Hey..." he says, tentatively, on the phone. "So earlier...that was pretty intense. Are you okay?"
No. Yes. No. I'm crazy.
"Yes, I'm okay," deep breaths here. I swallow my pride, my hurt, the bitterness. "I owe you an apology for earlier. I swear I'm not crazy. I just overreacted and it's because of some past situations. I'm sorry."
And I am sorry.
Escaping the past is, unfortunately, impossible. We cannot change what has already happened. And what has already happened becomes a part of who we are, how we react to situations, how we see the world around us. We carry the past into the present, allowing it to shape and alter the future.
But what if our past isn't good? What if terrible things occurred? What if we were hurt, lied to, cheated on, abused, neglected, forgotten?
Does that become our present?
Does that become our future?
If we can't escape the past, does that mean we are doomed to repeat it?
I spent years crying for the girl I once was, the innocent and naive girl who had never experienced a broken heart, who didn't know pain, anguish, and heart ache. I spent years trying to forget. Trying to forgive. Trying to move forward.
And until this day, I thought I had succeeded.
But the scars are still present. Battle wounds marking the passage of time, each jagged edge reminding me of a hurtful word or a broken promise. A permanent reminder that I am not the same person. I am different. Changed.
I ask myself, has he given me any reason to doubt him? I've been hurt in the past, and each time there were warning signs, has he shown any of those signs?
No, no he hasn't.
I have a scar on my leg. It's white and smooth, a circular shape. I was running through the woods when I was 10 years old. Barefoot, unkempt hair, wild and free. I was laughing, playing a game with friends. It was summer time and the air was hot and I was a happy care-free child. I tripped. I stubbed my toe on a tree stump and landed on another stump, causing a large chunk of my leg to be gauged away. It was deep and probably needed stitches. It bled profusely and it stung like hell.
Something bad happened in the woods that day. I was hurt. I bled. Something was taken away from me and in its place was an open wound.
Over a long period of time, the wound healed. New skin grew over the hole in my leg. And as a reminder of what had happened, a smooth, white scar was left.
When I think back on that day, I remember the girl running through the woods. I remember the wind in her hair, the speed, the blood pumping in her heart and flowing through her legs. I remember the warmth of the sun. I don't think about falling.
After that day, I was more cautious. My eyes were open and I was acutely aware of my surroundings. I paid more attention.
Did I stop running through the woods that summer? No. I slapped a band-aid on my leg and went back outside.
Scars themselves are not painful. They do not hurt or ache. They are new skin meant to remind us that we are changed. We are smarter, wiser, savvier. Scars are not meant to hold us back or make us ugly. They are beautiful reminders that we are new, healed, and better than ever.
Keep running, Forever Girls.
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-Naomi
