entry ~ behind closed eyes

(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)

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journal entries: september 26 & 27, 2009

09.26.09 ..late, late, late at night
Saturday/Sunday 
(actually wee early hours of 9.27)

I was thinking today; about writing.  What do I write about next?  I have incidents run through my mind, different scenarios, serendipitous happenings.  It's like a lifestyle for me; these designed-like happenstances.  I've written before that maybe this happens to everyone; events that almost seemed planned, but weren't and aren't.  Perhaps they happen to all of us, but sometimes we are too dizzy busy to notice; or we are worrying; or we are thinking about the next thing to do instead of noticing the moment.

But still what do I write about next?  I don't need to write anything sensational.  What is more sensational than a spider weaving a web?

A web.  So many webs in life. Some are sticky; some are beautiful; some glisten in the morning dew; some are a trap; some cause us to pause and listen, take note.

My mind wanders and it is difficult to choose which chapters of life to write about.  Gosh, it probably wouldn't even be a chapter; it's more like paragraphs of a chapter of a book.  Or portholes in a ship on the ocean.

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I sat in the shopping center parking lot; the one where Moby's Coffee Shop is in Mt. Airy, North Carolina.   I still had the green Dodge Caravan at the time.  It was a Friday, around 2:00 or so, an April afternoon in 2006. Nick was on the other end of my cell phone, masturbating while I squirmed in my car seat at the driver's wheel.  If not for distance we would have been in a bed together; he wouldn't have to be jerking off.  Long distance and me being married with children, made arrangements difficult.

The first words out of his mouth after he ejaculated were a sound of disappointment.  I asked, "Was it not good?"  I wanted to please him, make him feel good.  We had engaged in cyber-sex a couple times starting last weekend, but this was the first phone sex.  Some say an affair isn't real unless the two people are face-to-face in the flesh.  This was very real.

"No. It was great."  He paused.  "But Carol, your married!" He sounded guilt ridden with anguish.

I was married, but it wasn't a marriage.  It was an existence. My husband and I shared a house. We didn't fight; we hardly talked, other than to exchange necessary information.   I was the maid and the cook and the mother of the children.  I was no more special to Hubby than a Way fellowship coordinator.  Hubby was married to The Way, not me.  To the Way and to his job.  I wasn't special to him. 

We had tried marriage counseling in 2004 and 2005; it didn't help.  Hubby didn't care.  I had work where I could make enough money to help support myself, if we decided to separate.  Hubby would help with the alimony and child support; he'd leave me the house so I could care for the kids.  We had discussed all this; but continued living our separate lives.  The aloneness had now diverted into another realm.  I didn't care; I wanted out of the marriage if it couldn't be salvaged.

Nick and I had met in January on GreasespotCafe, the ex-Way online discussion forum.  I was on the computer every day and night, as much as I could be, which meant hours.  I'd stay up into the wee hours of the morning in the chat room.  Nick too was online, in chat, in the wee morning hours.  We had become friends.

Nick had left The Way over a decade ago.  I had left in October, 2005.  Hubby had continued with The Way when I had exited, though he was now on the outskirts.  He had supported me when I exited; yet I think it was more like tolerated my exit knowing that I couldn't continue to live in the dead, fossilized organization.  I had found hot Bible elsewhere, with Christian Family Fellowship, an ex-Way splinter group.

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09.27.09
Sunday

I awoke at 12:30 pm.  I am so depressed. I'm not terribly so...just so.  I feel I have nothing to write about,nothing to say.  That all my pennings are garbage and selfish; that I write for an audience..which isn't true writing to me.  I cannot write for an audience.

But all I can think to write about involves too much drama.  I'm not a drama queen; shit just happens.  Good stuff happens too.  It's not sensational; it's just I think, who would believe the stuff? Why can't I write about ordinary stuff, like the magic of hanging clothes on the clothesline to dry?  Why do things come to mind that are so fucking complex? I think about or start to write and the web becomes too damn intricate.  It begins to sound so very self-centered, or like I'm trying to prove something to someone.  Am I?  Is that someone others?  Or is that someone me?  Would people think I make it up?  I don't make things up.  I may get fine details mixed up at times, but I'll correct those when I learn differently. 

Why do those questions even matter?  They don't, except that is how I feel.  That does matter; how I feel.

Sometimes I wish I didn't dream at night.  I think my dreams affect me at times.  Sometimes I miss parts of my past and the people; the way it was.

It's o.k. to grieve Carol.  It's o.k. to grieve.

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