Valencourt

It’s closing in on one am, tomorrow I have a three hour marathon of a show and yet my brain still won’t shut off. All of the things I have left to stitch- a gown, a bonnet- if he was here I could ask him to pin up my hem, the lines I should run- I can’t forget how I reacted during the proposal because Amy said it was perfect; it was perfect because I was thinking about him but could I do that if he was in the audience? Should I ask Amy about the kiss or leave it be? Tim never really told me how he felt about it but then I never pressed him. It’s my job, my life’s work- can I give it up so easily? If I could get a job- a good one in pa that’s a step up, I could come back here better, stronger. Not until next year though. And then what if there isn’t one? Do I leave because I said I would? Battle the inevitable depression that circles whenever I’m not at work? Or do I stay and risk losing him? If I leave this, will I become a disappointment to my father? He only just said he’s proud of me. I don’t want to lose that pride.

The show, the show. I need to run the scenes with Isabella. I need to remember to walk more slowly during Valencourt. But it’s so strange hearing someone sing my name- Emily- not Catherine, it unnerves me. Do I sport with my Valencourt? “Catherine, he won’t ever love you.” But could he love Emily? Tim, not Henry. Tim. My Wickham. My Tilney? I hope so, god I hope so.

What shall I do if my stage brother tries to kiss me? I’m genuinely concerned. I shouldn’t have mentioned that Dave and I broke up. And sure, we flirted last spring but it was harmlessly safe- both of us I’m unhappy relationships but unable to act. I could never actually love him, it was a lark. Not like Tim.

I cannot become co-dependent. I need my own identity.   Who am I, really? I’m not Catherine anymore. I’m not 19. I’m proud of what I’ve done, what I’ve accomplished. I shouldn’t have hinted to Dave today, it wasn’t professionally unwise but damn it he was such a condescending ass- I wanted him to know that I’m successful without him. I don’t need or want his “professional assistance” because I’m actually better at this than he is:

Will Ken lose his faith in my if I leave? Will Nicole? Jack and Jacque will kill me, I know. But ohmygod the look ok the ex’s faces will be p r i c e l e s s. Remember when I said I was over him? I was letting him go because it was the noble, the right thing to do. Yeah, I lied.

What would Dolly do? She married a man twice her age, and they lived happily ever after. Except for the war. And her step-sons ptsd. And Jefferson. Fuck Jefferson. But not Kurt, he’s a sweetie and I hope I don’t lose him or Michelle if I go. WHEN I go. I think I’ve decided.

Shit, I’m really going to do this. This job is all I’ve ever wanted in my whole life. I’ve rocketed to the top of this field and I know leaving will change that. I’ll return and I’ll have aged out of roles. Maybe I’ll be a mother. People will have found another best and brightest. But I think it will be worth it, for the life we could build together.

Together, because I will not be dependent. I will keep my own identity.  What would Jane do?

She didn’t get married, but she wrote endless stories of women in love. Women who give all of themselves. Women who tell men to fuck right off. Women who change every part of themselves when they see a nice house and realize they have been in love the whole time.

What would you do Jane? And Dolly? Amo? Minna?

Germaine understands, I know. She left her whole world behind for a soldier, and she sometimes regretted it. Was it worth it to marry a mechanic from New Jersey? Do you miss France grandmother?

I miss him.
I love him.
Duh.

It must have been very wrong to have dreamt of him before he dreamt of me- but I did. I kept dreaming of him. I’ll never stop.

I must remember my blanket. My dressing robe. My bonnet. My corset. My book.

Everything a lady needs really, to fall in love.

Catherine, what would you do? Tell me what to do, please. How does my novel end? Am I a heroine after all?

Surprises discovered

I tried you know. I went boldly out into the world, I dated other people and tried on different versions of myself. I loved, fought, lost. I went years without speaking to you.
And yet.
You’re it. Done. The end.
Love is a beautiful place to be, and I’m
In
It.

Heartache

The problem is that I love you.
I can tell myself over and over again that I’m being deliberate, careful, that I’m letting myself have the time that I need to be with myself. I can tell myself that I have learned to let go and allow life to happen, the chips will fall where they will. But then, two words and I’m panicked at the thought of losing you- I’m planning to give up my whole life, my whole dream just for the chance to be yours. And I don’t care if it’s logical or sensible because it’s the only thing that my heart wants.
I’m afraid of losing myself but I’m more afraid of losing you. I can physically  feel a pain in my chest, sometimes it’s a dull ache but then unexpectedly it intensified into an acute pricking, pulsing whenever I’m doubting or fearful or unsure.
Do you mean it, really? Can I trust that this is real, that it’s not another in a long line of dreams born of longing? What if tomorrow you decide it’s not worth it, I’m not worth it. What if it’s a joke, a trick. Why should I deserve your love now, after all these years.

Some days I celebrate modern technology, the ability for instant gratification. The way my face lights up when I see your messages.

Some days I hate it, because it’s up to me to keep myself from going crazy. From sending missive after missive, begging for validation.

And that’s why I’m waiting, hoping and praying that these moments will pass and I’ll grow stronger in my convictions and belief in the truth of myself, of you, of us. That I’ll be able to put this anxiety behind me, that it won’t ruin something so good and so beautiful. That we could have a future.

That there is a future.

Soul searching

This is not real. There’s no way that after all these years of struggle and heartache I could come out on top. I’m not a winner, I’m a surviver.

But.

I don’t think it’s a lie either. I’ve tried to tell myself again and again that it could be some sort of cosmic hoax, that I should prepare myself to be b r o k e n. I’m very comfortable with being in pieces.

So.

If it is real, maybe all the pieces can be stitched back together. Maybe I can leave the past well enough alone and win myself a present.  And if I’m whole again, then who am I? Twelve years of being in pieces and slowly I’m unlearning and relearning me. I don’t need to be completed. I need to be complimented.

My cracks are going to stay, I couldn’t fix them with all the glue in the world.  But eventually maybe time will make them less obvious. And anyway, the Japanese say that mended things are beautiful (hah!)

If he loves me. If he really truly does. That means I can fall, right? No more fear of being caught. Fall of my own volition and pull the string to my own parachute.

Just. Don’t ask me to give all of me, please. I don’t know who I am if I’m not where I am.  Love me by wholes, not halves. I want to continue to discover all that I can be. Maybe that’s my fear. If I do say yes and fall, does that mean that I give over the control of my descent after all?

Once upon a time I was the girl crying tears of heartbreak, real or imagined. And now. Now I grin into my pillow. I wear white dresses in my dreams. I do soul completing work and then I talk to the person who fills that completed soul all the way up.

If.

This is real, don’t let me break it. But if it’s not, don’t let me wake. I want this dream. I want it now. I want it forever.
I have never been so
Utterly
Unequivocally
Happy.