Hard Truth

This is what I remembered.

He had a spare ticket to a concert that night, and asked me to go with him.

"I will...unless you think it would be weird?" I asked, having had an experience or two with older men by that time.

"Why would it be weird?" he asked back, looking genuinely puzzled and slightly amused.

So I said yes.

I arrived at his house wearing very high heels, I met his friend and we all had a drink, talked about music, art, a trip they had just taken. After the three (or four...?) bottles of prosecco were gone, we decided it was time to call a cab. I regretted not eating dinner.

By the time we got to the concert venue my vision was bleary. I have flashes of the show, thinking how tiny the singer looked from so high up in the private box. I had another drink, maybe two. I felt his hand on my leg and decided it was okay. I met people who I had already met before. I asked someone for blow (no luck). It was time to leave.

The cab ride home is lost on me. The next thing I remember is standing in the patio doorway, immersed in the shadows and smoke, then tangled up with him in the kitchen. 

I woke up in the bedroom the next morning. I felt sick. Violated. Hung over. Betrayed. Disgusted with him. Disgusted with myself.

I showered and went home. Pretended that it was all a joke, an embarrassing misunderstanding, one more silly drunken one night stand...

Almost three years later, I am waiting for him in a dimly lit restaurant downtown. 

Even though I have very obviously been avoiding him all this time, he responded immediately to my email asking if we could catch up some time. 

He arrives and tries to kiss my cheek, which I hastily deflect. He smells the same. My palms start to sweat.

We sit across from each other and order two glasses of wine. We make small talk. He must be wondering why he's here.

I start to tell him why I've been so awkward every time we've run into each other, how I remember that night, how it makes me feel (it's hard to say these things out loud, my eyes are closed or focused on the wall behind him).

He is shocked. It's apparent from his expression that he did not anticipate a conversation like this.

He is very willing to communicate, willing to try to understand my side of the story. Then he tells me what he remembers...

My flirtatious gestures. How I sat on his lap. That it was me who suggested we go back to his house. And I assured him over and over that I was fine.

This rang true with me, as I started to remember and slowly admit to myself my past behaviors. 

We apologized to each other, and as I walked off in to the cold twilight to catch my bus I felt very strange.

Lighter, certainly. To know I was not taken advantage of was a relief. To know I created that version of the story in my mind to make myself feel better was troubling.

I have been deeply, madly in love with one person thus far in my life. When it ended I was lost. I drank excessively and used drugs carelessly. I felt broken and sad, and tried to soothe that ache with sex. My experience with heartache is common. Most people reading this have felt the pain that comes from a bad breakup, and know the shame of the actions that often follow. 

But admitting it to yourself, that is the difficult part. I realized how much I had let my shame affect me. It hit me like a truck one night, to have a glimpse of comprehension at how terrified I am of being vulnerable. Because if I'm ashamed of some of my past actions...who else could ever understand? Who could love me while I am this way?

I have written before about not letting your past define you, and it's something I strongly believe in. But it's not the bold matter-of-fact that I am divorced which holds me back. That issue is out in the open, it's plain to see. The wedding pictures are still at my Dad's farm, tucked away somewhere. Everyone knows it happened. It is challenging but ultimately not that hard to let go and move on from that.

Instead, it's the nights that only I know about. The emptiness echoing through me in the darkness, as I rolled over and told him that he can leave whenever he wants (the sooner the better). The hangovers that left me shaking and numb. The flat expression in the mirror that no one else was around to see. It's hard to escape a past that no one really knows about. It's easier to pretend that it just didn't happen, easier to tell yourself it was someone else after all.

And yet, life is not easy. I don't want to exist in fear, hiding these truths from myself and ultimately holding myself back from emotional fulfillment. So I have been going through the process of realizing what really happened. What I was really like. How unhappy I really was. And I forgive myself. And I cry. And I meditate. And I talk about it. And I let go. 

I realize and embrace the fact that I am not that person anymore. That I'm happy, healthy and accountable for my own actions; that I have peace; that I am beginning to know what it really means to love and accept myself. As long as I continue to face these hard truths, I will continue to become the person I am meant to be.