Kicking It

"Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending." ~Carl Bard

The past. Ah, but is it ever really that? It is that strip of toilet paper we swear we’ve kicked from our shoe hours ago but has actually relentlessly lingered. Either some seemingly benevolent soul will point out its presence or it jumps mercilessly into periphery. Damn. Do we touch it? Do we have a choice? It’s ours, along with all the shit collected along its path.
Some of the past is attractive. There can be a lot to be proud of. For most, however, the very word does not conjure up all pleasant reveries. We move on, try to forget some things, grow from some things, swallow cliché’s like the bitter pills they are and keep plugging along. There’s often a very real fear of, “If you only knew…”. Truly, that’s part of the messy fun of it all. Besides, show me a well mannered man with a steady, joyful past, and he’s probably terribly dull, and no one I’d like to know.
I, like so many others, thought I could elude it – leave it clear in another time zone really. Note to self: that doesn’t work. History lives in the folds of our skin; all it takes is a brush with a song or a smell from chapters past to send us hurdling where we’d rather not remember we’ve been. Snap! I’m an embittered thirteen or a helpless six, climbing the jungle gym walls of this twenty-something frame. Yet, this type of encounter I find manageable. Nothing a few drinks, a couple years in therapy and some amazing friends can’t get you through. The catalyst is internal, the nemesis familiar. It’s the external manifestations of the past that hang heavy on the hems, tugging on my faith.
I make loud mistakes. When I trip, it’s no mere stumble. There always seems to be a slap-stick, bring-the-whole-table-with-me sort of quality to the tumble. I’m dramatic. I can’t help it. No apologies. I wear it on both sleeves at this point. What I could never anticipate was the need to embellish on the part of others. Truly, it’s decorated enough without making my story into a disastrous episode of Trading Spaces. I’m imperfectly perfect, and every day I grow more comfortable with what it feels like to live in my imperfect skin – and love it anyway. Upon first hearing my inaccurately articulated history, I longed to print a retraction to the world. Speak my truth and disown the inauthentic shame I was feeling for someone else’s comfort. How could I move on with out setting the record straight?
Then again, what if I did nothing? What if I could trust for just one minute that truth was stronger – that I only ever needed to prove things to myself. What if we all had just the tiniest morsel of faith that those who love us either know our truth already, or get us enough to see through the lies? And those who want to love us or be a part our lives? That they would be brave enough to ask the questions, thirsty to know more, or get answers; not hungry to take us down in fear or intimidation.
So, in another blazing duel with my-so-called past what did I decide to do? Absolutely nothing. It hardly felt triumphant; nothing was gloriously gained on my part at all. A few more people think I’m crazy. Oh well, so do I. In not seeking to prove things outwardly, perhaps I proved some things to myself. I deserve (don't we all?) strong people in my life who are also steadfast in their beliefs; who will ask the honest questions and put things on the line when the truth is hard. Most fascinating, I saw what a strong influence I have over a room without even being present, spurning such a discussion of falsities. My only hope is that I may use that same presence one day to create something good. And um, hey. You may want to check the bottom of your shoe there; you’ve got a bit of toilet paper….