Journal Entry #1
I’m not particularly proud of what I’m going to tell you. You will hear about so much bad behavior; so many poor decisions made by both Carol and me. Sr. Alicia tells me to try to forgive myself. I’m supposed to look back on these events and hold myself with compassion, to realize I was doing the best I could under the circumstances. “Therese, you can only ever respond from the knowledge and healing you have in any given moment!”
But you know Sr. Alicia. The woman exudes peace and forgiveness and has somehow managed to figure out how to forgive herself for all her mistakes, as well as everyone else. When I talk to her now, she is so joyful! “But Therese, darling, of course all of this had to happen. If you love someone deeply enough, of course your wounds will be exposed. And now, (I could hear her clap with satisfaction through the phone) both you and Carol can break through these blockages! You can learn to love each other more freely now! Praise the Lord!”
God bless Sr. Alicia. God bless her for always praying, for always being hopeful. At the moment, I am neither hopeful nor excited nor prayerful. I feel so ashamed, so pathetic. To be honest, I can’t even believe I’m going to tell you all this. I wouldn’t, typically. But Sr. Alicia said journaling can be therapeutic. And heaven knows, I’ve spent enough of my life surrounded by Catholic nuns to know that confession can be exculpatory.
Here’s the thing: I’m a photographer. My entire professional life thus far has consisted of watching, looking, being still. Seeing. Perceiving. How is it that I can’t see myself? How is it that I can’t catch on to what I’m doing, or if I do, it’s not until it’s too late? And how is it that even if I don’t want to be doing something, I do it anyway? It’s embarrassing!
But let me tell you how this all started. I suppose it goes back to the beginning of our relationship and that whole mess with Harge and Rindy. It was unconscionable, the way she lost custody. The way he took her child away. The way the lawyers and society screwed her over. The way it still screws us both over, simply because we’re women who love each other.
Carol has been amazing. Over the years, she has actually gotten to a place of civility with him when he brings Rindy for her visits. She is cordial, sometimes genuinely kind to the man. This despite the fact that it breaks her heart each time Rindy leaves.
It’s always hovering somewhere in the background. And then a visit ends, and there’s a hole, an emptiness that gnaws at her like a toothache. If Carol has an Achilles heel, it’s Rindy. She rarely smokes anymore, but if she does, it’s when Rindy leaves. One time, we shared a cigarette on our balcony just after a weekend with her. At one point, Carol looked at me and I could see the tears on her cheeks through the blue, smoky haze. It broke my heart. Her beauty can still make me catch my breath, and in that moment, it was beauty shrouded in tragedy. It was like Bogey and Becall and "Casablanca” in some ways. I just ached for her. And she shook her head so sadly, and whispered, “That child! She’s my greatest joy, Therese. And my deepest wound.” It was terrible.
Anyhow, this all started when Harge confided that his company was thinking of transferring him to their Florida office. He didn’t know for sure if this was their plan, but he wanted Carol to know he had no intention of finding another job. And if he moved, he would be taking Rindy with him.
I can only see this in retrospect, but in that very moment we both began to unravel. All I seem to remember is the stricken look in Carol’s eyes, the way her jaw muscles tightened so visibly. And the way I tightened too, warding off a vague sense of danger. I could almost hear a bell ring with this mournful, funereal sound that made me shiver. I had the clear sense that this issue would be our crucible, and an unclear sense of whether we would survive.
We had lost our present moment. Now, we both began to live from our wounds.