LJ IDOL - WEEK 9 - Sucker Punch

Really quick, before we all get back to our regularly scheduled programing, I just wanted to thank everyone again for the kind words and support on my last entry. Admittedly, after I posted it, I had to walk away from Idol. I would open my inbox and see all the comments and freak out and hit the 'x'. Not until this weekend did I push the anxiety away and start reading them and personally replying to everyone. I'm still working on it, in fact. It's been such a meaningful experience for me and I'm so blessed to be a part of this wonderful community. So, thank you all again! I'm super ready to get back to writing and reading and being me. ♥


LJ IDOL - Week 9
Prompt: Sucker Punch

As usual, it happens when I least expect it.

I’m sorting out the Christmas wrapping materials on the designated folding table, sipping on a mug of lukewarm English black tea. I’m humming along to festive Christmas music and making mental notes of how I want to present each gift. Bow? Ribbon? Box or bag? My towering stack of purchases seems daunting, but the ‘giving’ is my favorite part of the season. I’ve collected coupons and religiously followed sale price trends in order to get the most bang for my buck while still staying within the agreed upon spending limit. Each of these gifts has been specifically selected and tailored to the receiver in the hopes of eliciting the maximum reaction of surprise and gratitude. Even the most generic seeming gift has a personal connection. I positively thrive on this part of the season and the opportunity to be thoughtful and creative.

I reach into the pile of festive gift bags and fish around. My fingers graze dozens, I’m sure, but ultimately land on one. I pull it out, distracted by the action of reaching for some tissue paper with my free hand, and lay it on the table. Then I look down to assess my random choice.

Immediately, my heart seizes and my mouth goes dry.

It’s an innocuous gift bag: silver duochrome with swirls of pale blue, but it’s knocked the wind out of me. I’m sitting there, frozen in place. There’s a tag attached to one braided, blue handle and it lies against the table, partially open. I recognize my own swoopy script handwriting there, but my vision is unfocused and the actual words blur. This bag had an intended home and a specific purpose, but it never reached its destination. It never fulfilled its designated use.

Last year, I came up the the most perfect gift for you. It wasn’t easy, and knowing it would be a challenge, I started brainstorming in September. Theoretically, you’d be an easy person to buy for. I knew all your favorite hobbies and colors and the interests you were most passionate about. But, lots of people knew those things and it seemed too generic, too simple. You always cherished the things that I did for you more, the creative ways I showed my love and appreciation. You constantly recalled the Valentine’s Day scavenger hunt I set up and you saved all the long notes I’d handwritten to you when I couldn’t sleep. I loved surprising you and watching your face light up. I loved putting in the effort that others wouldn’t. You said I made you feel special, and no one had ever done that before.

The gift I decided on couldn’t be bought in a store. Knowing this project would require a lot of practice and trial and error, in early October I started gathering materials. I started watching Youtube tutorials and reading crafting blogs. I worked on it here and there for two and a half months and it came out better than I ever could’ve expected. I knew that you would absolutely love it. And that I loved you.

You loved me too, there’s no doubt about it. But outside of fairy tales and movies, in reality, love alone can not always sustain a relationship. Ten days before Christmas, you broke up with me.

It was a completely reasonable break up. We’d both had our gripes, but, ultimately, you were the one to pull the trigger. The end had been looming in the distance for awhile, but we’d tried to ignore it. We’d tried to delay the inevitable. We were two extremely compatible people who unfortunately met at the wrong place, in the wrong time. I never gave you the gift I was so proud of. I’d put so many hours of work and love into creating it, but it didn’t matter. It never came to fruition. It was a painfully apt metaphor for our relationship.

In the end, I shoved it in a bottom desk drawer and covered it with user manuals and old warranty papers. I took most of the physical reminders of you and hid them; tucked them into secret little spaces where they would stay safe, but out of view. We didn’t end on bad terms, but the heartbreak was deep and raw and I couldn’t stand to constantly relive it.

Over time, it’s become like a strange game of minesweeper. I’ll be going about my day, my life, expertly avoiding reminders and thoughts of you and then suddenly: a bomb. Always unexpected, sometimes avoidable, but there all the same. I’ll open a random book and find an anniversary card from you tucked into the back pages. I’ll go to use an old pocketbook and find a pair of your sunglasses in the front pouch.

There is a strange, masochistic element to this - my complete inability to part with these things, and yet the intense pain inflicted when I randomly uncover them. There is always the surprise, the lurching stomach, the hot tears pricking up at edges of my eyes. Then there’s the deflation. The emptiness. The numb, but ever present feeling of loss and yearning. Time and distance dull the ache considerably, but it continually lurks in the shadows of my heart, clamoring to be felt and recognized in the moments when I stumble upon a piece of our history.

I know I should help myself. I should get rid of these things. I should give myself a break and a better shot at moving on in a timely manner. But I can’t. I’m a saver. A collector. A hoarding autobiographer. I have shoe boxes full of notes from high school. I have Tupperware containing old movie ticket stubs and birthday cards. I have kept random mementos from every event and relationship that’s ever been important to me. In light of that, I know our memories are far too important to discard, but also far too fresh to face directly. Which is how I end up tucking little reminders of you into random places, intending to deal them later when I’m in a more positive head space. And so the cycle goes on and on.

I know we were in love. Maybe, technically, we still are. I know my love for you still smolders, like the last resilient piece of glowing charcoal in a dying hearth. The slightest bit of poking and prodding could probably reignite it all over again. I think you still love me too. You said as much the last time we communicated and I know well enough that, for better or for worse, you don’t ever say things you don’t mean. But the logistics and the details of a future together were too high of a mountain to climb. And so, for the past year, I’ve found myself stagnant, wandering around near the base of the bluff, too afraid to walk away completely, but too intelligent to attempt to scale it on my own.

This holiday season has been hard. It’s a bit like swimming against a strong current. I’m trying to celebrate and enjoy my favorite time of the year, but I’m constantly pushing against thoughts and memories that make me sad. Still, my effort is valiant and I know I’ll be okay.

I take a deep, focused breath and grab the bag with trembling hands. The sound of the Christmas music in the background is drowned out by the deep, thudding echo of my heart beat in my ears. I stuff a gift into the bag. I write out a tag and slap it on, giving the bag a new destined home. I jam some white tissue paper down around the sides and over the top. It’s not my best work, but I’m rushing to get it done before I lose the nerve. Just before I add it to the ‘finished’ pile, I grab the old tag between two fingers and tear it from the handle. I don’t need to read it. I know what it says. The memory of sitting at this very table and writing out the short, sweet note is seared white-hot into my brain.

I hesitate, but then shove the torn tag into my pocket. I know I’m setting myself up for another stumble. Undoubtedly, when I’m doing the laundry or pulling these pants on again at a later date, at a time when I’m not expecting it, I’ll find this barbed surprise again. It will trigger a zoetrope of memories both happy and sad, the impact of which will rob the air from my lungs and make the room spin.

Mariah Carey’s whistle note breaks through the steady sound of blood pumping in my ears and my chest feels lighter. I pull the next present towards me and begin to wrap it.