Last night I went to share drinks with some friends-- and some strangers. The night was young and the drinks were delicious. As we laughed about misadventures and our waiter's over attentiveness, the conversation turned to bad friends and boyfriends. Everyone laughed as a girl told the story of an old friend writing her boyfriend a letter proclaiming that she was a better match for him. The laughs got louder when someone else told a story of a bad boyfriend let loose on spring break. Soon, I felt compelled to chime in and found myself telling a story that I used to tell very often. Yet, this time it was different.
The crowd laughed and cried "oh-no-she-didn't" at all the appropriate places. To an outsider it would appear that I was the same girl, telling the same story that I told six months ago. But to me it felt all wrong. In fact, there were places where I couldn't even recall what was the truth any longer. Had I just imagined that part in my head? I began to wonder if I was telling the story in the right order. By the time I finished, I realized that my story was just that--- a story. It had all happened so long ago that I barely recalled the characters that I spoke of. I excused myself to the restroom and took a good, long look at myself in the mirror.
I am not the same girl who was in that story. That girl was desperate for attention. That girl didn't know how truly amazing she was. That girl was hurt and was looking for anyone to lay the blame with. That girl was insecure and sought approval in all the wrong ways. Yet, the girl that stared back at me from the mirror was very different.
She does not feel the need to degrade herself in order to feel better. She does not need to seek out constant companionship-- she is satisfied with silence. She has found a peace within herself at the thought of growing up, moving on, and enjoying life.
As I emerged from the bathroom and reclaimed my seat at the table, the conversation had already turned to new things. A second round of drinks were being ordered and the girls began to talk about the upcoming summer and getting to wear shorts again. I allowed my mind to flow with the conversation with an ease that I had not ever felt before. I was not putting on any fronts. I was not hiding behind sarcasm and wit. I was not begging for approval. In fact, I realized that I was no longer playing any character, in any story. I was simply living my life.
I used to feel like I needed to scrub myself clean of the past that I've lived. I felt that scraping away that desperate individual would somehow make me pure again. I was wrong. John Cage once said, "We need not destroy the past. It is gone." As the night wore on and the dinner party broke up and moved to other places I realized that my past self was gone as well.
Yes, there will always be little reminders of her. I will bump into people who only know me through her. I will see her staring back at me through old photographs. And occasionally, I feel her clawing at my insides for attention and approval. Still, there is no need to try and destroy her. She is gone and the wrongs she has done have been washed away with her. She is gone... I am left.
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