I have a dozen or so rings that are sitting in my jewelry box at any given time.
Some of them are for specific outfits, some are just ones I bought because they were sparkly and I didn’t think about the damage that I would be doing to that month’s rent money. Some are just cool rings that struck my fancy at some funky boutique. It is a nice collection. So nice that those rings sit there and look at me longingly every time I go to grab a pair of earrings or a necklace.
They sit there because there are only two rings that I leave the house wearing anymore.
The first is a gorgeous 2 1/2 carat ruby that is my engagement ring. Since I proposed to him, we went to pick out my ring together. Not to say that I have anything against diamonds, the traditional choice for a wedding ring, it’s just that I am not a traditional girl. The fire of this ring spoke to me. It says to me passion and loyalty and something deeper. I look at this ring and think all of those things about the man I will marry. I am so happy with my choice that I chose a red wedding dress to go with it, not to mention hassling the manicurist to get the perfect shade of red that doesn’t clash with my ring. (I can be a little high maintenance when it comes to my nails.) Thank god the lady at the Chanel counter was able to find the perfect shade of red or there would have been No. 5 flying all over the place.
But I digress.
The ring I slip on my right hand before heading out into public was a gift given to me by a good friend on my 40th birthday. It is funky and gorgeous and just like her. Every time I look at it I think of her and the wonderful birthday dinner I had surrounded by people I love. It represents her, but it is also something bigger to me. It is a hallmark for all of my girlfriends and how much I love them.
It is about balance. On each hand (literally), I carry two different loves. I have one symbol that speaks to the enduring love that I will have for my husband. On the other, I have the love of my friends and the camaraderie that brings. Both are meaningful, significant loves, and I never want to live my life without either one.
Now if I can just get my manicurist on board, it’ll all be good.
Sometimes you have to look backward to move forward.
Cliche? Absolutely. True? Yup.
I am in a place right now that is less than ideal. I wish I wasn’t here, but I am. I can blame it on a million things, but the one thing I can’t make excuses for is for leaving it behind. All of it. The shit that I put myself through every day is unacceptable to me, yet I don’t do anything about it but make myself feel worse.
That stops now.
It’s not as simple as flipping a switch. I have a long road ahead of me to do the things I know that I should truly be doing. But neither is it as complicated as I make things out to be.
I was talking with someone this morning, and I said about a good friend, “I love her, and I think she really likes me too”. He replied, “Most people like you...save one.” I responded, “Who doesn’t like me?!”
Ouch. That was a rough one to hear and even rougher to know that it’s true. I have been suffering from such a major clinical depression for so long that I spend all of my energy hiding from other people. Putting on a mask so no one knows my dirty little secret. How very tears of a clown.
But as I talked to another friend this morning (the one I said I absolutely loved), she said something to me that hit me like a ton of bricks. “Who are you to decide that millions of people don’t get to hear your voice?” I have been coming up with every excuse in the proverbial book (that I don’t write) to ... well, not write. Not share my real voice with people. That part is the one that I have to take responsibility for, that I can’t blame on the depression. Hell, most writers are either drunk or depressed or both. I’ll fit right in.
I have led an extraordinary life. I have lit Snoop Dogg’s blunts. I have posed naked with 3,000 people in public. I jump in the lake every year on New Year’s Day. I have had some amazing people who have called me friend or lover. I have been published in a real live book you can buy in the bookstore. I am blessed with a wonderful family. I paint, I knit, and I try to bring beauty into everything I do.
I have some shit to say. And by god, you’re going to listen.
Overheard in our apartment today:
The Boy: Yeah, he's kind of a pain.
Me: No, not a "pain". He's a tool. There's just no better word to describe him. I mean, when you say his name, I think, "cocksucker", "asshole", "fucker", "shithead" ... but when it comes down to it, he's just a fucking tool. And not the good kind like Craftsman. One of those shitty tools that you buy at Walgreens that breaks in like 5 minutes. Tool.