CHINA DOLL by @RachelintheOC

Rachel Thompson

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CHINA DOLL

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I wrote this essay during a difficult time, but it helped shape me as a person, and as a woman. 

Hopefully, what you’ve come to expect from me as a nonfiction writer is honesty, regardless of topic. What follows is an excerpt from my upcoming book due out soon, Broken Pieces.

 

China Doll


I felt the storm break in my heart.

Maybe I knew he was gone before I got the call; perhaps even before he left.

I can admit that now.

His words were strewn with dissatisfaction, regret. I thought, initially, he was simply reconnecting to apologize for us; for all those years of burden he carried for the hurt in my heart. I knew he hoped for more. But I didn’t know how to carry more, where to hold more in my neatly ordered life.

I had no more in me.

I could feel the storm, in his words. He had lost so much: beloved but lost mother, best friend, hated father, his best friend’s father who had basically raised him. So many deaths. The drinking had ruined him; his marriage, his relationship with his young son. He’d lost his job, his truck, his home. I knew some of this, of course. I would find out the full damage later, though.

After.

He only told me bits and pieces. His language so spare, almost as if he had created his own. I gleaned as much as I could from every conversation, trying to understand unspoken words, breaths held.

If only I had read between his lines. Would I have known?

If I had closed my eyes, would I have felt his words, not just seen them?

I could feel his anger through the words; yet also his desire, his love. See who I am now! he would shout at me in his missives. I’m not that man anymore who would hurt you.

You’re my china doll, baby.

He carried me for twenty years, taking me out, looking at me before putting me back on his shelf. Who he thought I was. Not realizing I’d become a different person. A doll who didn’t break quite so easily. He forgot he used to call me “handful” for good reason.

The mind warps what time can’t forget.

I forgave him the hurt he caused me. Excuses all, but it has to be enough.

It’s easier to forgive him for cheating on me than for taking his own life. That will take some time.

Time won’t let me forget.

I don’t know that I can forgive time for that.

Those who love me then hated him. They are glad he’s gone. They are afraid I’m glorifying him in some way. I know they say this out of love, worry, protection.

I tell them not to. I know he hurt me. Remember, I left him. But I’m a big girl. It’s okay for me to write about him; stories, essays, and poetry. This is what I do.

I’m allowed to forgive him.

It’s my life, my choice, my heart. MY grief.

I’m not his doll. I’m not anyone’s doll.

Then again, I’m not the one who broke.

 

I appreciate your comments, thoughts, and all the rest.

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Comments

  18. There is a depth of regret, longing, grieving, and mystery in your new post. The new writing . . . it is life writing, searching to reveal an answer even when the questions are indecipherable and unknowable. The journey is worth taking and the feelings you share a marker for your time and the life you lead. Great job.

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