Have you ever felt kinship to a book—your body, heart, and soul propelling you to devour every word because you feel like you are reading the truths of your own life spelled out on paper? That’s how I felt when I picked up Chosen by a Horse by Susan Richards. In the book, Susan talks about how the unexpected adoption of an abused horse named Lay Me Down inspires her to overcome years of emotional neglect as a child, an abusive marriage, and destructive behavior to find the courage to love others again, and, most importantly, love herself again. (Though I know I should technically call her Richards, I can’t—her writing is so open and honest, that I can’t help but feel I know her). Chosen by a Horse was Susan’s first published book, and she followed it up with Saddled and Chosen Forever. Saddled is about how Georgia, the mare that Susan adopted, helped Susan pull through clinical depression and alcoholism, to finding her family. I read the book in less than twelve hours, and read the other two books equally as quickly. I didn’t like Chosen Forever as much. Perhaps because it wasn’t as centered on the horses as the other two were, perhaps because Susan falls in love in the book, and I’m shying away from anything romantic these days, perhaps because some of her scenes take place on Little Cranberry Island, near the island that I spent a week with Apache’s mom last summer, and where he and I vacationed this winter. That wound is still too fresh.
It sounds cheesy, but reading these books about Susan coming to discover the truths of her own strengths and weaknesses has helped me to see my own truths. I’m learning, slowly, day by day to spend the time I have on this earth doing things because they make me feel good inside, not because they might convince other’s to like me. I’ve been trying to buy love from people, in a way, because I truly do feel, though I know it’s wrong, that I won’t be loved any other way. But looking back over the past 25 years of my life, and the past five years of relationships, the three men that I tried to “buy” with my steadfast devotion are gone. Trevor and Apache refuse to speak with me, and Jay is happy in his own relationship with DogFace. I’ve chosen relationships with broken men, hoping that once I saved them from the demons that haunt them, they would love me unconditionally the way I cared for them.
It’s time to love myself; to stop putting so much effort into finding love of another, and into loving myself. As Susan writes in Chosen Forever: When you're doing what you're supposed to be doing in this life, amazing things can happen."
So here I am, doing what I want to do because I want to do it. For me, that means spending time with Magic. Last week, since Hurricane Irene had knocked out power to most of my area and the start of school was delayed—I spent most of my unexpected time off at the barn. I hauled hay and water, rode Magic, relaxed in the hammock hung from two oak trees just outside his paddock. On the first day, after the horses had been couped up for 48 hours inside, Sin and I trucked the horses down to the 50 acre pasture. I took of Magic’s halter and watched as the herd of six Arabians galloped across the paddock, stretching their stiff legs, out of sheer joy at having once again having the freedom to run. That’s how I feel now. Free from the drama of keep a relationship alive with someone that thought nothing of disrespecting me and casting me aside. Free from the shame of staying so long. Free from the countless hours I wasted catering to him and mourning him.
I’ve owned Magic, raised him for five years this weekend, and he changed me in a way that no one else has. Owning Magic means that I have to sacrifice some of the frivolities that other women my age have. There are no weeknight bottles of wine, or Friday/Saturday nights at the club. And that’s okay. Because Magic has been there for me through the worst moments of my life. The night that Trevor yanked my engagement ring off my finger, and went to his mother’s, never to once again sleep in the home that we had made together, I slept in Magic’s stall. Huddled beneath a horse blanket ontop of a thick bed of sawdust, I never once questioned my safety. Magic was there the summer I had the abortion. I saw him every day that summer, and he brought me back from a dark place I hoped I never would see again. And he was there for me through what Apache did to me, and this summer helped to remind me of who I was before, and who I still am today.
Some people disagree that animals can love, and I challenge them on that. There’s no other explanation for the way that animals act with “their” people. How Magic breaks away from the herd to join me near the fence when he sees me, or my cat, Spooky, snuggles onto my chest when I’m laying in bed, purring so hard his drool wets my pajamas. He is a shy cat, and doesn’t act like that with anyone else that he’s known almost as long, people who are as eager to pet him. Nope it’s me he prefers. If only human males could remember the loyalty that their feline and equine counterparts displayed.
Part of being free again means that I have mental space. My phone is quiet now. When Apache was in Afghanistan, we emailed back and forth constantly. I saved every email, in case the unthinkable happened. 6,000 emails in the nine months that he was there, not including the hundreds of instant messages that we shared whenever he was able to get on the computer. I still have those emails and conversations. His body may have come back from the desert, but the man I loved, he died out there. I’ve come to accept that.
I’ve come to be okay with the quiet. I’ve stopped watching (most) television. I’ve started reading again. Today I started (and finished) The Help by Kathryn Stockett. It was an amazing book, about 1960s Mississippi, told from the perspective of three women: one a young, white woman and two different African American women. The book, the author’s first, reminded me of E.L. Doctorow’s novels. Doctorow is one of my favorite authors—his story “Child, Dead in a Rose Garden” still haunts me. “There is no history except as it is composed. There are no failed revolutions, only lawless conspiracies,” Doctorow writes in an essay called “False Documents,” about how history is not absolute truth, because it is written by those in power, to benefit themselves, to cast themselves in the best light. His books, such as Ragtime, The Book of Daniel, and The March, write about history from the perspective of the underdog—the characters that have been written out of or vilified in history.
A major part of being free means that right now, I’m not dating. I’m not sleeping with men. I’m not even dabbling on dating sites. I’ve been hurt, badly, but yet I’ve felt this tremendous pressure to quickly find someone to replace Apache in my bed and heart because it would take the attention off of how much I’m hurting, and, perhaps, prove a point to him, if he asked about me. Maybe one day he’ll come to his senses, I’ve fantasized, and ask our mutual friends or his family, that I still talk to, about me. Aurora is incredibly happy with her new, handsome successful man, they’d say, shaking their heads. And he would feel the sting of pain that I felt, and realize Damn, I lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t realize what I had when I had her, and someone else did. But that’s all it is, fantasy. He will never again ring my phone, email me, or Facebook request me. Or if he does, it’ll be long past the time when I really want to hear from him. The sooner I accept that, rip off the remnants of this relationship like an old band aid, the better.
Even though I’m lonely, and wake up in the nights feeling cold because there’s no one beside me, I want to be alone. The wound is still healing. I think that’s why I’ve gained weight in the past four months (!) since our breakup. I don’t want to be attractive to men. Not yet. That’s hard. So many people try to fix me up with their friends, cousins, coworkers. But I’m not ready. People around here look at me funny when I say that. Not wanting to get married is considered a sin. In my town, it’s strange to see a 25 year old that’s not married or having children.
I’m working on combating the obstacles towards losing weight. I’m being more conscious about the hidden calories in things, and finding low cal alternatives for my favorite foods. I baked Weight Watchers Pumpkin Spice muffins (2 points!) to substitute for the 600 calorie monster, and found pumpkin-flavored coffee beans that are calorie free. My biggest hurdle to face is eating at night. Since Apacheleft for Afghanistan, and more so since our breakup, I’ve been sleepwalking to the fridge to eat. I know it’s an anxiety issue, and I’ve made an appointment with my therapist and APRN about medication. Hoping we’ll get it under control. I’ve promised myself that I’m going back to the gym this weekend.
I’m hoping that my life is on the up and up, dear reader. Tell me, what book (movie/tv show) that has made you take a good hard look at the truths of your own life?
