A long time ago, on a blog far, far away, I wrote a post called “Hey, you” and in it I figuratively told a half dozen or more unspecified people what, in that moment at the keyboard, I would’ve loved to have really said to them but for a variety of reasons couldn’t. There were lines to my kids, to friends, to family, and even to complete strangers who just happened to drive me nuts that day. It felt a bit weird to do, but very therapeutic.

Someone close to me read it in such a hugely different way than I ever could have imagined. Amid the potpourri of rants and rambles, they somehow deduced that my marriage was in trouble. I was utterly stunned.

This sounds corny but it was a defining moment for me. I have always been paranoid about people misinterpreting my intent… misunderstanding ME… but that event was kind of a validation. If one of my best friends, who is normally brilliant and highly perceptive and who had been given more information about my inner workings than easily 90% of the rest of the people in my life… if THEY could still hear things that I wasn’t saying and read meanings into things that I didn’t mean, then… well shit, I basically had only two choices! I’d better either take a vow of silence and become a monk on a mountain somewhere, or try to let go of my fear of being misunderstood (and subsequently judged and rejected based on something that wasn’t me) and learn to just say what I want to say and to hell with the consequences.

Yeah… um, I’m not real strong on the “to hell with the consequences” thing. It’s pretty much in the same class as “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”. They’re great skills to have and to pull out when occasion warrants, but for me to try to learn them at this point in life has been like a fourth-grader walking into Advanced Trigonomics.

Buck-ass naked.

With “Duh…” taped to the forehead.

But they say practice makes perfect, so here we go… my most recent version of “Hey, You.”

~ * ~

Hey, you. If you say “Sweetie, I’m so excited about my birthday party!” one more freaking time, you won’t live to see eighteen. I’m all for unbridled excitement and joy but, jeezus, I feel like shaking you. Grow the fuck up.

Hey, you. I know you’re trying to help when you say positive, hopeful, reassuring things. And that’s great – I absolutely believe that it makes a big difference. But sometimes I need to be able to complain and not have it negated right away. If everything is always going to be okay and it’s never allowed to simply suck, then I feel like I have to stuff the pain and frustration down deep inside, and it builds up.

Hey, you. I would accept invitations and spend more time around you if FAKE didn’t ooze out of your mouth every time you opened it.

Hey, you. In my head, in the imaginary conversation where you demand to know what the fuck I was thinking when I wrote those things? I don’t have an answer, and that scares the hell out of me. The closest I can come to hearing one, is that it’s not unlike when you drink. I don’t know if that even makes any sense, let alone if it’s true, but it’s all I’m getting so far. I’m really sorry.

Hey, you. What could possibly have been shoved so far up your ass that you needed to tailgate me all the way along the street and then stop right behind me and freak out when I pulled over before the corner? I. WAS. PARKED. IN. THE. PARKING. LANE. That’s what one does in a parking lane. Stops, and parks. It wasn’t a turning lane. Had I been turning, like you obviously wanted me to do, I would’ve been in a turning lane. It kind of goes with the description. Like shit-for-brains, which I suspect you’ve heard often.

Hey, you. I really wanted to type “brain-dead cunt” instead of “shit-for-brains”, but I’m trying to maintain at least a little class, and be a grown-up.

Hey, you. I didn’t say anything when you told me because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I want to believe you, because I want to be able to trust you. But it’s easier to believe that you’re exaggerating the horrific details. If you’re not, I don’t know how to help you, and I very much want to.

Hey, you. Kids aren’t currency. They’re not compromises or paybacks. They’re not indestructible. They’re for more than just 18 years – they’re for an entire lifetime. You’re a better person that this, so please clue in and be a better mother soon, so I don’t have to stop loving you.

Hey, you. I found myself slugging you several times. Ya know, not to cause harm at all, but in affectionate exasperation. Except I hate when women hit men like that! I never do that! At least… I never used to, and not with anyone else. So when I left, I was confused and didn’t like myself much.

Hey, you. The various hired hands that lived next door? They weren’t all safe for me to be hanging around. You should have warned me.

Hey, you. I love you and miss you and wish I could have known you growing up. I’m disappointed that you couldn’t come visit for the summer again but I understand. Just please don’t die before I can hug you once more.

Hey, you. You have sexy legs. Thick, strong, with just the right amount of hair to tickle and tease. Mmm. Yum.

Hey, you. You’re turning 39 – c’mon, say it! Why the hell do you still feel embarrassed that you’re not older? You’re so bloody assbackwards sometimes. You’ve crammed a lot of life experiences into those years, and not just survived but thrived. That’s a serious accomplishment, whether you acknowledge it or not. Learn to cut yourself some slack for chrissakes – you’re entitled to fuck up once in a while.

Hey, you. There is more than just one “you” in this litany; and my marriage is fine, I promise.

~ * ~

I figure I’ll know that I’ve done well when I can actually say things rather than just writing them, or when I don’t feel the urge to say them at all.