You say you love me and that you are sorry.
But you mean that you’re only sorry not to have me. You are upset at not having your way and your face crumples up into a wail when I do not run to comfort you as I did countless times before.
You can’t understand why I don’t melt at the sight of you in pain, why when you halfheartedly apologize, I do not embrace you and go back to you as I so often did.
But how can the former blind be expected to be content in darkness once sunlight has filled life in a fresh glow. How can a former beggar be expected to sustain himself in deplorable poverty once he has enjoyed the comforts of life?
I walked next to you and held your hand, looked into your eyes and tried to will happiness into them. In vain I searched for ways to light up that flat stare with mirth and lightheartedness. I recounted my pain, my dark secrets, my very inner core to you so I could be closer to you. But nothing drew you near. Only more pain, anger, and the ugly side of humanity sparked a reaction from you. Passion in your eyes was lighted with anger and accusations. To speak down to me, to hold yourself higher than me, to make me remember what lows of life I had tasted; now that brought a delicious plate of satisfaction to your table. That merited a curve of your lips into a sneer, into a haughtiness that changed your daily humdrum existence and was the only proof that you did not have a permanent line of a mouth etched into your face.
You wonder at my anger and resentment towards you, you decry the hate that you believe I hold towards you, and you balk at the thought that I not hold you dear to my heart in eternal gratefulness and affection.
Hate is for the weary tired souls that are done with life and look towards the darkness of self-pity for satisfaction out of a miserable existence. Hate you I do not nor will I ever. Resentment is for the hurt that still hold tattered feelings in useless hands filled with inertia; resent you I do not.
I hold you at a distance, as a thought, as a puzzle of what I once thought to be the only possible state of existence. I gently rebuke myself for not realizing that I deserved more than coldness and reproach at your side. I try not to dwell on the idea that I was content with bits and pieces of approval and affection that were seldom thrown my way by you. As a beaten dog hangs its head low in shame when it eats the food provided by its abusive owner, I shamelessly lingered, hoping for more displays of emotion to be aimed at me at random.
Life experience. Live and learn. “I only know two very real evils in life: remorse and illness. The only good is the absence of those evils.” – Leo Tolstoy
Clichés, wise words, life mantras: I wear them as a shawl to warm my soul and remind myself that what was once broken and feeble is now steady and strong. I am eager for life and walk towards happiness and opportunity. I walk away from you.
And through it all I wish you well. I hold you as dear as I hold any poor luckless devil out in the street. I bear you no ill will and pray that you too find your way. Please close your eyes to me and think of me no more.
Close your heart to me and speak of me no more.
Memories full of Hurt
Let Them Go
Be Free
Susana Benavidez 
Wow, again. Definitely looking forward to your memoir when it is published. Your drafts are riveting and wrenching and fascinating and touching. One can only imagine all that remains unpublished, let alone unwritten. Surely, in the fullness of time, all of it will. No doubt, it will be magnificent.
I applaud and admire your ability and blazing honesty to write of these things. By articulating them, you’ll come to master the tsunami of your emotions in a healthy manner. Mastery will bring serenity and peace. But, understand, none of this will come to pass if you seek only to “let go” of hurtful memories. No, you must process and identify them. You must. For unless you confront these pains, you will never be free and your gifts will be squandered. Definitely find a good therapist to assist. This can’t be done alone.
My immediate concern is for your daughters. All this is sure to be very hard upon them. I will include them in my prayers. You, too. Your writing, in all its inchoate rawness, presents your pain through the prism of great literary art.
Keep at it.
P.S. The whole “think of me no more” thing ain’t gonna work. Sorry.
David, thank you for your kind words and thoughts. I think you misunderstood. I write “let go” as advice to another. Fortunately, life is well and full of quiet and peace for me. I write my thoughts once I have processed them. They may sound raw because I write them unfiltered as they should be.
I hope all is well with you and your family.
Susana
Be that as it may. Sure, there are two sides to this coin. But, your emotions and writing are the power behind the piece. Thus, I focused on them. Frankly, that’s all that seems of interest here. You are charisma incarnate, yet clearly vulnerable.
After thinking about it, it did occur to me, I’m assuming the piece is pure autobiography. Whether or not that’s true, who cares? Your writing has that hook, that emotional hook that draws the reader in emotionally. Makes the reader respond and care. Thus, my concern for your daughters. Of course, I’m not your therapist. But, I do wonder if your apparent mastery masks things. Things that are none of my damn business. As a human being, your writing elicits for a moment that sense, “I hope she’s okay. I hope those girls are okay.” Again, this just means the writing is damn effective. Good job.
Brisa, Max and Malcolm are an absolute joy, despite the antics of their mother. Being a father is just wonderful and immensely satisfying. Alas, Maritza’s demons from the past haunt her no more. They possess her now. She, too, exudes a sense of mastery. I can’t help think on her fate and pray. My hunch is you’d understand.
Take care of those girls and keep writing.