QUEEN OF THE CRACKED

QUEEN OF THE CRACKED

Signs…feels like I keep bumping into them. I met a woman at Starbucks yesterday. She commented on my handwriting (I was writing Jill) and we ended up talking for a couple hours. I got the strangest feeling she was a different version of myself.

Interesting woman, very ADD and emotional (by her own admission), married last year and moved from DC to the suburbs. When I mentioned I was moving from the suburbs to DC, she said, “Are you sure you want to move there?” “Yep.” In my head, I thought, “Are you sure you want to live here?” I told her I was free to go where I wanted, I felt the city calling me, and if it didn’t work out, I’d move.

She didn’t feel free without her car; I was imprisoned by my car. It was like talking to another “me” who turned right when I turned left at the fork in the road. Several years younger, she was way more fucked up than I (I gladly relinquish the title of Queen of the Cracked), intelligent, horrible childhood, two time war veteran, medical school, mental health issues throwing a wrench into studies—reminiscent of my past. Spooky. She teared up when I told her how free I felt, excited I was about the future, that I could do anything I wanted. I loved how these words flowed easily, however heavy with intent, from my mouth.

Then she demanded to know what I wanted in life. So I told her: to work at a library again, write every day and be published, and love and be loved by an amazing man. She looked surprised at my ready answer. It surprised me–for the first time I felt sorry for someone because they were married.

I’ve changed. And as I typed that, The Impressions sang, “People get ready, there’s a change a’coming.”

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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