We all got stuff—ugly, putrid, forgotten, unseen. Bits of relationships-gone-south, ripped into leaflets, pages worn. Mama-and-Papa-done-me-wrong memorandums, tin-canned, recycled and recycling.  Cursed self-images. Pornographic, unfiltered, I’ll-deal-with-THAT-eventually, rubbish. A whole barrel, for most of us. A landfill for some.

I don’t miss his garbage—I don’t miss feeling like if I didn’t manage his life, he might combust, or drown, or become unable to be the man I knew he could be. I didn’t like being someone’s Mother. “Can I bring you lunch at school, darling?” “Please don’t stay out too late, dear.” “It’s your sister’s birthday today, I sent her a card from us. Don’t worry, I signed your name.” Bitterness, resentment—he was a better EVERYTHING because I managed the details that makes a functioning person into a high-functioning adult. (I wonder if he knows…? If he’s willing to credit me at all…?)

But truth be told, he never asked me to do this—I was COMPELLED. I didn’t trust him to take care of his life. His shit—the garbage he carries with him—was the exact concoction that inspired me to get out my 4 x 4 pickup and STUFF his trash into the back. Here, let me carry that for you. No, no, IT’S NO TROUBLE AT ALL, actually. It’s my joy. My duty to help. His GARBAGE aggravated mine. His shit brought out the worst parts of me. We weren’t a good fit.

It doesn’t have to be this way…

You don’t have to worry about me, Jodi. James Dean reminds me. I can take care of myself. I. CAN. TAKE. CARE. OF. MYSELF. Can and does. Can and wants to. So much so that he not only doesn’t feed me his bullshit, like chocolate moose, he actually has so much can-deal-with-this he REALLY engages with my stuff. With me. For me.

He isn’t perfect, James Dean. I mean, he has eyes and lips and skin that could turn a nun into a SEX-addict. And a touch that could make a straight man gay. Oh and he fixes stuff—like my bathroom sink, and my screen door, and my oh-my-god-he-could-build-me-a-flippin’-house-from-the-ground-up—which unexpectedly and unavoidably makes me EXCESSIVELY aware how TIGHT my jeans are. But he isn’t perfect. He has baggage, too. But I don’t feel the need to make it possible for him to deal. To make his problems my problems.

I’m like, fuck, that sucks. Good luck with that.

I listen, and hold his hand, and kiss his face. But don’t want to leap onto my white horse, save the day, SERVE HIM. He is his own champion. He fights and wins his own battles. I just cheer him on.  I just give him a lil tap on the ass. Go get ‘em, tigerrrrr….

So here is what I’m thinking, and actually here is what (GROWN-UP) James Dean says… even our garbage requires compatibility.  Maybe it isn’t that M is dysfunctional, or fucking infantile (sorry, had to), or ever needed rescuing. Maybe it’s just that M’s WAY OF DEALING, his particular line of shit, intoxicated me and mine.

Maybe we just weren’t a good fit. And someone else is. For both of us. Maybe the future (x2) composite of so-called garbage will collage into BEAUTIFUL. Will become art, worth observing, embracing, loving. Maybe the next guy (Jamie?) will inspire my BEST qualities, my most lovely pieces-of-me, my details most worth celebrating. Maybe he will see me and allow me and support me becoming and living the BEST VERSION OF MYSELF.

I’m holding out for that.