The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Dark Victory

Been reading about Bette.

I find that I am always most impressed by women who seem oblivious to expectation. I'm so easily coerced by the influence of others that I seldom stop to contemplate what it is that I want to be, who I actually am. There is always a sense of failure, doldrums inspired by perpetual shortcomings. I don't smile enough, I talk too much, I don't do enough...I hear it, I believe it, I weep a little. Of course, doing nothing isn't productive, after all, and being angry about someone pointing it out shouldn't be an excuse to wallow. Perhaps they're trying to make me a better version of myself, but a big part of me knows that it's about what I am not doing for them.

They say it will slowly begin to seem unimportant, the living for others. I believe them. Most of the old people I know care very little about what they're saying or doing, never really giving much thought to the aftermath of their comments or expressions. It is about them, you see, after so many years of regulating their moods and behaviours for others, they go in a different direction. I suspect there is almost a childish delight in it, the indulgence they make in their version of the truth. I can't blame them. The sad part, in my view, is that it comes too late. When all the living is done, it seems anticlimactic to get so dogmatic. When you're old, when the colour is gone, no one listens to you, not really. They call it senility or dementia. They never call it assertiveness or strong will. For some reason, we prefer to listen to the ones who know as little as we do. We don't consider the lack of experience or the probability of spiritual bankruptcy. We only see stars and feel ourselves falling backward. Sad.

I don't feel any significant change in me, though. Yes, I hate the present condition of yearning and trying to please others but I recognize that it is a need that it is still living and breathing. I'm not done dancing. My legs are tired, but I keep going because I don't know how I'll be when I stop. It's no one's fault that I feel like I have to please them. It's mine that they've come to expect it.

I think about R. daily and haven't been able to figure out what I'm feeling when I do. I had a dream of him the night before Christmas, a recurring theme. He was asking me why. Why did you do it? Why did you leave me? Didn't you love me anymore? Even in the dream state I was uncertain of what I wanted to say in response, searching for the right words, the sleekest ones, the ones without sharp edges. I didn't have them. I realized that even in my unconsciousness, I was still unsure of what happened. Yes, I blamed him for his commitment issues, but in all truth, I have to say he was always more committed than I was. Whereas he was adamant about 'marriage', he was always in it forever. He was never going anywhere, and I'd always known it. I think I used his failure to propose as an excuse to justify my growing disconnection, my emerging awareness of the incompatibilities between us. I stopped wanting his hands on me much earlier than he would have noticed. Because he was so sweet, so true, I couldn't find any justification for my indifference. It didn't make sense that I would become so blasé about someone who was so bloody perfect in the eyes of everyone around us. I had to find a reason for it, so I did.

The truth is that the differences between us were always bigger than I wanted to admit. In the dream, like in all the others, I could not deny a feeling of desperation, a very intense sensation of knowing that things were exactly as they had to be: finished. I hate knowing that for some odd reason. I despise recognizing the need for the end of it. It makes me feel sad, rather than satisfied. I wanted to be away from him, badly, but I also didn't want the conversation to end. I have been flirting with the idea that I wanted to be wanted, more than I actually wanted him. I enjoyed being coveted. Does this mean I didn't love him? No, I did, and still do probably. I envision him the way he looked when we first met and the feelings come back, the shudders and the magneticism, and I am amazed that it's all still there. I know it started in something real and purposeful. But, we could not deny who we are and the fit was forced. I now look back at my old life and I am gripped with a weird kind of sad terror when I consider how close I came to staying there. It was not about him, I realize now. It was the environment we were in, neither of thriving. So, the love was real, but the environment of it was dark and deathly. The love, now, is marred and distant, but for me it's still alive beneath the broken bricks and dusty rubble. I hate thinking he's stopped wanting me, but that's just my selfishness talking. It's louder than all my other voices most of the time.

I have to admit that having a secret, something so completely out of character for myself, was part of the appeal at the time. I loved having something that was mine, a person in my life who knew nothing about the perceptions others had of me, who knew the peccadillos I wished to share and nothing of the ones I was ashamed of. He excited me because he represented possibility, and more than that, he was the person who was going to save me. His only expectation of me was love, and that calmed me. Now that we are somewhat settled, I see that the saving is up to me. All the darkness which comes from me, came with me. He couldn't stop it even if he tried. I think there are things he could do better, and the way he sort of loses himself in his own mind and needs rubs me all kinds of wrong, but the fit is so much smoother, the sense of rightness blares.

I worry, though. I know he is far more used to doing the leaving than I ever have been. I worry that he will grow tired of me, the way other people have and I find that I am always forcing myself to break down my own walls in order to please him, even though I don't seem to always get what I want in return. I am still dancing. I want him to be in sync with who I am when I stop moving. I need the arms, the legs, the smiles...I need the assuredness. I read his sadness as discontent, his anxieties as desperation, his quiet as boredom. I have taken all the things R. must have felt toward the end and have come to own them. It's almost poetic, and if I weren't ravaged by it, I might find it just.

Bette Davis was a champion for women, you see. She was the antithesis of pristine and ladylike, and she was unabashedly herself. How I adore that. The thing is, though, that even before I get anywhere near the end of the book, I will always be aware that she ended up dying alone.

I don't know if she was happy with that or not. I'm nowhere near the end of it yet.