I didn’t give much thought to what I was going to say. But I stood in front of the funhouse mirror on the back of my bedroom door (nothing, not even my reflection, was a straight line then), nervously adding, then subtracting, statement pieces to my outfit. Balancing my melancholy air with twinkle and charms.
I decided on all black; black jeans, a black v-neck cardigan with embroidered trim, and black leather boots with enough heel to make it seem like I was standing tall. I walked to the pub to find you, attuned to the sound of my boots scraping the pavement. And the rustling of chains around my heart.
To this day, I don’t know what I was thinking. Showing my face with no script in mind, certain that I’d be walking home early and alone that brisk Autumn night, with fresh holes in my back from the daggers sent my way.
I was making amends, and I started with you. To punish myself, maybe. These days, there’s a faint voice in my head telling me that I showed up that night to prove that I survived. This makes me feel something close to pride.
And that night when you noticed me walk in, I heard your heart stop. You stood tall over me like always, even with my three-inch heels. Your new life surrounded you like an aura. A gradient, soft blue aura. Janis Joplin howled from the jukebox…“He’s looking for that home, and I hope he finds it.” I got through my apology without stumbling, I gained momentum as words came to me and your attention was (briefly) on me. I can feel good about this afterwards, I remember thinking. I’m making amends and working the steps.
Working the steps like a good girl.
What the hell did being a good girl ever get me!? I asked myself after leaving you and your future at the pub that night. I listened to the rhythm of my boots on the pockmarked sidewalk, again. I stared at the inky, starlit sky to feel something. Realizing that being a good girl got me nowhere but invisible and replaceable. But being the bad girl branded me for life.
Bad girls have dignity, too, I reminded myself before I spoke. So I pretended we were the only two people in the pub, I took a deep breath, cleared my throat and said these words:
“I’m sorry for what I put you through and for how it ended. You deserve so much better. You…you were really good to me. Thanks for taking time out of your celebration to talk to me. Oh, one last thing. I hope all your dreams come true.”
I’m not sure you comprehended me. You were two or three drinks in. Your shoulders were tight, your eyes were still clear like a freshwater lake. It was that transitional stage of the night when you took on a shine but were still aware of what was happening around you. How much you did or did not understand wasn’t the point.
Me making amends was the point. As a good girl does. Checking off each of the twelve steps at a time.
When I got home, I threw my clothes into the washing machine to keep the smoky, sudsy, peaty scents of the pub air tight and away from me. I laid one of my vinyl records onto the turntable, set my head on a pillow, and read Step #10. “Continue to take personal inventory.” Hoping it would help me figure out how I did this to myself.
It’s been a long time since then. Those damn steps are here in my head until I die.
Whoever and wherever you are now, I want you to know, that was one of the gutsiest things I ever had to do. I want you to know what it took to stand in front of you (and everyone else) and be happy for you when I’d cost myself everything. I ripped my chest open, let you see the shrapnel and didn’t leave until I admitted, this is all on me. I want you to know that even though I had a bumpy ride until I was on the other side of the chaos — the unrelenting mess I created — that I was down, but not out. The scrappy vestiges of pride inside of me kept my boots in motion, and I gathered speed that night.
I want you to know what it takes to be a good girl in a harsh world. A hell of a lot more than twelve steps.