Falling Slowly

It's been a while. Sorry guys.

Idina's Point of View

    My feet hit the pavement one after the other in a semi even rhythm. Today's rehearsal was long, tense. I could feel the relief from some of my cast mates, James, LaChanze, Anthony. I felt bad for having worried them, but I couldn't come back. My baby was here. I'd lost her here. Nothing had ever been confirmed, but I knew in my heart it was a baby girl. For her sake I guess it's good she's in heaven rather than growing inside of me. Had she been able to grow up, she'd have ended up just as screwed up as I am. My speed increases with the intensity of emotions: the loss of my baby, resentment towards both myself and my mother. Shaming me for the same mental illness she'd struggled with. Forcing me to take medication while refusing to acknowledge her own....issues. Tears flood my eyes and I wipe them away, running faster and faster as if to escape the demons inside my mind. No. My little girls wouldn't have had to deal with that. She'd carry a genetic predisposition for mental illness, but I'd learn from my mother's mistakes. I round the corner of my apartment building at a dead sprint. I can't stop now. Another loop to clear my head. And harden my heart while I'm at it. James would hate it. I came back to rehearsal too thin for his liking, much like coming home on college breaks. The lectures, the yelling, the disappointment. My GPA isn't high enough, I'm too thin, I need to take my medicine on a regular basis....on the outside we model a perfectly normal, happy family. Little could be farther from the truth. For years I wondered where the line was drawn between "love" and verbal and emotional abuse. In time I realized it doesn't matter where the line lies, or watch classification the hurt falls under. A different title doesn't make it hurt any less.
    By the time I get back to my apartment, I'm winded and sweaty, but the tears are finally gone. I let myself in the back door and climb the four flights of stairs to where I live. I unlock the door and almost step on an envelop slipped under the door when I was gone. I pick it up and see my name in James' handwriting. A frustrated sigh escapes my lips as I wrestle with opening it. I carry it with me to the kitchen, setting it on the counter as I go about making tea. As I let it steep, I open the letter. Pages upon pages of handwritten notes, dated every day from when he showed up at the strip club until the day I returned to rehearsal. Ten long letter. I can see his emotion in his handwriting. The first few are angry, scrawled and heavy. One letter about halfway through has marks of smeared ink. He shouldn't have wasted his tears on me. The letter is repetitive, attempting to stay on any sort of other topic but always returning to an apology. I can't read any more. I set the letters down and return to the tea, taking it to the other room and leaving the letters behind. Apologies never last anymore; I'd be wise to accept them but still move on. Forgive but not forget. No sense in letting the same person hurt you more than once. However, the heart is not so easily persuaded.