I hear the music of the closing credits. It rolls through my head. An incredibly sad movie. Full of emotion and truth. Silence. I didn’t see it coming. That’s the beauty. The degree of heartbreak and wrongness, the fact that it just shouldn’t be. Yet, it is. I am grateful to see.
Remember Me. It makes me quiet. I haven’t cried like that in a theater for years. Completely captivated. Remember me. A good distraction. A cinematic revelation, a reel of lessons passing quickly on the screen. There are parts I still don’t understand. Like what happened to Caroline. Some things I may never understand…
Like why rescheduling tonight’s meeting was easy. Why I’m sitting in a movie theater and not a hospital. Why Seroquel in the morning allowed that to be. Why my mom is getting sick. Why my cousin thinks I’m evil. That one I actually do get.
My cousin hates me. That’s okay. I hated her first. If she took the time to understand why she might hate me less, but I doubt it. It doesn’t matter. Ann Wald hates me. But I don’t hate her. I wonder who else hates me. Like, really hates me. Cringes to think my name. You ever wonder?
Remember me. What do I want people to remember about me? What do I want to remember about myself? I want to remember that I love to dance more than anything in the world. And that I love hugs and singing and being in the spotlight. I want to remember that I get angry often and for a reason. And that even though no one else understands how important the reason, that doesn’t lessen the importance. I want to remember what it feels like to be respected at Tiffany’s and to soar on Dumbo, and to smile on Space Mountain. I want to remember what it’s like to feel pretty, that feeling of not wanting to look away from the mirror.
I want to remember me. Remember me crying, and screaming, and laughing out loud until I can’t breathe. Me. The me that writes winning presentations 10 minutes before, sends everything in late, and is willing to fight. For what’s right, however ridiculous. Me at USC and me in the ICU. It’s all me. I am the same person. I just encompass many bodies. Many personalities, many personas. Russell said last week we should do lunch because I’m not the same Michelle he used to know. Indeed. Quite different. But I’m still me. Trying to remember me.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010