Hidden Identities and Misplaced Selves

In January, to my dismay, sleep was no more available than the months before. I tossed and turned in my bed, which had become an island of twisted blankets and my own despair. I do not believe in drinking, or sleeping pills nor the variety of ailments used as excuses for such indulgences. I believe in facing life head on and waiting out the storm. If we drugged ourselves every time our feelings went awry none of us would remain in our own minds much past the age of fourteen.

My own lack of sleep seemed to give Constance power. She observed my weakness and tortured me endlessly with her ever growing lists of accusations and expectations. I grew wearier with each new day and more resolved to conquer her as night began to fall.

I was sick to death of her when I found myself speaking aloud to her one night. "What are you doing here?" I demanded in no uncertain terms. Silence. "Answer me! What are you doing here?" Still nothing.

I had had it. I couldn't go on with her and me living like an us. I needed to be separate. I realized the internal conflict of black and white and gray, hard and sharp and curved, cruelty and compassion were all a web within myself. I got out of bed and flipped on the light. Gathering my courage, I crossed the room and confronted my enemy. "Why can you not let me rest?" Nothing. She stared at me, her eyes accusing and confused at once. The face I have seen no less than a million times. The face I have lived with my entire life boldly took the sight of me in as easily as I swallow my morning coffee. "My God. What is it you want from me. I can't measure up. I am a ball of rights and wrongs. Loves and hates. Successes and failures."

Tears ran down her face, unchecked. I didn't see her hard lines anymore. I saw her curves, her vulnerability, her hope to be forgiven. I saw she wasn't black and white at all. She didn't seem to have any severe edges to hide behind in this place. "What are you doing here?" I whispered. Suddenly I saw what has always been. The woman staring back at me, the only constant I have ever known, is just me. I am Constance and this is my story.

The End

(This post was written for The Tenth Daughter of Memory and is the final installment in a series of five. The Muse is "A Misplaced Identity". The story of Constance is entirely fiction and began with the post titled The Ones Who Hold Us, in case you missed the previous installments.)