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Published by Matt Connolly
Dakota finds herself reflecting on her marriage and break up and her desire for revenge on those who wronged her.
Dakota finds herself reflecting on her marriage and break up and her desire for revenge on those who wronged her.

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Published by: Matt Connolly on Oct 13, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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A long time ago I heard a song that starts off: “My story is muchtoo sad to be told.” It’s been years since I heard it. Lately I findmyself silently singing that lugubrious refrain over and over again. I’mwondering why I’m continually doing this. Do I think it applies to me?Is my life a story that’s “too sad to be told?” You know, had I faced one tragedy after another and things werestill dismal; or, you know, even if they turned out good, it may be a sadstory but not so much as to prevent its telling. Lots of stories are likethat.Or supposed I lived on Easy Street every day sipping wine andsmelling the roses and then the bottom dropped out on me. That’salso sad, but not too sad to be told.If my story was one of not reaching my potential, like TerryMalloy’s in the movie On the Waterfront when he said to his brotherCharley, “I could have been a somebody,” it’d be a little sad butcertainly a story that could be told. All Terry was saying was that like alot of us, he could have been better than he turned out to be. Thinkingof it, that’s not even sad since it’s so commonplace.So why is it that my subconscious is telling me that my particularstory’s too sad to be told?I think it’s because lately, or probably for a while now, when Ilook into the mirror I see a jaded, bitter and implacable strangerlooking back at me who has decided to take up living with me. She’smorose and unsmiling. She brings an icy chill to my soul when I seeher. She casts a gloom over me, darkens my living space and myattitude to life. I don’t particularly like her. Actually, more and moreI’m getting to despise her. Perhaps I abhor her.
She wasn’t always like that. Not that long ago she exuded joiede vivre and flashed a brilliant smile whenever she appeared. I lovedher. I gleefully ran to see her each morning. I thrived in her company.But now it is hard to remember those days or believe that wasonce the case. That must be why I’m thinking what I’m thinking. Whatcould be sadder than to find yourself forever imprisoned with someoneyou hate with no chance of divorce? Is that why the song keepscoming up and whispering to me, “too sad to be told, too sad to betold” over and over again?What was it I once learned? Yes, that was it, we were taught tolove our neighbor as ourselves. Good advice, I suppose. But what arewe taught to do if we hate ourselves. Should we hate our neighbors?Maybe that’s why I’m tormented by those words from the song. Isometimes wonder if it’s too sad to be told perhaps it’s too sad to belived any longer.I’ve thought of getting professional help. What’s the use? I don’tbelieve that stuff works. No one I know has really been helped by it,not that any have real problems. Yet each continues her weekly treksto the shrink of her choice on an endless merry-go-round coming backto the same spot with every seven day turn. I’ve always thought thosevisits were nothing more than buying an hour of uncritical friendship,an hour in which one could hold a sympathetic ear into which to pourproblems or as the old spiritual would have it, “to lay my troublesdown.” You know I recently read a New York Times article. I think it wasin that paper. I’m not absolutely sure. Anyway the article was abouthigh priced professional women offering sexual delights who charged$250 plus an hour. These high priced prostitutes said that aroundtwenty percent of their customers did not want sex but just wanted totalk to a woman. They paid for only their ears.
Maybe having a sympathetic listener is worth the price. Youknow, if by telling one your troubles you’re better able to walk over thedepleted uranium cluster bomb strewed field of life, then maybe it’sworth it. Who am I, a person imprisoned with one I hate, to tell you notto do it. “Different strokes for different folks!”Even if a friendly ear which would lift my cares was available tome, I could not avail myself of it. Given what I’ve done and what I’vebeen through, I’d never trust another person with my secrets. There isno such thing as a secret, I believe, once it is told to another person. Iknow for absolute certainty there is no person who could keep mysecrets to herself. Yes, herself, because I would not even conceive of disclosing it to a man. She’d just have to tell it. If she had anycommon decency she’d have to shout it out. That’s just how I think. If you don’t agree, that’s fine, but youdon’t know my story. I’ll tell you this. You could never convince meotherwise that someone could keep my secret.Lately I’ve have occasional flashes of thought that that it may bebest to eliminate that horrid person in the mirror. I don’t think I’mquite at a critical point where I will. Although I’ve read when onereaches that point one usually doesn’t know it.I’m thinking that I may call it quits if I’m convinced that is theonly way out. Deep down I know I won’t because it’ll take a little morecourage than I now have. But I think if things keep like they are I cangin up my fortitude if need be. But I don’t have to decide that at thismoment. I have not totally given up on the idea that somewhere deepinside me that other person who used to sing to me, and dance mearound the room and cheer me up still lives and will come back.Maybe I’m fooling myself. I hope not.Listen! Did you hear me? I’m doing it again. I’m humming thewords of the song. I told you. It has become more and more frequent.

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