Pt. 9 – Previous parts in the serie can be found here.
A weekly blog serie based on the character Mia – the rebellious one. A single twenty-something woman in search of many things – love not being one of them. Complicated is her middle name.
I find peace and quiet in my bedroom. It’s here I’ve cried the most, loved the least but hoped for a better tomorrow. My light blue colored walls offer a sense of serenity as they imitate a cloudless sky. In the private of my four walls, my sacred place, I’m at ease. Here is where I enjoy silence and solitude. On my nightstand lies a pile of notebooks, I’ve been meaning to fill with words but haven’t got the chance.
I notice the time on my phone, 10:43 am, it’s the only thing that lets me separate time and days. And in exactly 24 hours I start my night shift – three nights in a row to be exact. Working weekends now, prevented me from adding new mistakes on my endless list of regrets.
I’ve received two festive invites from Lisa (who is always ready to celebrate something). I had to decline and remind her (and myself) that I had to work. Her silent, as in no reply back told of her disappointment. But knowing her, she’ll find no problem finding a substitute party-partner-in-crime for the weekend. I lay my phone to rest. And deny myself to wake until it becomes impossible to sleep.
(Twelve minutes later)
I slept away Tuesday and Wednesday. I had nothing planned for today – Thursday, except lunch with mother. She asked if she could come over but made up an excuse of not being home and suggested being easy if we met at a restaurant for lunch instead. A white lie never hurt anyone. Honestly though, I didn’t want any visitor. Couldn’t be bother to have to clean. Put on a show. The judgement and constant questions; Are you OK? After one friggin breakdown the world seem to think you’ve completely lost it. Answering ‘yes’ will only stir her curiosity and open for more follow up questions, a ‘no’ will only alarm her to worry, dig and be too caring to a point it became weird. Fake, at times. So, a simple sentence; ‘Everything’s just fine, mother’ with a hint of a smile (not to big though). I’ve learned, ever since my meltdown, 9 months ago, that this was usually the trick to keep mother at ease and reassured.
I put on a purple top (to satisfy mother), a pair of black drawstring sweatpants and finish it off with my jacket. Mother hates sweatpants, so I’ll have to make an excuse to why I’ve chosen a less feminine outfit. And she’ll hound about why I’m never going to get a man dressing up like a boy forgetting the eighty percent of the time I don’t dress like the opposite sex. I mean, for all she knows, I could be a lesbian (I’m not).
I decide to a more natural look, aka no make up. This finishing touch will drive mother over the edge. A woman should present herself with her best side, she’s always said. You never know who’s looking. Today I’m pretty sure is just mother looking, so I’ll manage. I think.
My apartment’s anything but scrupulously tidy. I notice the untidiness around the living-room as I stride the few steps to the kitchen. I avoid a pile of clothes from last weekend after doing laundry. I hate folding clothes, so it usually takes a while before I get around to doing the work. At times, I found it easier to just scatter them all around as a reminder and picking out my clothes straight from the pile. Living alone had its upsides – one, worrying about the mess I make is not one of them.
Irene was the only person I ever felt comfortable sharing an apartment with. She got me. And since our crazy days of being 18 and naive, she’s the only one who’s ever managed to put some sense into me with no judgement and lecture. Past forward eight years, she’s on the verge onto adulthood with Martin, planing to tie the knot. As for me, I can’t say much has changed; except that I have more bills to pay and lost more than ever. Along with a label (PTSD) that no one knows about.
It’s 12:25. I notice a one missed call. It’s him – Nicholas. I remind myself that this cannot go any further and I’m to stay away from him. The divorce is just minor detail. There’s still hope they’ll get back together. Maddie’s words haunts me and surprisingly making sense. Then, who am I to stay in the way of hope.
On Wednesday night, from a foreign and distant land, on a romantic couple’s holiday, Irene manages to knock some sense into me through Skype. And perhaps, save me from digging myself deeper. But we’ll have to see, I’m not too sure.
I revealed my weekend. Told her everything. Every emotion. Every roller coaster ride. Even the awkward moment of meeting his wife. Her words to leave him alone felt like a bucket of icy cold water being poured over my head. Reality check.
“Let him sort out his marriage.” she said. “You don’t need this kind of messy business. No matter how gorgeous he is.” I agreed with her but it’s all easier said than done. I argued with the fact that him being my boss made it all difficult to just let him be. Beside, I fail at ending it and doing the right thing the last time we saw each other.
“Get your shit together, Mia.” Irene ordered. “Love you. We’ll talk more later. In the meantime, try harder to stay away from prince charming.”
‘No regrets’. It used to be my mantra until it became impossible to say it without sounding like a crazy person in complete denial. Still, when life challenged my beliefs on what’s right or wrong – ‘no regrets’ seem like an easier answer. Whilst fighting the mind or the heart. Not always sure. But I couldn’t help repeating the words – no regrets – in my head as I read the message from prince charming himself.