I wonder: Is it really up to me? It may be my pride asking that question, but I really want to know. Did I, solely, precipitate the disintegration of the old working relationship with Julie? Then I think of the picture on my fender (the first time), and I wonder how I could ask these questions. Yes, I guess it is just my pride, wanting off the hook. Whenever I think of "It's all up to you," my blood surges, and I'm angry to have so readily agreed with Julie. She makes me weak--weaker--as if there were still some hope of changing her feelings, and I just have to be nice and agreeable--a doormat--to effect the change. Now my pride is slapping me around for it, demanding redemption. What it really wants is help. I'm just not progressing with Julie, and, frankly, I'm not sure what constitutes progress relative to her. What am I moving toward? Certainly not what I want. What do I want that I don't already know is impossible to get? I'm getting along better with everyone at work, except Julie. We exchanged one greeting this week, maybe two last week. How is this better? Will I always want more? And "more" right now is just conversation, a gentle gibe, even. Not much has improved. Here it is, exactly a year since Julie inspired me to start writing again (it seems like ten), and where am I? Have I gone full circle? or have I just not gotten anywhere at all? What's the difference? I could have kept this all to myself, continued scribbling and avoided humiliation, and lived with the caustic regret of "what if"; or, this, the continuous humiliation I suffer now. Yeah, yeah--I know it's my pride. How do I put that aside? I haven't recovered from the train wreck in September, and after the last talk with Julie, I'm even further from it. I think of how she was more prepared for my declaration than I'd thought and realized that she'd scripted a few things for herself. It's no wonder they--e.g., believing you only get to know someone from work or cohabitation--rang so false. Julie wore that same t-shirt today that she had at the train wreck--I hadn't seen it since, and the pain flooded back, with the false sentiments--"great guy," "I had a really nice time"--and I want to scream. Yes, it's my pride that wants to scream. You think I could not have any pride? I won't apologize for my pride; like the way I feel about Julie, it can't be helped, and thinking won't dissipate it. I'm just a man.
A year. Is that all I know after a year?--"I'm just a man"? I know I'm a passionate man, and that I'd been pretending otherwise for countless years before that. I know that passion is an open wound a screaming gash, an insatiable termagant; and I know that without its incessant infliction I wouldn't know I was alive. A year. A year, and it's still up to me. What's up to me?
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