The dance of the porcupines

This was never going to end any other way

Dear Writer,

I’ve always done this thing with my writing, something that for most of my books, I didn’t even realize I was doing.

I was emotionally processing.

Four of my first eight books featured wild mothers who were vibrant and independent and chasing their own happiness, to hell with anyone else. I didn’t realize until way after they were all published that I was writing about the person I wished my mother could be, someone whose happiness was in her own hands, and who didn’t make her disappointments everyone else’s fault.

One of my later books was about a sociopath who magically had his empathy returned back to him by my heroine. At the time of the writing I was married to a man who exhibited behaviors consistent with sociopathy. I had no conscious idea when I wrote that book that I was writing about an experience I knew intimately.

When I write, I process; sometimes consciously, sometimes not, but always processing.

There have been four failed central relationships in my life that have been toxic to me. Out of those central failed relationships, only one was romantic; the others were family.

Two birth family; one chosen.

But all of them lost.

The people who were dangerous and cruel and who hurt me because it was fun… I’ve let them go. Those relationships were patently abusive, completely cruel, very clear.

But that last failed relationship, the chosen one… that’s the one that I can’t let go of.

It was with someone who loved me genuinely, and only wanted what was best for me. Someone who I loved in return, and wanted with all my heart to be good for her. That relationship was basically two porcupines trying to hug each other, and that’s the one that stays with me.

That’s the one I struggle to release.

That’s the one I wrote this book about.

During the writing of this book, I realized that I grew her brand of porcupine quills, and grafted them into my own skin. It was as though I was cosplaying her, but only the sharp parts. There was one night during the deep writing when I was talking to my husband and I said something really harsh—not lashing at him, but lashing at myself.

He said, “Whose voice was that? That didn’t even sound like you.”

I stopped loading the dishwasher and thought for a moment. I spent a lot of years carrying that voice in my head, trying to live up to its impossibly high expectations, and it felt so natural to me that it took me a minute to realize it wasn’t me.

“Oh , shit,” I said. “That was her.”

When she and I found each other, we connected so well. We were more than best friends; we were family. We were sisters. And it was very, very good…

…until it was horrid.

There are a lot of circumstances surrounding the end of our relationship, but mostly, I think it just came down to both of us having aggressive pain manifesting, in this metaphor, as very sharp porcupine quills.

Her porcupine quills never cut me as deeply as they cut her, but they cut me. I said nothing about the cuts—they were little, and I knew she didn’t mean to hurt me—but after enough of them, I reacted with a loud, shrill scream, and my quills sprouted out, slicing into her with my own anger and hurt. I had so much pain in my life at that time that I couldn’t help it. This whole dance was, I believe, overwhelming for her; she had her own pain, after all, and she just couldn’t carry mine as well.

Finally, the dance happened for the last time. Either she was too mean, or I was too sensitive, or maybe a little of both, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

It was just… over.

She has been great with that. I’ve reached out to her a number of times, trying to find a place where we can reconnect, and although she’s been cordial, and has expressed that she still loves me, she’s maintained the distance between us.

That door is shut, and she’s right to keep it shut. If it was up to me, I would try over and over again to get back at least some of what we had.

She knows better, and she’s right.

But man, I miss her. My heart misses her so much that I would keep us both in constant pain just to have those moments back when she made me laugh so hard that people would stop us in public to tell me how wonderful my laugh was, and she would jokingly complain that she was the one who was funny, why was I getting all the attention?

I would give anything to sit in her living room again, talking about how fun our friendship is, and how grateful we both are to have it.

I would give anything to be there when she’s sick, to drive up to her house and have her run out to hug me, just one… more… time.

But the anything I would give is both of our pain, and she’s not willing to do that.

She’s right.

I wrote this book about two sisters; one who needs to be released, and the other who just won’t let go.

It’s a funny, heartbreaking book.

It’s a goodbye book.

Because she’s right.

She’s right, she’s right.

She’s right.

Everything,

L