Assumptions and Epiphanies

With all the "things" there are to do—packing, getting rid of stuff, arranging shipping—it would be easy to neglect the important things: face time, farewells, people.

It would be easy, but I just can't do it. The important things are... well, they're important; nothing matters as much to me as people.

Because that's true for me, I'm having a hard time (again!) accepting that to some people, I am not among the people who matter. They matter to me; why don't I matter to them?

The problem is my assumptions. I assume that because some people don't talk to me (even when I make the first move!) or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me, they don't care about me; that I don't matter to them. And that assumption is unjustified.

I absolutely agree that actions speak louder than words. Where I think we (emphatically including me) go wrong is in misunderstanding what actions say. For example, when people don't talk to me or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me, I've taken that to mean that they don't care about me when what it really means is that they don't talk to me or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me.

All a person's actions tell me is how people act; it doesn't necessarily say anything about how people feel or what people think.

Am I hurt when people I care about don't talk to me or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me? I absolutely am. Should I be?

I don't know.

If I'm hurt because I've assumed something that may or may not be so, then no. If I'm hurt because I'm not getting something I want, then maybe.

What I tend to do (and shouldn't do) is judge their hearts by their actions. Actions are all I have to go on, but sometimes actions lie. There's always more to the story than those of us on the outside know.

When I started writing this morning, I thought I was going to write a scathing condemnation of those I love who say they love me, but don't have time for me. Funny how the act of writing has changed my mind.

Bottom line? I shouldn't judge motivations on the basis of actions (or inactions).

I'm Sorry

Yesterday I trod the boards of the Antelope Valley stage for the last time. Yesterday I said goodbye to a part of my life that has profoundly shaped me over the last 12 years.

Yesterday I cried.

It's not the first time I've cried on this journey. It's not the last time I'll cry, either. Tears seem as much a part of this journey as smiles are, though most people only see the smiles; I mostly cry alone.

Not because I'm ashamed to be seen crying or because I worry what people will think; I couldn't care less whether or not people see my crying or judge me for it. The things and people I'm crying over deserve every teardrop. It's just that right now, the moments when it hits me are solitary ones.

That'll change.

Today I said goodbye to the stage, which is important and worthy of tears. But too soon I'll say goodbye to the people I've met through the theatre—what I call my theatre family—and that's going to leave a mark. I think that the tears I cry over them will not be solitary ones.

I'm leaving people I love and who I think love me. We're all losing someone important to us. We've all got cause to grieve.

I do think, though, that in some ways it's easier for me. After all, while I'm losing people I love, it's because of a decision I made; it's the consequence of my choices. My family and theatre family and friends are losing someone they love, but they didn't do anything; this loss is being imposed on them. I, at least, inflicted my loss on myself; the catch is I'm also inflicting their loss on my loved ones. It's my doing.

I think that makes it harder for those I'm leaving than it is for me. I'm not saying it's not difficult for me—it is—I'm just saying that it's easier for me than it is for my friends and loved ones.

That realization sucked, by the way. To realize that this choice, which hurts me so much, may be hurting my friends and loved ones more...just sucked. And to realize that all of it—my pain and theirs—is my doing is just about enough to break my heart.

So let me say I'm sorry. I am sorry to inflict this on you.

I won't—I can't—take it back. I must and I want to move ahead. It feels right. It feels good.

But it hurts, too. It hurts me to be saying goodbye to you (and you know who you are), and it hurts me to know that my leaving hurts you more.

No wonder children throw tantrums when they can't have two (mutually exclusive) wishes at the same time. That's what I want. I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want to do what's best for me and do what makes you happiest. But I can't have both.

This pain is not going away any time soon.