Monster Me

I prayed so many times, so many days, and so many nights, that we could work things out. That somehow we would stay together. In vain, hope was held. Hope that my prayers would be answered. Hope that with enough work this thing could somehow work out. Hope that with enough communication my marriage, my family, my world, could be saved. There was just one thing I was unaware of. My wife was an artist, such a talented artist. She was a painter among painters. Her mind was her canvas, and I was her subject. With each mistake I made, each angry word, came a stroke of her brush. What I said and what she heard was rarely the same thing. With each misunderstood word, came another stroke of her brush. Over half of a lifetime she worked on her masterpiece, unknown to me. I caught a glimpse of her work from time to time. At the unveiling I got my first good look at what she had painted me to be in her minds eye. Her interpretation of me, a horrible hideous monster. An image that she carried in her mind for year, adding to it with my every mistake, until it became so repulsive that no one could love this horrifying monster. Mistakes, yes, there were mistakes, and angry words, and misunderstandings. The human factor comes into play with all of it's imperfections. But, a monster, me, a monster? I look into the mirror and see no monster. I see mistakes, but no monster. The pain of losing all is so great, but so magnified is it in knowing that in the eyes' of the one I love most, I am some kind of ghastly appalling monster. I know in my heart that I am a good person worthy of her love, but none of that matters as long as her interpretation of me is as it now stand, "Monster Me". Written October 9th, 2001 © on Oct 09 2001 03:14 AM PST   0 • 1