When I first got my heart broken, at nineteen, I was a crazy girl mess. How can someone love another person for years, then. . .just. . stop?

Two years later, a good friend, a house mate, a jovial fellow, killed himself totally without warning and I learned that there are worse things than a broken heart, and shortly after, I could risk giving my heart away again. And I forgave the original heartbreaker.

There was never a question of blaming or forgiving the suicide, by the way. Anger was never a part of that experience for me, although it was for others close to him.

I guess that makes True Love the lie, and Tragedy the grace.

True Love is taking care of your own ass first, then being strong enough to be kind to those who can't while you're with them.

True Love is being with someone who works on you no harder than they're willing to work on themselves.

Tragedy is what happens to all that shit you throw in front of these two things, thinking that you're really All That and living in a Hallmark card.

Hu? Sorry to piss you off or mess up your thread or something, but I assure you I was being sincere, and I like how it turned out. I'm standing by it. I still belive in love, and I accept the inevitability of tragedy without fear.

You're not pissing me off at all, Rainbaby. Didn't mess up this thread, either. I know you are being sincere. Totally. I just was reflecting on the words True Love in my own comment.

You're just fine, and your comments are welcome.

Thank goodness. I neither think I'm all that or living in a hallmark card. Which is what I thought you meant, but you were riffing, whew. I suppose love and tragedy are simply not capitalized in my life anymore. That's both sad and liberating.

What comes to mind as the biggest disappointment in mind right now is: When I was young, I was always told that I had Cherokee Indian blood, from my father's grandmother or great-grandmother. I was also told that my biological grandfather was killed in a drunken fight over a pistol. He wanted to take my father shooting (my dad was 5), and my grandmother didn't want him to. They tusseled over the gun, it went off, and my grandfather died.

Years and years go by. All those ancestry assignments in school? I always wrote: "English, Irish, American Indian, Scottish". Six years ago, I attended a surprise 80th birthday party for my grandmother. (By now, I've been estranged from that side of the family for years, but did keep in touch with her.) Imagine my surprise when I learned that we weren't Cherokee at all. My father's family were Black Irish, poor farmers, and when they heard the government was giving free land to persons of Cherokee descent (to make up for what they did to them, I suppose), they passed themselves off as Cherokee.
Oh, and my grandfather? He was standing twenty yards away from the car, leaning on a tree, and my grandmother shot him once, right in the eye, from a rifle. Apparantly, he was a no-good drunk, and she never spent a day in jail. Oh, and his father, my great-grandfather, had shot his own 16 year-old-daughter for having an affair with the town's minister. Yeah, great. I come from a line of murderers and liars. At least if I go off and kill anyone, I can claim it's genetic.
I really do miss the fact that I'm not Cherokee, though.

Biggest lie: We won't get fooled again.

Moment of Grace: Realizing that as long as I have something to look forward to -- even if it's years from now -- is what gives me the strength to move forward.

Biggest lie: You know, I was raised Baptist. My parents weren't hell'n'brimstone by any means, but they were very devout and tried to raise us to be, also. I was having serious doubts about the whole thing by the time I was 20, for a lot of reasons.

Then I saw a guy in a crosswalk get run over and killed in front of my eyes. He wasn't even jaywalking; the lady who hit him ran the red light. People rushed out and were talking to the guy as he lay there in the middle of the intersection (he flew about ten feet), while the woman who hit him stumbled out of her car and was screaming, shrieking, unable to move, it seemed. The guy died before an ambulance got there.

I didn't realize it right then, but that moment finally killed any belief I had that there's anyone "up there" looking out for us. This is why I feel so strongly that people HAVE to look out for one another. We're all we've got.

This is why I feel so strongly that people HAVE to look out for one another. We're all we've got.

Amen, BP. It also makes you realize that you've got to make this time count. The good stuff isn't waiting on the other side. It's here and now and it's our job to find it.

The biggest lie is that parents always love their children.

The biggest experience of grace in my life has been becoming a Jew and developing faith in God that brings me actual peace and comfort.

That the things that chupahija's stepfather said and did were harmless because he'd been emasculated by my grandmother.

In order from most disappointing to least:

Parents are infallible
Stepchild = child
Santa Claus
Easter Bunny
Tooth Fairy
Heaven
God

I coped the way you cope with anything - you grieve, then you accept and carry on.

Unexpected moment of grace: I was at the end of my rope financially and my aunt who I hadn't seen in a while was in town and took me out for dinner. I was going to ask her for money but felt too embarrassed as we aren't terribly close. When we said goodbye in the subway station, my aunt handed me a card and told me to open it when I got home. I opened it on the subway and inside it simply read "Because I've missed a few birthdays over the years." Inside was $200, the exact amount I was planning to ask her to borrow (but hadn't anyone, especially not her).

I cried the rest of the way home.

Biggest lie: Parent lying about the way someone very important died because I was too young to handle it. I found out the truth years later. On some level, I will probably never forgive that.