Saga and my "I'm sorry"s

Some of you may have noticed something about me over time.

I apologize. Often.

I've also downcased my name before, calling myself 'melissa,' not 'Melissa.' And I get very particular about how you spell and capitalize my pen name: it's "'phfina" spelled: '-p-h-f-i-n-a. Not '-P-h-f-i-n-a nor P-h-i-n-a nor anything else I've seen.

It's "'phfina."

We'll get to the name in a bit.

So we'll tackle the "I'm sorry" part first.

Why do I say "I'm sorry" so often sometimes?

Well, obviously, I'm not the most politic and genteel girl out there. In fact, I'm rather pleased to be a direct person ... sometimes. And my directness can get me into trouble with you, can't it? Like when I'm being direct with you about what you just said to me?

And so I apologize. But what's that? Am I sorry for what I said? Am I sorry for what I meant?

No. I said what I said and I meant what I meant. Why? I think you are much bigger than you think you are. And I refuse to listen to your smallness toward yourself, toward others or toward me.

So I'm not sorry about that.

But can't I say what I say, and mean what I mean much more compassionately? And still see you in your greatness?

Yeah. I think I can.

You have to remember, I'm just a little girl. Just little 'phfina me, and I'm human, and I make mistakes, ...

AND I still stand by you in all your greatness. AND I still refuse to listen to smallness coming from you.

BUT-but-but.

But there's a lot of smallness and meanness in me, isn't there? Scaredness and shyness and bitterness.

What's up with that?

Well, um, I've turned a new leaf?

(Do you believe me?)

... and ...

And I'm a mistake.

When everything was happy and mom and dad were together, I said something to mom once, and she said, ...

... and God! I remember this like it's happening right now ...

she said, "Well, you know you were unexpected."

And I was like, huh?

You see, a lot of you think you're old enough to be my mom. A lot of you think you are my mom. And I do relate to older people better, I've noticed.

But you're not my mom. In fact, you're probably all younger than my sisters. My mom had skinny little bean-pole me in her forties, and I was a mistake, you see, because she had had her tubes tied years before, so, you know, it was okay for mom and dad to ... you know, and there wouldn't be any consequences from that, you see.

There wouldn't be any me, you see.

And in that moment, when mom told that little girl that ... that ... you know ... that I was unexpected, everything just ...

I felt everything shift, and now there was that whole big dangerous world out there that didn't want me and there was that little nothing girl that was me that shouldn't be there, that was taking up too much space on this already overpopulated planet and ...

... and that.

It must have been years later, when I learned what 'abortion' is and that it exists, I suddenly got another concern. So here I am, in high school, and I go up to mom, struggling to make it now that dad has left, and I asked here why she didn't decide to have an abortion with me, you know?

And she just ...

Well, she doesn't like to be a, you know, MOM so she just smiled her tight-lipped smile and shrugged.

You see, that's how our family talks. And you say I don't share myself. Ha.

And my mom and I are like, really close, you know? We're like best friends, but ...

But I don't want my mom to be my best friend, I want my mom to be my mom, you know? I want my mom to be my mom, and if I was a mistake then how can I even ask that of her when my very existence is just in the way and I'm taking up space and money that could, you know, make my mom's life better or easier or something, that I'm just taking up space and air and water on the planet that has at least one too many people on it already, you know?

You know what I say when I say I'm sorry. I just see me, hurting you, failing, at life, again. And I'm sorry for living.

I'm sorry for living.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Do you know what my prayer is, every night to God? It's Sappho's prayer to Aphrodite.

"Please. Take me. Tonight."

And you know what I just realized? You know why my prayer hasn't been answered and never will be?

Because God doesn't even want me. God doesn't make any mistakes, except one. Me.

"'phfina, when God made you, He broke the mold." I've been told admiringly and sarcastically by my all-Mensa family telling queer (meaning strange to them, but also meaning queer, you know? queer as in fucking dyke) little me.

And you know why? For good reason. That's why.

And my name. Now you know why I downcase it. You know.

Because I'm sh1t.

No. That's not right. I'm not even that. My dad had horses and that was used for fertilizer and composting. I don't even rate that.

I'm nothing.

I mean: a les who can't have or keep a gf, and Dad left me when I was a kid, and I'm a nut case who wound up in the hospital, now writing fan-fiction and serving coffee off her college degree in ancient Greek Lit?

I'm not nothing. I'm less than nothing.

Right? You know all this.

And then.

And then I apologized four times in one PM to Saga before we were 'anything' and she so called me out on that. She was furious with me. Furious. And then she called me out on signing my PMs 'melissa,' and asked me why.

And then I told her.

Do you think she was happy with my answer? She chided me there, much more gently, but then she got me to start signing my PMs with 'Melissa,' even though that's (still) hard for me to do.

And then I wrote the update soon post, knowing that Saga wasn't out to her own mom, even though the post wasn't aimed at her (specifically) at all. And the 'Let me be very direct with you' PM I got from her ...

Do you know what came out of that?

What came out of that, is that, after that all blew over, she told me she loves me.

And I got that PM, and I was like.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no, not Saga. Please, why do I have to hurt another nice, smart sweet girl.

And then I sighed in defeat, and I told her I love her.

Because I do.

And do you know what came out of that?

I can now tell you I love you. And I can now tell you that, and I can now love you, too. Freely. Openly. Lovingly.

I can love you. All this withholding I've been doing, has it made me happy? Has it made you happy? No.

And when I tell you I love you, doesn't that ... well, doesn't that do something for you?

It does for me. It tells me I am something that can love, and be loved in return.

That I can give love and receive it, ... that I don't have to resist it or fight it or withdraw from it or withhold it.

That I can simply love and be loved.

Some of you don't like Saga, for whatever reason you choose, but you know how I always call you on your shit? Saga has done that to me and for me, and has done that in such a way as for me to look at myself as a better person than I see myself AND has allowed me to love, not just her, but you.

And you've helped me, too, you know? You are not Saga, but you are. When you stand for the person I can be, that affects me and that affects you. When you do something amazing, like tell a girl you love her, just tell her, or you take on taking on yourself, daring to look in the mirror and see what you did, the bad stuff and the good stuff, and take on cleaning up your messes and celebrating your successes, and you PM me to let me know about the new leaf, the new page in your book ...?

Don't you see how everything you say and everything you don't say so deeply affects me? I hear your silences so loudly, it's deafening. Just as mine are, and, heh, I'm sorry. And I hear your smallness that it drowns out anything else you are trying to say. And then your victories? You can barely write them, you are so excited, right? But I feel them through your PM as if I'm right there with you.

Because I am. I'm right here, with you.

Do you know what my "I'm sorry"s are? They are my reasons not to exist. I don't deserve existence, and apparently I'm not good enough for death.

I'm just not good enough.

Do you know what I've found by writing my silly little fan-fiction stories? I've found you.

And in finding you, I'm starting to find myself, again, for the first time in my life.

Do you know what the opposite of "I'm sorry" is? I just realized this now, too, as I write.

The opposite of "I'm sorry" is "thank you."

Thank you.