Jean-Paul comes and goes. I suppose I should be thankful he shows up at all. I have to take him as he comes—when he chooses to come, that is.
I've never been very good at accepting things as they are. I learned to live aggressively on the street. Adapt—yes. Roll over? Never. Scrapping is as much a part of me as my beating heart. I push back; I hold tight; I stand firm. Any other way feels like defeat.
Jean-Paul is really testing my limits. I can't rest if he's out there on the street. No matter what else is occupying my mind at the moment, somewhere inside, I'm clenching a fist. I can't let go that I can't control what he does.
Hey, I can accept some things. Like, that it takes me an hour by car from the center of town to Montmartre, even though it should be a ten-minute ride. Or, that if I want to be around a while, I may have to start thinking about cutting down on my smokes. But don't stand there and tell me I have to accept Jean-Paul hanging around the Pigalle doing who knows what with who knows who—except, I do know what; I can fill in the blanks with my past.
Henri says if I could learn to accept events and people as they are, I'd find peace. But first, according to him, I have to accept myself. I'm not sure what he means. I'm not at odds with myself. I have no regrets about my past. I'm content. Most of the time. Isn't that the same?
Does it trouble me that my mother was murdered by a john? Sure. Do I wish I could have saved her? Yeah, but I was just a babe hiding in the next room, scared and confused. I couldn't have done anything to change it, could I have? I don't really think there was something I could have done, right? Right?
Or maybe I do. Maybe that fist inside is shaking at me. Maybe that's why acceptance is so hard.
