I saw into Parallel Time again.  Is it always available, or does it follow us?  Why has no one else seen it?

There, I am no longer a Hoffman.  No, I’m an actual Collins.  (By marriage?) I have wanted that last name for so long, but without it being attached to “Barnabas,” it doesn’t mean anything. In that other time, I have backbone, but I am also a cast-iron shrew.  I’ve been called worse in real life.  Is that why I’m not “Mrs. Barnabas Collins”? It gave me a lot to ponder.

My life has always been a fight.  Big, German family.  Always a fight.  Medical school?  A fight.  Serving during the war?  Two of them?  Fight, fight.  Dealing with the board at Windcliff?  The queen mother of all fights.  I fight illness.  I fight my own ignorance.  I fight a hell of a lot of fear.  It’s who I am.  I can’t turn it off, and I won’t, because it’s kept us alive. But I don’t think Barnabas is a fighter.  Poor Barnabas.  He is a poet forced into battle.  When he marches away from a successful scrap, I can see his chest puffed out.  I also see him collapse when he thinks no one is looking.  I see his hands shake.  I hear him scream from his nightmares while trapped in an oaken shell.  I wanted to love that.  I wanted to stop that.  I wanted to give him my irascibility and maybe steal some of his tenderness.  That would have been just about perfect. That’s not going to happen.  I hate that.  No, I hated that.  I have spent years thinking about what Barnabas needs, telling myself that it would somehow give me what I needed.

It won’t; it’s not their job; and I deserve something that will.  That’s worth fighting for.

I will always love the man, but I’m moving onward. That frightens me. Collinwood taught me about the limitlessness of two resources: love and possibility.  But I won’t find them there.

I hear that Seattle is quite lovely.



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