Moving forward

      The computer is dead. I spent all weekend working on, even buying a new hard drive, thinking that might be the problem. No go. I got it to boot and even reinstall the operating system, but the errors, shutdowns and blue screens multiplied unrelentingly despite everything I did.
      Last night at 1:30 a.m., I sat back in my chair and realized that I couldn't fix the computer. Somewhere in its silicon innards something has broken. Perhaps the motherboard has decided to give up parenting electronic impulses. Maybe the computer chip itself is gone. I've replaced everything I know how to replace and then wandered into places where I had to tread lightly because I had no idea what I was doing. Basically it's broke, and I can't fix it so it's time to move on to whatever computer is next.
      That might sound ludicrous to phrase it in such dramatic language. After all, it's not like the computer is a person, but strangely enough, it is a relationship. I've spent more time with it than with anything else. It's seen me through numerous poems, five plays, four books, my first NaNoWriMo, several hundred blog entries, thousands of emails and a lot of goofing around. Like most geeks, I've grown attached to it. It's not quite an electronic friend, but maybe it comes closer to that than I'm willing to recognize.
      But it's gone, and I have to let it go and move on. I'm not good at letting go of anything. I have this pack rat tendency, this little voice that says maybe someday I will desperately need that piece of paper or that broken gadget. Accordingly, I have parts of every computer I've ever owned somewhere in my house. I've been working on getting ridding my life of debris -- electronic and otherwise -- but I have a long way to go. I do recognize there has to be point where you say, That's broken. I can't fix it. Time to let go. Time to move on.
      Of course, I'm not just talking about gadgets now. I'm talking about relationships that have gone bad. That don't fulfill your needs. That are keeping you mired in pain, lost in sorrow and defeated in depression. Somewhere in there, you have to have the courage to say, This is broken. I can't fix it. Time to let go. Time to move on.
      Otherwise, you will stay trapped for the rest of your life. I know people like that. They stay in an ugly place, their past controlling their present and crippling their future. A friend of mine, divorced for seven years now, can't let go of her hatred for her ex. She watches him from afar, makes vicious remarks about his new wife and their baby, resents any happiness in his life. She'd be happier if he were dead, but maybe not. Maybe she'd still cling to her pain. For some people, their pain is what defines them.
      When I was younger, I used to think that was noble. "Pain is good because it lets us know we're alive." Now I see that pain is only an indication that something is wrong and you're supposed to fix it if you can, even if means cutting free of the thing that harms you. There is nothing noble in choosing pain and sorrow.
      Naturally I'm not saying you should cut and run at the first sign of trouble. You're supposed to get in there and fight. Put your best foot forward. Accommodate as much as you can while retaining your self-worth. Bend. Have faith. Give it everything you have and then some. If you do and it still breaks ... Well, you take what you're learned and earned and you move forward.
      Anyway, that's what I'm going to do now. Move forward. A new computer is out there just waiting for me to muck it up. Time to get to it.