67

 

Every year the creeping starts up slow.

Not the kind that will eventually shock you and pop up around a corner, but the kind that looms loudly from a distance that you can not help but notice. Like taxes. Like the inevitable last gust of winter blowing through the Bible Belt after we’ve packed away our Sunday sweaters and the grocery bag of mismatched mittens and neon polyester hats we’ve been collecting for generations for that maybe someday snow.

You wanted to love birthdays. You wanted them to be the days where everyone looked at you and loved you exactly the way you felt entitled. You wanted someone to remember your favorite kind of cake and pour adoration over your head  like Mary and her perfume on Jesus’s feet.

But you didn’t ask for that. You asked for a clean house and obedient children. You asked as though we usually spent our days plotting how to ruin yours. 

You said you didn’t want gifts, but they were expected. That year I cleaned the house top to bottom because I couldn’t afford a gift was maybe the worst. I gave you exactly what you said you wanted and your face fell when there was no package to unwrap.

You wanted to love birthdays but by dusk we were all well aware how much you truly hated them. We wondered if you hated us. I don’t wonder anymore.

So every year the irises bloom and the day comes and I am sad and I am angry. 

I’m sad that the people who should have loved and protected you failed. 

I’m angry that you never chose to heal from it so that you could love and protect us. 

I’m sad that you are so fragmented by your pain. 

I’m angry that at least some part of you knows that and you choose not to acknowledge it. 

I’m sad that a string of choices made by a child set in motion decades of trauma for seven people (and their partners and their children).

I’m angry that over 67 years that child never grew up despite having so many opportunities.

I’m sad that one of those opportunities had to be the day I told you I needed you to finally do the thing or you couldn’t be in my life or my children’s.

I’m mad that you didn’t take that one. I’m mad you haven’t taken any of them from any of your children (or grandchildren).

I wish it was just a day. I sometimes wish it wasn’t a day at all. 

But the irises by the mailbox still grow. Irises mean compassion. They mean optimism for the future. They mean wisdom and change.

So I’ll be sad and I’ll remember that you were a little girl with a crap dad and a distracted mother born into a terrible system of subjugation and backwards thinking. And I’ll be mad and think about lavender and ask my siblings if I imagined you loving that scent back then to try and pinpoint why a gifted scented lotion could make a mother so mad at her own child. 

I’ll let the wave of grief wash over me and all the colors of its bruising fade a little more. 

I’ll talk about Adorable with my daughter and tell her she’s got a Sunshine Smile. 

I’ll drench my words in gentleness while I tell my son that that word is one we don’t ever use no matter what because it only serves to hurt people and no it doesn’t matter what context it’s in. 

I’ll listen to his brother chatter happily about all the different possible ways he could feel loved on his birthday next month. 

I’ll make the littlest whatever the hell he wants for lunch.

I’ll look at them all and know that they know how deeply I love them and how interesting and wonderful I think they are. I’ll breathe easy knowing that they know a healing version of me, that they’re acquainted with the sound of a genuine apology from their imperfect mother, that they aren’t afraid to make mistakes around me, that they are comfortable being their entire selves. 

And probably some day there will be another day on the calendar that will make me sad and angry because you never did take those opportunities.

But my kids won’t feel the way I feel in March when each June comes around. Not if I can help it.

20 Minutes of Guided Meditation

There is a heavy emptiness around my skin.

It is the weight of falling asleep in front of a tv around 12:34am at 6 years old. 

It is the burden of telling no one in the moments after waking up in a strange parking lot in disheveled clothing with an empty condom wrapper staring at me from the floorboard. 

It is the gravity of climbing in bed with an “It’s fine, I’m fine” another night after finding that the person I belonged to was still searching for someone to belong to.

It is pounds and pounds of all of those moments teaching me the lies that I am not worthy of being taken care of, being believed, being protected, holding space for, being faithful for, being valued or cherished.

It is why I devoured crumbs of affection as though they were five course meals. It is why I stayed too long, put up with his tolerance in exchange for my love and devotion. It is why I overthink every compliment, every declaration of friendship, every other’s attempt at relationship. I floated in waters of false belief for 30 years and have still not wrung out the droplets that soaked into my bones and my lungs.

It’s why I stay busy, always doing, always seeking more to do so I don’t have to sit and feel it bubble up to my brain and wake that voice that still lives there. That “nobody wants you” voice, that “nobody every did” voice. Because people take care of things they wanted. Because I take care of the people I want. The thought of my child not being put to bed with love breaks my heart. The thought of someone I care for hurting in silence destroys me. The thought of my person feeling discarded by me feels like freezer burn in my veins. So wouldn’t it do the same to them? Wouldn’t they have acted differently if they ever wanted me?

I hate those questions. I hate that I still care about the answers and that most of the answers are just “Does it matter? It still happened.” Or maybe even worse… “They just weren’t the ones who wanted you.”

I’m not even angry. Just still so damn sad. It’s futile but I want to know who I would have been. I want to know the version of me that didn’t have to swim upstream alone being beaten back my currents and stray boat paddles. I hate the idea that the hurt made me kind or intentional or any of the things that I am. I was already those things. Every story of memories I don’t have access to anymore is about how sunny and friendly and helpful and affectionate I was. Looking at pictures you can see it. 

It hurts seeing how positively bright and happy I looked knowing how that little girl hurt every damn day. How fucking lonely I was all of the time. Nobody keeps sad pictures I guess, but I know how I mask and how I’ll play that part no matter what’s going on while people are looking.

When I sit still and there’s no one here holding me it’s like the entirety of my being is reaching out for someone else’s arms to swallow me up and make that weight around me melt away. I play the music and I write the poems and I watch the movies or drink the whiskey to try and quiet my begging body from feeling the pounds and pounds and pounds.

I’m so incredibly tired of being squashed by it.

The Poem

I think maybe the stars wrote you like a poem

Not the kind that rhymes and has some rigid scheme and is all flowery sentiments

The kind that keeps the reader alive

The kind that turns one way and then the next with those perfect imperfections that fold right around your soul

The kind that makes the reader wish to be covered in the words and completely consumed

I think maybe the stars wrote a messy, twisted, beautiful poem and have been waiting for 32 and a half years for the exact right moment to plop it in front of me

It’s the most thought provoking, hope inspiring, calm inducing, faith restoring, courage building, lovely poem I have ever laid my eyes on

This poem understands pain and deep joy like two sides of the same coin

This poem is comfortable with madness 

This poem holds up a mirror and tells you the truth your eyes haven’t translated yet

This poem wraps you up like it doesn’t want to let you go and yet… it still does when the time comes, without any anxious fear that you won’t return

Of course you’ll return

That poem is THE POEM

Nobody finds THE POEM and just reads the next one like it’s nothing

That poem gets folded in your pocket and plastered on the walls of your heart and recited to anyone who will listen and some who would rather not

I think the stars wrote you like a poem and hand delivered you to me the last Monday of December all unassuming and nonchalant like it wasn’t the gift I’d been longing for my entire life.

Lakshmi

The care taken to specifically include rolls in her belly.

They were important. They contained the potential of the universe, her ability to feel and fulfill her desires. Yes, they signified fertility and wealth, but also contentment and possibility.

How many times was it my job to edit a client’s photo and smooth out the potential? How many poses did we invent to hide fulfilled desire? How many restrictive, painful garments did I clean for the next girl to walk in and conceal the sacred?

How often have I held them in my hands and wished it was as simple as snipping them off with scissors so I would fit a mold that mocked what used to be held as divine? How many good things, necessary things, did I deny myself in hopes of staving off their appearance? How many “one more mile”s did I run in fear of the once celebrated?

And for what? So I fit in some bullshit dress that still makes me feel like I’m not good enough? So some man, who would never be satisfied with the all of me that I gave, could glide over me unhindered? So other women would ask me how I appeared to have no need, no desire? So I would match the equally burdened on a screen or a magazine - because maybe if I do then someone will see me and want to listen?

I’m trying so fucking hard to reprogram my dumb little lizard brain that tells me all that work was for something worthwhile. I’m tired of believing that in order to earn the right to take up space in this world that I have to shrink myself, define every curve to hellish “perfection”. I hate that when someone I love touches those parts of me I immediately feel shame and guilt and embarrassment. I’m so tired of feeling like not enough and entirely too much.

He called me soft… he meant welcoming, comfortable, something he desired. 

They took such care. They exerted additional effort. They intentionally placed those folds to be worshipped, to be celebrated, to be admired and duplicated. And these pieces were preserved for thousands of years…

I’m never not going to cry when I think about that.

Everywhere, Nowhere

Was it dark

Were you scared

Or just relieved

Were you prepared

Or was it quick

In the bathroom light

Did you quake

Or softly sigh

I know I shouldn’t dwell on the whats, the wheres, the whys

Sort the lulls and the jags between the you and I

Shouldn’t grasp into the ether for a sign

But now you’re everywhere and nowhere all the time

Did it ever stop

The way you pined

Or did some one mean it

When they named you “Mine”

Your bone deep ache

Did it slip away

Was it still clinging on

Sister, did you pray

I know I shouldn’t dwell on the whats, the wheres, the whys

Sort the lulls and the jags between the you and I

Shouldn’t grasp into the ether for a sign

But now you’re everywhere and nowhere all the time

I hope there’s music

I hope there’s peace

I hope your pillow’s soft

And the water’s sweet

Can’t help but grasp into the ether for a sign

That you found rest in your nowhere all the time

On The Way Down

Show me what’s it  like to have ever known yourself as a blank slate

How’s it feel to see reflections you don’t immediately hate

What does life taste like without something bitter on your tongue

Can you paint for me the warmth of feeling safe when you were young

All I’ve ever known is making room

Hanging posters on the walls of a tomb

And if we’re talking about falling

We’re talking about falling

Maybe this time I’ll enjoy the view

On the way down

Why am I not second guessing every charming word you say

Is it alright you became my favorite interruption of the day

Am I even allowed to be happy and still make my little rhymes

Can I play it in a minor key, is that too confusing

All I’ve ever known is making room

Hanging posters on the walls of a tomb

And if we’re talking about falling

We’re talking about falling

I guess this time I’ll enjoy the view

On the way down

It’s a dizzy decline

We’re already intertwined 

Though we barely intersected 

This chaotic climb

Muses laughing in the night

Winking at ours sparse perspective

All I’ve ever known is making room

Hanging posters on the walls of a tomb

And if we’re talking about falling

We’re talking about falling

I guess this time I’ll enjoy the view

On the way down

——

Excitement. Peace. Joy. Comfort.

Earth shaking fear.

I am terrified that I’m opening a wound and just in shock. I’m scared that I’m doing the thing again and clinging to a possibility that is only going to break my heart.

But I want to enjoy this. I want to enjoy you. I haven’t felt this peaceful in so long. I haven’t felt this cherished maybe ever. I don’t feel like you’re just after some kind of ownership or some future where I fold my life around yours and lose who I am. I think you might actually quite enjoy who I am. I think maybe you’re treating me so well because you actually think I’m the bright shiny thing. I think maybe I bring you the same peace and joy and inspiration to you that you’re bringing me.

I’m having to force myself to not fall full force into some great big Hope. I don’t want to be careful, I wanna crash into this and snowball it and watch it grow. But that’s not the move right now- we’ll both hurt a lot if we’re not intentional in the enjoying right now part and get all ahead of ourselves.

I don’t think you’re making me a placeholder. I think you’re reading the whole book knowing you may have to set it down. I think I’m ok with that, because I’m doing the same. 

It’s a good story, and if I only get to read it once I just hope the epilogue is as lovely as the prologue.

Emergency Contact

Why are you lying awake tonight

He said the list is long and you know most of it

Vacillating between the flight and the fight

The right or wrong, these crimes that I’d commit

Are we angry or are we sad

Is it mom this time or dear old dad

Paige said it’s growth

To know it’s both

I’ve gotta sit with that

I’ve gotta sit with that

You don’t have 

An emergency contact 

In your phone

There’s no guarantee

The house matching your key

Feels like home

I think I could be both

I think I could be both

Who’s the weepy song about this week

I said I think this time its just a fantasy

Another candy coated agony

The first few rhymes of Romeo were comedy

Am I ok or am I numb

Am I free from longing’s thumb

Sarah said it’s fine

To straddle that line

I’ve gotta see who I become

I’ve gotta see who I become

I don’t have 

An emergency contact 

In my phone

There’s no guarantee

The house matching my key

Feels like home

I think you could be both

I think you could be both

Are we broken or just bent

Are we wasting all this time we’ve spent

No one says a word

All these lines are blurred

There’s no malcontent 

There’s no malcontent

I don’t have 

An emergency contact 

In my phone

There’s no guarantee

The house matching your key

Feels like home

Maybe we could be both

Maybe we could be both

Why am I lying awake tonight

The list is long and you know most of it