I grew up hard and fast.
Raised fists, wood wielded with apparent love, cigarettes and steel wool meant to dampen my spirit.
Chipped bones, bruised soul and skin, wounded heart and ankle.
Fucking asshole and are you stupid? imprinted my mind with questions of what was good enough and the answer wasn’t me.
I never wanted to get hard; to hurt before I was hurt.
I didn’t want to mistrust those who hadn’t earned it; to blindly follow those who had.
I just wanted to be happy and make everyone around me shine. They shone while my light flickered out.
“I’d rather see the world from another angle. We are everyday angels. Be careful with me cuz I’d like to stay that way” ~ Jewel
I forgot who I was.
Ice covered anything that could be scarred.
Rape, punches, untoward uncles and distant mothers couldn’t hurt me anymore because I’d already walked away from them, inside – they were never a factor in my universe, other than scenes in a bad after school movie that no one’s ever home from smoking weed early enough to see.
I went crazy, yeah, but that’s just a chemical reaction to my genealogy.
I had a baby that was never supposed to live to birth.
I’ve been skinnier than anyone though possible.
I’ve seen, heard, loved things breaking, including myself – broken was one of my middle names, for what seemed like it would be forever.
“Cuz there’s beauty in the breakdown.” ~ Imogen Heap
Last year, I almost died.
I was in complete denial of how close it could have been, but four transfusions in eight days is unwavering scientific proof.
I woke the fuck up, realizing that I was in that place, in the hospital, because of a course of actions that I had helped to put into play from the very first moment when something happened in that bathroom when I was four.
It’d shaped me, whatever it was, as did each successive blow to my body and Self.
I looked in the mirror, figuratively, and decided that the fake me I’d created, the multiple personas that fit whoever was around, whatever occasion called for them, needed to go.
They have.
I’ve become someone almost entirely different.
“Hold your own. Know your name. And go your own way.” ~ Jason Mraz
I’m not a perfect mom, and I think anyone who considers themselves near to one is extremely self-deceptive.
I am a good mother because I see the mistakes I make, the shortfalls and the things I forgot mattered and I try to change them. Every single day.
I’m not the perfect friend because I will never blindly support you and tell you you’re right.
I will tell you when you fuck up, and if your idea is stupid.
I will tell you how how to repair and change, and I will offer to help.
I’m never going to be the perfect girlfriend or wife because I am quite simply impossible to live with, but I will love taking care of you, until it is expected.
I’m not a wonderful sister, niece, daughter or granddaughter, because as far as I’m concerned, regardless of how much I might love you, I don’t have enough to give you and my life is simpler without more people in it.
I only have so much in this well, and I don’t want it to run dry in my lifetime.
I’m more selfish than I ever gave myself credit for, but in ways that I never considered; the ways I thought I was previously, weren’t really selfishness so much as humanity.
Most important to me is going forward with good intentions.
I apologize for falling off of the karmatic wagon, when I do.
My deepest drive is to never lose myself again.
“I’m lookin’ in the mirror and I like what I see: I’ve lost the fear & the horror that’s been eating at me.” ~ Bif Naked
The Me that I’ve gotten to know a tip-toe at a time in the past 16 months is awesome.
She has faults, but she accepts that she’s allowed them, just like every one else.
She’s not always in attendance because cancelling out the voices of the past is a lot harder than it looks to be on a white background in Lucida Grande font. But she tries to be.
She tries to forget the hiding places.
There’s no way I can repair the past.
Hating motherhood for the first nine months of it might be the most damaging thing so far in Isobel’s life.
Now, I can crawl into bed with her each night, pull the duvet up to her chin and kiss her cheek.
I can enable her in positive ways, allowing her to make decisions and to face consequences if they are the wrong ones.
My job is not to catch her from falling, so much as teach her how to land on her own feet when she inevitably does trip.
I will make loud mistakes.
I will sing off-key.
I will dance in a way that might embarrass you to witness.
It will be worth it to me to free myself.
I will go forward, every day changing a little.
I will constantly evolve and learn from the curb that I stumbled over the day before, while simultaneously bandaging my wounded toe.
I will get better, not because I think I should, because it’s the pursuit of life.
“I still only travel by foot and by foot, it’s a slow climb. But I’m good at being uncomfortable, so I can’t stop changing all the time.” ~ Fiona Apple
If I’m not crunching into the marrow of consciousness, I’m stuck with a side salad – sufficient, but low in essential protein.
Instead of worrying about what they might think, or she, or you, I will reach a new level of self-obsession.
If I can’t respect myself, I shouldn’t expect anyone else to.
If I can’t take care of me, how could I care for her, or an eventual potential him.
If I can’t look at my universe and think What a wonderful world, then there’s not much use for one.
If I can’t make myself laugh, or smile, or feel beautiful, seeking it from others will never be more than a bandaid.
My cheeks might hollow too much, my stomach round and my bed not be empty of the person it should be, but those aren’t symptoms, just decoration.
What you see is what you get.
What I speak may cut but it’s truth as I know it.
I’ll no longer shut up, and energy won’t be put toward what doesn’t deserve it.
No secrets; little shame.
Only the contents of the kitchen table. If there’s a card missing from it, it’s nonexistent.
