Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, February 19, 2015
She fell
She watched as it all fell away from her. Her life. Her loves. Her feelings. Her hopes. Hope was a bane to her existence. Her friends said she wasn't the same. She wasn't. Her dad was sick and her mother was lonely and she felt like no matter how hard she tried, she could never ever possibly be enough. Her husband and daughter looked upon her with shame and embarrassment. She folded into herself more and more. It was the only place that was safe. Away from shame. And yet she felt an oppressive sense of guilt over her withdrawal. She felt that she was only failing more and that continuing to fail was the only option for her survival. And the only thing she was good at was failing. She fell and she watched herself closing up. And she eventually disappeared.
She saw the death of love and people
She was just looking for some peace in another long day of turmoil, rejection and frustration. She lived in a house where the walls were made of disappointment and the air in the house was heavy with disdain. She wanted some space from it all. The house was starting to feel like the holding cell that they keep you in before they take you to the asylum. She decided she would run. That would help to get her out into the world and into nature, there was a community bookshelf on the route that would make her insanely happy and she could channel some of her anxious energy.
He insisted he would go. She protested. Running was a solo activity... kind of like life, she supposed. But she acquiesced because she really wanted things to be good and they got in the car. They didn't make it three blocks until he wanted to know which way they were going, which seemed fair. Straight and then left, she replied. And then which way were they going, he asked. Park on St Lawrence, she replied. He asked what was wrong with her. Why was she irritated. He was asking which way they were going to walk. She told him that she didn't know. She thought it was another question about general direction since there hadn't been any mention of the context of the question changing. Arguing ensued. Loud voices. Hurtful, hateful words. He turned the car around and he put in his earphones so he could shut her out. He slammed on the brakes in the car on an empty road while going 40 miles an hour. She was thrown forward and afraid. She asked to be let out of the car and he yelled at her to get away from him, over and over. She was terrified and at the next stoplight, she exited the vehicle and started walking to her original destination.
He continued on his journey and she continued on hers. She tried to call him and tell him she was scared and he said she was a liar. She walked. And then she ran. She listened to sad songs, but she also reveled in being able to listen to them as she had been mocked and shamed for them before. She knew that they both hated her. She knew it with all of her heart that they hated her with all of their hearts. She knew that every breath she took was a blemish on their happiness.
She ran. She walked. She sang. She cried. Horrible things were sent by text. Lies were spoken. He said. She said. And she walked and she ran. She was alone in the dark and she was both terrified and relieved. She sat and wondered how things had come to this. She cried and she cried and she ran. She watched every car that drove by, and there were many. She hoped he cared enough not to leave her out in the dark, but that was her problem.... the hoping. She became increasingly unhinged, angry with herself and prayed to nothing that she would just disappear. Cease to be. And she walked and she ran.
He was home. Making dinner for his family of two. He sent messages with feigned language of care. She replied angrily. And she walked. He had left her. Abandoned her. Physically. She prayed to nothing again for another life. A life where she wasn't a liar and a nigger and Gone Girl. But he insisted she deserved all of that because he had been provoked by the storms in her heart. She walked. Miles passed and eventually, out of guilt or whatever, he came for her. He pretended not to know where to go. She didn't believe him. She was the kind of girl who was always where she said she was. She was not Gone Girl. She walked. He arrived after 4.4 miles of darkness and she climbed into the car.
She walked into the house and was strangled by the hate and despair that hung heavy in the air. She went to the garage where she had slept the weekend before and she sat. She sat and she read. She was cold and sore. She was emotionally and physically wrought. She surrendered and went in the house, overwhelmed as she moved through the space where she didn't belong. She sat and she read. And then she slept.
The sleep was ugly. She dreamed of death of love and people. She had fits. She cried. She threw up and she saw the death of love and people.
He insisted he would go. She protested. Running was a solo activity... kind of like life, she supposed. But she acquiesced because she really wanted things to be good and they got in the car. They didn't make it three blocks until he wanted to know which way they were going, which seemed fair. Straight and then left, she replied. And then which way were they going, he asked. Park on St Lawrence, she replied. He asked what was wrong with her. Why was she irritated. He was asking which way they were going to walk. She told him that she didn't know. She thought it was another question about general direction since there hadn't been any mention of the context of the question changing. Arguing ensued. Loud voices. Hurtful, hateful words. He turned the car around and he put in his earphones so he could shut her out. He slammed on the brakes in the car on an empty road while going 40 miles an hour. She was thrown forward and afraid. She asked to be let out of the car and he yelled at her to get away from him, over and over. She was terrified and at the next stoplight, she exited the vehicle and started walking to her original destination.
He continued on his journey and she continued on hers. She tried to call him and tell him she was scared and he said she was a liar. She walked. And then she ran. She listened to sad songs, but she also reveled in being able to listen to them as she had been mocked and shamed for them before. She knew that they both hated her. She knew it with all of her heart that they hated her with all of their hearts. She knew that every breath she took was a blemish on their happiness.
She ran. She walked. She sang. She cried. Horrible things were sent by text. Lies were spoken. He said. She said. And she walked and she ran. She was alone in the dark and she was both terrified and relieved. She sat and wondered how things had come to this. She cried and she cried and she ran. She watched every car that drove by, and there were many. She hoped he cared enough not to leave her out in the dark, but that was her problem.... the hoping. She became increasingly unhinged, angry with herself and prayed to nothing that she would just disappear. Cease to be. And she walked and she ran.
He was home. Making dinner for his family of two. He sent messages with feigned language of care. She replied angrily. And she walked. He had left her. Abandoned her. Physically. She prayed to nothing again for another life. A life where she wasn't a liar and a nigger and Gone Girl. But he insisted she deserved all of that because he had been provoked by the storms in her heart. She walked. Miles passed and eventually, out of guilt or whatever, he came for her. He pretended not to know where to go. She didn't believe him. She was the kind of girl who was always where she said she was. She was not Gone Girl. She walked. He arrived after 4.4 miles of darkness and she climbed into the car.
She walked into the house and was strangled by the hate and despair that hung heavy in the air. She went to the garage where she had slept the weekend before and she sat. She sat and she read. She was cold and sore. She was emotionally and physically wrought. She surrendered and went in the house, overwhelmed as she moved through the space where she didn't belong. She sat and she read. And then she slept.
The sleep was ugly. She dreamed of death of love and people. She had fits. She cried. She threw up and she saw the death of love and people.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Monday, May 12, 2014
Mother's Day
I hate it. So much pressure to post the most loving comments. So much pressure to give the most thoughtful gift or card. I resent being forced into appreciating my mom, because even though I love her with all of my heart and soul and could never even begin to thank her or tell her how much I appreciate her, nothing that I could physically give her as a gift would convey how I really feel. Change your Facebook profile photo to a photo with your mom and that must mean that you are just the best kid ever. *eye roll* And I know my mom is there watching everyone else's Facebook posts about how much they love their mom and I just don't want to participate, even though I know my non-participation will be construed as a lack of caring.
And what about those who have raised children who are ungrateful, ugly people, despite our best efforts, and don't want the reminder of what a shit experience being a mother turned out to be? Is there anything more ridiculous and insulting than being shunned or ignored by your own child every single day and then having to endure an entire 24 hours designated for you to be appreciated for your child rearing efforts, only to receive the same thing that you get every other day... ignored. Only it is worse now because you aren't supposed to be ignored and so you have to sit with the painful reminder that you failed, or they failed, or something failed.
Fuck you Hallmark.
And what about those who have raised children who are ungrateful, ugly people, despite our best efforts, and don't want the reminder of what a shit experience being a mother turned out to be? Is there anything more ridiculous and insulting than being shunned or ignored by your own child every single day and then having to endure an entire 24 hours designated for you to be appreciated for your child rearing efforts, only to receive the same thing that you get every other day... ignored. Only it is worse now because you aren't supposed to be ignored and so you have to sit with the painful reminder that you failed, or they failed, or something failed.
Fuck you Hallmark.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Regret...
It is one of my least favorite words. I hate having regrets. I always promise myself that I will do my best not to have any, but in this human experience, sometimes it just can't be helped. We are emotional and sometimes irrational animals, fumbling through this world one precarious step at a time. Sometimes we fall off the edge. Sometimes we throw ourselves off.
I think what I am most afraid of is not having enough moments. Or that because of moments past, that if this chain of moments were to suddenly come to an end, that others wouldn't understand the gravity of the moments past and they would say things that they needed to say so that they could rationalize things to themselves, but those things wouldn't be true. And like so many other things, a certain story would be told about those moments that were a fiction. And the truth about the moments would be lost forever.
The truth is that I loved with a stumbling, raging passion that was nonsense and madness. The way love is sometimes. And even though the chain of moments were imperfect, nothing was perfect, and they just were what they were. I wouldn't have traded any one of them for any other experience.
Unraveling.
I think what I am most afraid of is not having enough moments. Or that because of moments past, that if this chain of moments were to suddenly come to an end, that others wouldn't understand the gravity of the moments past and they would say things that they needed to say so that they could rationalize things to themselves, but those things wouldn't be true. And like so many other things, a certain story would be told about those moments that were a fiction. And the truth about the moments would be lost forever.
The truth is that I loved with a stumbling, raging passion that was nonsense and madness. The way love is sometimes. And even though the chain of moments were imperfect, nothing was perfect, and they just were what they were. I wouldn't have traded any one of them for any other experience.
Unraveling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)