Dear Hometown;
[Hint: The most populated part of the first state in the U.S.]
*Trigger Warning: contains figurative language around death and suicide.
Sophomore year of high-school you figuratively burned to the ground, there were no survivors -- my mother perished in the wreckage. I found her body in the ashes of what once was; she found my body supposedly lifeless in the letters I wrote. I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace. I tossed out blame, cursed your name; why didn’t you get your knuckles bloody for me? You were my homeland, I would have defended you with the rage of a thousand sailors. Did you notice my tears ricocheting against the window as they drove me away in that car -- on that day? I think I’ve seen this film before and I didn’t like the ending. Can we stop replaying the same scenes? There is no amount of crying I can do that would bring you back. I lived for the dreams where I sat in your pastures catching fireflies. I would have given all the gold in the world to become that child again; there are some things money cannot buy. The flashbacks felt real; the pain visceral. I missed the old street signs, I missed the narrow road that led me home. You were my town, now I am in exile. I just wanted you to know; this is me trying. I am showing up, writing; I am letting you go. Everytime my peers said I went crazy; I got more crazy. Now I breathe flames everytime I talk; you found my jagged edges and wrapped your noose around those protruding points. There’s nothing like the scorn of a mad woman. I once buried you in the recesses of my memory; I wept, straddled over your corpse. I am now killing my former self in the light of the waning crescent moon. A gun cocked to the roof of my mouth. I am now clearing out the cobwebs of expired time in one fatal blow.
Even on my worst day, Mom;
Can you look me in the eye and tell me I deserved that hell?
You know, I didn’t want to haunt you.
I didn’t have it in myself;
To go with grace.
I was fond of the invisible carnage. I licked my wounds, as if they were trophies. The blood pulsing out of my carotid dissolved into thin-air. I felt immortal. The knife sticking out of my back was non-physical. No one could see the handle; they bumped into it -- and I felt that. Look how strong I am? It might have been a figurative death; yet, the wounds it produced were bleeding, raw and unvarnished. I wanted to show you my broken body; the glory and gore. I survived. I stood on the cliffside screaming, “Give me a real reason for this imaginary suffering. I already lived through hell -- what is this?” And out popped words from my fingertips. To heal; I had to write. I alone could caress the coldness of my deceased mother. She was dead to me; alive to everyone else that knew her. And I was dead to everyone I ever knew; the paradox blinded those closest to the light. As the rumors spread -- the confusion grew. And eventually faded. I faded into the background of a distant highschool memory. It was all I thought about; erroneous, time-worn memories replaced embraces, touch, intimacy. Two Christmases later; they sent for me. When I walked upon your streets, when I stood barefoot in the Delaware grass -- it was a ghostly scene. The dead walked. I realized I could go anywhere I want; just not back home. The grief was silent; silver outlines were painted on dark clouds. When no one was around, you could find me crying in the bathtub. I wasn’t alive, I wasn’t dead. I missed you -- hometown, you existed in my bones. It is here today where I bury my teenage skeleton; I pull her out of myself. Welcome to my epitaph, family and friends.
There I go;
the strangest woman you’d ever seen.
Who knows if I never showed up what could have been?
Would my parents have lived like the last American dynasty?
I want you to know, I had a fabulous time ruining everything.
My best-friend turned step-sister physically lost her mother that same school year; cancer. In attempts to heal, she turned into a version of her mother. She heralded her mother as an angel; watching her from above. I once admired my friend’s language. The way she sugar-coated her words, sounded sweet in the daylight. “My mother used to be able to say fuck you pleasantly perfect that the other person would smile and say thank you.” It was like spraying perfume over a fart. It was beautifully knit, as she wove her letters into angelic acquiescent sentences. When she laughed, her eyes squinted even more. She looked just like her mother; old pictures prove the modern sight. It was a beautiful painting to witness growing up; I wanted to marry my high school sweetheart too. Where was the darkness; hiding under the orange couch in the basement? Would that mother have gotten her knuckles bloody to preserve her daughter’s namesake? Would that family have paid $600,000 to keep their daughter away -- because she smoked weed? Because she was angry? Because she wanted her mother to talk to her, she wanted to tell her mother her secrets? Would that mother listen? It’s what I think as I dust off their old family photos in the living room. Everyone was smiling, were they really happy? They were the perfect family; and yet -- she didn’t like the ending either. Our pain, separate and mirrored.
My mother shook off the dust of her old, abusive family; and waltzed into their house, a runaway beauty queen. She told stories contrary to my memory; she expressed distress from her last relationship, my father. When was I allowed to tell my story? When was I allowed to defend his namesake? What wouldn’t she say in order to remain pure? So I lit myself up; if I am on fire, maybe she’ll turn into ashes too. Rage burned through my clothes. How many times can my bruised body be thrown under the bus? So, I went up in smoke; as I once saw my potential. Who was I but the narrative my parents told me; they knew me. Right? They knew me -- and they said I was bad. The battleships of the past turned me into my worst fears; I cursed out the good years. I focused on the gravestone I never got; the closure I never sought. When her mother died, she buried her; and left the cemetery. Writing letters to a mouth-breather seems foreign; I have a chance to rebuild a relationship. She does not. I am purposefully estranged, for what reason? There is a difference between the physical and non-physical; afterall. I hope she never learns what it’s like to long an upright, walking person. Because I am destined to face the death of my mother and father; of everyone I’ve ever known. Death cannot be avoided. I separated into estrangement with my mother to go on a pilgrimage; to be able to awaken, to wake up to myself. I wanted to permanently get to the root of my maladaptive behavioral patterns. It is in this time period, I remain in a cocoon; and I sat and I wrote, honestly. Who was there left to hide from? Some people call this quarantine; I call it my descent into madness. When I held my baby boy in my hands; I thought about her mother. When will my time come? I am now -- the mother.
I am not your problem anymore.
I am not that pattern anymore.
I think I’ve written this film scene before;
So I am leaving out the side door.
You are not my homeland anymore;
So what am I defending?
Who am I defending?
Who is innocent here?
Certainly not me;
Certainly not you;
I just wish you would have heard me out.
”Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind -- don’t matter. And those who matter, don’t mind.” -- Dr. Seuss
My emotional body is healing from those wounds I have described;
talking about dark topics, doesn’t make me deranged; rather human, prepared.
We die a million little times throughout our lives.
I have been asking myself recently why I was choosing to share my wounds publicly. Why did I have the insatiable need to explain myself, over and over. What outcoming am I hoping for? What are the emotions I am experiencing -- what am I attempting to convey? Do my intentions line up with my values? Is there a certain response that I am hoping for; and will a lack of acknowledgement hurt my feelings? I have taken some time off hive to ponder, to think. And I thought and journaled; in order to understand my intentions, hopes, and experiences. Relationships flourish with honest vulnerability conversations; it also helps blossom connection between an author and the reader. A memoir is a map for those struggling with similar issues and makes the physical experience universal. I have an intense need to share, because I am supposed to become a tool used for healing. I am sharing my experiences for the benefit of others, the journey of life is emotional; to help others come into new realizations as well. Examining one’s personal truths is what coming of age is about; growth. The aftermath of my writing journey does not matter as long as I continue walking down the trail of trial and tribulation. I am sharing my wounds for the benefit of others, including myself. If you enjoy my art -- thank you. And if you do not like the vulnerability in me; it is a reflection of oneself. How can one expect true connection when the truth remains hidden? I am no longer a slave to my secrets; I am no longer a victim to my story. I am simply writing, because the universe called me to take up the sword, the pen. I was born to write.
I get a lot of understanding through words. I write, because I am a writer; I was born to listen to the wispy whispers in the darkness. Carrying this pain is difficult. And there is a part of me that truly believes I am supposed to share my story; that there is a giant puzzle for me to figure out. My story truly isn’t mine; aren’t we all living to a higher purpose? Is my time even mine? June has slipped away like smoke in the dark, was it even mine to lose? I can only remember the time when I lived for the hope of it all; when I lived for the future. And here it is; it has come. Who will I be? Writing this vulnerably isn’t fun; it isn’t something I do because I want to. I feel compelled to, as if I need to get this story out on paper -- to document, to preserve, to share. I hope my words age like wine. I don’t know quite what to say to you, reader; I just want you to know that I am here in your darkest corner. That healing can happen through sharing and unwinding our stories together.
Cheers to emotional healing.