I was 15 years old, frightened by adolescent boys and my own ugly reflection, and I was trying to convince change upon a woman who had loved drugs longer than she had known me. It didn’t matter if I turned 16 the year after or 22 a few later; there was never a reason good enough for her to change. Now I refuse to state that I was not good enough, because I was good enough, any innocent child is a reason good enough- and my mother had two of them. She had my father, and he is the best man I’ve ever known. I was the perfect reason for her to change and I deserved all the love she could not give me, but there are so many people in this world who deserve good things and do not get them. The love she couldn’t give me does not get to decide who I am, though, it does not decide who I become, and it will never be the voice that tells me I am not worth the love I did not get. I have grown up, and now I decide. I decide that the love I lend to myself and every other person I cross determines who I am. I decide that I am lucky to be my father’s daughter. I decide that I am good because of what I’ve learned from my mother even if I taught it all to myself. I can give love, and I will give love for as long as I can hold onto it. My mum couldn’t hold onto it, she made it clear in the ways she pushed us away. This is not to dismiss her trying, because I could see her try; I saw it slipping through her fingers like a cigarette every Christmas Eve. She tried to hold on with her eyes half closed and her spirit somewhere else. This world hurts, and so sometimes we let it fall. Mum let it fall and just, didn’t ever pick it back up. What I’ve learned from my mother is to not let it fall, to not let it go and if you do, you must pick it back up; even if it burns. We cannot let love fall. I’m very well acquainted with the bad parts of me, shouting and wailing, I know how they sound when they howl. They've scratched me, pulled out my hair, they've consumed important parts of me. They’ve tried to convince me I’m no good, and that I will be exactly who she is. They’ve smacked love out of my hands, dropped it to the floor, and said leave it. But I wont, my mother taught me better than that. still holding onto it.
i decide that we are not our trauma; we are not destined to fail. Look around, You are safe, You are going to be okay. What are you scared of? I fear that I am human. I fear business meetings, school, and the reactions of strangers when I’m around or not near them at all. I fear talking to the doctor and the nurse, the dentist, the counselor. I worry about what is said that is not true, that is true, that might not be true but is taught as true. I worry for myself and for everyone else who does not understand being here. I worry that the people who I still love but no longer see, think poorly of me because of the way I hurt them to spare collective pain. I fear that it may be exactly what I deserve. I’m afraid of the choices I’ve made, I magnify what does not need to be bigger. I’m afraid that, because I will never be seen, I will never be known. I’m afraid that I will not succeed in anything at all if my fear continues to grow as I age at this slowest fast pace. What have I done, What am I doing, Where am I going? How will this all end for me? Why am I here? I have spent the last month putting off a series of important tasks – dropping some courses for school, contacting my service provider about my broken voicemail, and visiting the doctor to discuss my anxiety. My anxiety, yes, has been the very reaper of my soul for as long as I can remember, and is the reason I’m still sat in the security of my bedroom on the second floor of my father’s house at 1PM on a Wednesday, pajamas and all, instead of in the waiting room of the walk-in clinic. It’s the reason why I’m not in London, Ontario, completing my masters as planned, it’s why I haven’t applied for a position at the library that requires more responsibility yet pays more, it’s why I have to triple check that my dog is breathing as she sleeps, why I do too much for my parents, and why I worry that I’m not enough for my partner. I’m not sure what percentage of the population understands chronic anxiety, or how crippling it can be to one’s mind, which is why it becomes so easy to feel relatively useless as a human being every morning as the sun comes up and reminds us of another day. This anxiety feels like a dictator, doesn’t it? As though we don’t get to make our own choices, after all, out of fear. I pondered writing out exactly how challenging it is for me to push myself out of my home in order to complete common tasks - ones that most people I know around my age and older may do in the blink of an eye or with a shrug of their shoulders. But chances are, if you know you know – and I don’t need to paint another replica of the mural you see on your walls every morning when you wake up. Your life won't end if the secretary at the office treats you poorly Samantha, I told her. You will not die if a stranger is unkind or if one assignment is not your best Samantha. If you were to drop out of school and work in customer service for the rest of your life, you would still be alive, and you would still live Samantha. You would still be loved and you would still be complete. I told her and tell her, and repeat look around, you are safe, you are going to be okay. I told her to calm down, breathe, your parents are alive, your friends love you with or without your pain, trust is a good thing, not something that needs to be challenged without reason. I told you, I magnify things that do not need to be bigger – and they get so big that they far too often mute my vision, they skew the truth, they stir up my knowing until I can no longer decipher true from false, what I know from what I feel, what is reality from what I believe. At this age, I can’t help but continuously question my character as a result. I love who I am but trusting myself is so unimaginably difficult. I’m afraid of failing. And, well, trying and failing go hand in hand. So, for most of my life I’ve simply been scared to try. This sounds lazy, incompetent maybe, it sounds like a poor excuse for anything and everything. But if you know the chest pain and the impossible-to-silence repetition of what have I done, what am I doing, where am I going, how will this end, then you just know. So, how will this end for me? Will it end at all? No, its chronic, runs in the family, and I get it from my mother. Will it get worse, better, will it stay static and drive me crazy? Will I have a breakdown? At what age? Will I conquer it all? Get over my fear of having children who may feel the same pain? Overcome my relationship anxiety? Write a novel? Give in to fear and give up on what I dream? What will my success be if anything at all? I don’t think that this is being written with any purpose, I only know that having these conversations with myself has allowed me out of my head. I think that I’d like to share it in case you know and, if you do know, I want you to know that I know too. In fact, as of 2013, nearly 3 million other Canadians (11.6% of the population) over the age of 18 also know. Maybe I’m here to encourage you to have hope that it will be okay for as long as you keep trying in even the smallest of ways. Maybe I will remind you that in most cases, you’re trying even when you feel as though you aren’t. Or maybe this is for you and for me alike, as we are all reflections of one another. Not a single person on this planet knows where they are going, where they will end, or where new versions of themselves might begin. I do know that this moment is the only one that exists, and it’s the only one that we know. Maybe it’s a good moment, maybe it’s bad, maybe we feel useless or maybe we feel as if we could accomplish anything. Maybe we feel like chaos one moment and peace the next. Maybe we are confused. All I know is that, while the moment may not pass, it will change – and it will change with the guidance of the decisions we all make. Today I will make the decision to call my mum, at 22 years old, and ask her if she will help me with my To-Do list tomorrow. I will do this because she knows - and asking for help is something we should all feel safe in doing until the day we die. I will also make the decision to help those I have the power to help, and I will accept help as it is offered instead of pretending as though I could take this world on my own. If you know, you know, but please know that you are far from the only one. I did not want these parts of me to latch on to those parts of you,
Because I think I was caring in a way that gave me large wounds inside of my stomach, Or in a way that was no good. I bought you flowers because they looked like you and I wanted you to take care of yourself. I realized when we both forgot who you were at 3pm, That you were never going to let me care for you. It happened at night, When I picked you up after you called me, Because I love you and you were crying. I could smell it on you. And then you sent me home alone. Funny how we ended up in the same accident. I may have been driving, But you begged me to crash. I've seen how you hurt, You keep reminding me that it's my fault. We'll here's the truth. I removed myself from you because you were hurting me too. But now let's not go comparing wounds after wrapping ourselves so tightly around this tree together. We've got to let us heal. Mum used to take us to the beach, Eight Saturday’s during about eight summers, And she had smiled as if she were twenty-two; A golden wonder in that sun, A crazy diamond. Mum helped us build our Castles With her own small hands And her own not knowing, This life is happier When we are not alone, My girl. The beach we spent summer days on, Warm bathing and skin, Was washed up the last time we drove down there, About an hour, Not too far. During a bad time, Like living out of a Pontiac Sunfire, Raped of her love, A struggle with living still. We drove there hoping that the old may feel new again, But it was the end of October, And that was our mistake. Only about five small steps of a photograph remained; The rest just gone, washed away. And she cried, Standing there under a red moon horizon, One Saturday away from winter. I hadn’t seen my brother since the previous September. I held her hand tight, strong from building castles. And I held her hand. This life is happier, when we are not alone, my girl. I want to look at mountains,
While they are pink and snowed. I want to see them in December, Driving down wide ice roads. With white knit on my chest, And the sun projecting its heart, Pink on the mountains. It reminds me of self, Pink on my round cheeks, Like mountains in the sun, And you warm in the passenger seat. You project your heart, Pink on the mountains; Pink onto me. Regret has made a home of my frail shoulders.
Living there for you, It aches often. Reminding me of where you once sat across from me, No weight on my shoulders with you there, And telling me often of how foolish I was with you. I hope they give you more, Beautiful, More than what I offer you. In my mind I offer you nothing but endless evenings under sunsets; Waking early every morning to watch you rise with it. Sadly, In my mind I also ache. I ache so deeply with muted static, love. Which is no good for you, love. So I take a saw to the branch I am sitting on. I need not you aching in the mirror of me. |
AuthorThese words are written by Sam. She is the author of Bloom, Poetry and Prose, and Until I Feel Like My Own Mother, enjoys sitting in the sun, eating fruits, and making people smile. Archives
May 2021
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