Epiphanies From Her

She was my everything 

And I her parasite.

She was my everything and I her parasite trapped inside a very tight cocoon. 

She was my everything and I her parasite trapped inside a very tight cocoon sipping on cherry flavored rat poison.

She was my everything and I her parasite trapped inside a very tight cocoon sipping on cherry flavored rat poison she willingly dished out.

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band.

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band with colorful flying daggers.

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band with colorful flying daggers and sharps that wouldn't faulter. 

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band with colorful flying daggers and sharps that wouldn't faulter in giving whiplash.

You gave me whiplash.

You gave me whiplash of the century. 

You gave me whiplash of the century and I wouldn't tell a simmering soul.

You gave me whiplash of the century and I wouldn't tell a simmering soul that I never wanted to wake.

Waking to another disgruntled face.

Waking to another disgruntled face that would never yearn for me.

Waking to another disgruntled face that would never yearn for me- an apparatus. 

Waking to another disgruntled face that would never yearn for me- an apparatus made of sheer.

Made of sheer 

&

Maid of cheer.

I am made of sheer to have a fighting chance. 

I am made of sheer to have a fighting chance at burning.

I am made of sheer to have a fighting chance at burning a little brighter.

A chance at burning brighter alongside her.

A chance at burning brighter alongside her mind of steel. 

A mind of steel tied to a brown  paper bagged body.

A mind of steel tied to a brown paper bagged body soaked in the flood.

A mind of steel tied to a brown paper bagged body soaked in the flood of revenge.

A flood fueled neuroticism.

A flood fueled neuroticism lit by a bent wick.

A flood fueled neuroticism lit by a bent wick drowned in a shallow end.

A flood fueled neuroticism lit by a bent wick drowned in a shallow end of the misinterpreted.

You misinterpreted it. 

You misinterpreted this painted purple heart. 

 

Hard Life Lessons

I've had to learn over the years that my triggers are my responsibility. Although I can do my best to communicate in my relationships when conflicts arise, I've come to realize most people didn't have a parent screaming at them when anything uncomfortable came up. Even though everyone has a different love language so to speak (i.e ways they feel most respected, honored, cared for) there's a common thread on what love looks like among all. Love is kind, patient, gentle...love is a mother caring for her child even when she felt like no one loved her. Love is sometimes forgiving, sometimes boundaries, sometimes no contact. Love is accepting all of who I am.

I am my mother's daughter; a mix of two worlds, two cultures, two races. I was the first granddaughter, the first black child in a historically German family. I am her mother's granddaughter, shoved off to the side and left to daydream soaking in Illinois heat. I took on the faces they desired- gentle, quiet, and submissive because mine was too loud, annoying, or simply too much. I copied from those I received love from so perhaps I could be just as loved. But every time I mimicked someone else, I felt the stabbing criticism, "Don't do that!" 

Who was I? Who am I? Am I not just all of them?

I catch myself being heated with impatience like my mother when the AC doesn't kick in fast enough. Years of therapy and healthy communities have taught me to breathe, focus on what I can control, and to be ok with the tension knowing it won't last forever. I catch myself breaking down in tears whenever a friend slams the door because Mom had always assumed I had an attitude when I did. This caused her to scream at me until I did develop an attitude. I need to remember my friends didn't have a snarling, intoxicated mother barking back, "Stop your crying now or I'll give you something to cry about." Instead, I know I deserve and give myself the love I need in those tender moments.

A hug, a gentle whisper, a warm caress was something I rarely remember receiving. Sometimes this led to my love being unreadable; I tucked away my great affections because I was afraid to scare my partners away.

It's my turn to be my own parent; yet, with me leaving my "Heavenly Father" (i.e Christian cult) I'm wanting to live my "rebellious teenage years." In so many ways I'm still a child, but this body has aged and the aches aren't ceasing. It's time to be my own caretaker, I have to make the money to buy the medication to be mentally well to maintain this misery. The Mother of the family I lived with after I was kicked out of my home was right, I do have to learn to not lean on people.

I'm so many people at different ages, perhaps that's the reason I just drift off and stair into space.

Disassociating most likely occured when the domestic violence at home began when I was in first grade. I had to walk on eggshells around my Mother so much so that I couldn't always see how this led to laying down the red carpet for everyone else. Like the eager gratitude I longed to give Christ for saving me, I'd fall into love bombing (something certainly not helped from the evangelical youth group culture). My attachments were more than either of us (me, my crush, and everyone I told about my crush) could handle. A parasitic kind of love, disguised like a puppy. 

I wanted someone to tell me who I was, tell me what to do, where to go, when and why. 

The worst relationships tended to be ones that shined upon the naturalistic human in me and not the religious fascade. I'm still just a mammal learning to do life, love, and logic along with every one else. Blunt individuals similar to my Mother let me know when I hurt them because they knew talking things out could lead to a healthier relationship. The difference now was I actually had the other party willing to listen and not say " I get the final word not you." My hurts and hangups slithered through my obsessive relationships like a poison. "Am I good enough? Am I smart enough? Am I pretty enough?" These were internal inquiries I had to establish before understanding that being told "you hurt me" does not equal "you need to die."

In addition this multifaceted being that I am, I've also learned more about what it means to be on the spectrum, which I feel myself and some family members are. This corresponds to how we've miss read each other and shamed each other's stimming. My Mom's combition of (possible) BPD, OCD, and being on the spectrum is a triple threat for the need to control everything. As I've become more intune with my body, I've learned a couple of my stims are repeating audio (i.e songs) and shaking my legs- both of which severely annoyed Mom. After years of therapy and reading more about BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) I've learned to relinquish that need for control and impress. The only person I can control and impress is myself. Despite being a mosaic of those around me, I'm the sole perpetrator. I need to take accountability to continue relationships; yet, fear loves to have me hide from responsibility and shame smiles when I become stuck in the same toxic patterns. There is no magic prayer that can guide my path, no Lord or monsters to appease. I have to do this for me; I have to continue on for me.

Self reflection reminds me that this too-loving myself and others, is a balance. 

I don't have to do anything; I get to. It's not about winning, but the self-journey. The greatest gift to give oneself is confidence. I'm not in a race with anyone and timelines for healing are like looping rollercoasters. 

I know how awful life can be, this is why I look upon all living things with such awe. All I have is here and now; how will I live it? With no regrets.

Freeport, Illinois

Figuring myself out miles away, I'll never forget where I have been

Restructing these thought patterns engraved in my brain 

Everyone has shaped me in someway

Every move, a chapter to sell

Problems to conquer, no longer to carry

Opportunities to sail, no longer to fear

Relaying on this strength that's gotten me through the years

Turning the past into a bridge for the future

,

I remember your corn fields, hay bails, and gravel roads

Loving your rolling hills and fields, upon fields

Lementing through a cemetery with thick morning fog and sparling dew

I can still hear my grandmother's tree frogs, owls, and crickets

Nothing like seeing those big, puffy clouds from a child's perspective

Or eating freshly chucked corn from a hard days work

I still hear the glass shadder in another abandoned factory

Somethings I really do miss, those damn mosquitos obviously not being it