Tag: spilled madness

march 11

I haven’t been fair. Not to the world. Not to myself. When I started this blog, I wanted to try something I’ve always wanted to do – I wanted to be honest. And I have been. Sort of. It’s not that I’ve lied. Because I haven’t. It’s more like I haven’t been saying everything that’s been going on in my mind. And there is a lot. I don’t know where to start. So here goes nothing.

 

I am currently sitting in a small plane flying from LAX to Logan. Dena is sitting at 14A and I am nineteen rows behind her. And I feel so small. I am sitting between two passengers – my least favorite spot. I cannot look out the window and pretend that am a part of the sky. I cannot leave quickly because I am not sitting by the aisle. Instead, I am stuck. All I can see are the cabins and heads of other passengers who I do not know in the dimly lit plane. I don’t mean that I feel small because I’m sandwiched between two passengers. I feel small because I am unnoticed. To everyone, I am not the girl who is thinking about how the plane can plummet at any second. I am not the girl who is thinking about what she will be leaving behind if she dies. What people will think of her, what they will remember when she is gone. No, I am just the girl, frantically typing away at the keyboard, trying to get her thoughts out faster than spilled water. I am the girl, sitting at 33B, whose face is lit up by the fluorescent screen in front of her. The girl whose life is unraveling and unwinding a dropped ball of yarn and all she can do is stare as it tumbles down and down – untangling all the hard work she’s done.

 

I feel small because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Yes, I am supposed to go to school, do work, get rest, and repeat everything. But it just gets so pointless sometimes. Some days I wake up with such a rage – I want to change the world – no, fix it. I want to fix the world and rid it from all the madness and injustice. I am angry about Parkland. I am angry for the Dreamers. I am angry. Those days are the days I wake up and work hard in hopes that I will be able to save these people – these children, one day. But why is it that when I have “glory days” I must have the opposite? Some days I cannot get out of bed to even go downstairs. I feel so unmotivated sometimes. I think I need to find a reason to wake up.

 

But until then, what am I going to do? I am stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

 

— I want to be honest but it is so hard when the world is so cruel

fifteen

When I was fifteen, I received a large, black tote bag from my mother. To start the school year off with something new, she said. I was no longer using my old bright pink colored backpack. A person’s bag says a lot about them, my mom said. During the first weeks, I kept it clean. There was a pouch in front where I would keep my essentials— my phone, my keys, and a tube of lip gloss. That didn’t last very long.

Crumpled homework and test papers littered the bottom of the bag, along with receipts from Starbucks runs and blue peppermint gum wrappers. Tangled earphones and torn sheet music also made the pile. Lost hairbands camouflaged with the black of the bag.

The sun had started to dry out the corners of the bag, making it fade to a warm colored brown. Everything in the bag was cluttered and jumbled up from the time I frantically searched for my math homework— which I found lying next to an English assignment from the week before and a pregnancy testing kit.

The leather handles had little crescent moons in it from the time I walked past him with his tongue inside another girl’s mouth. Digging my fingers into the leather was the only thing that kept me from crying out loud. It did not, however, stop me from trying to split my veins open like the stitches and seams that were falling apart. I was falling apart.

When I was fifteen, my mother told me to grow up. She told me to stop crying, to stop running to her. Smart girls are strong girls, she said. Smart girls are pretty girls with long, straight hair that will make boys fall in love with them. Strong girls are skinny girls with legs for days and arms that need to be embraced. Hands that need to be held. I listened.

When I was fifteen, I learned that my mother will not – could not be there for me. Because she was “raised that way.” When I was fifteen, I learned that no one will love me enough. No one could possibly love me enough if my own mother could not even try.

I asked my mother, what do I do about this boy? She said, put on a pair of heels, a short skirt, don’t forget the makeup too. Make him love you.

But mother, I said in my mind, you don’t even love me.

So, this time, I didn’t listen.

I learned to grow and to cry on my own. And with time, I found hope. I don’t need anyone to love me. I love myself. With every setback, every heartbreak, every rejection and failure. I repeated this louder and louder. My ex-boyfriend called me fat. I love myself. The girls at school called me a slut today. I love myself. My mother thinks I’m worthless. I LOVE MYSELF. I LOVE MYSELF. I LOVE MYSELF.

Yes, there have been relapses – many (that’s the thing with depression, I guess). My mom and I have a good relationship now. But I will never ever tell her the things that matter to me. My hopes, dreams, or fears.

She will never know that I played soccer in high school. She will never know how many times a week I see my psychiatrist. She will never know what I had for lunch today, or the day after that, or the day after that. She will never know that there are still four- no, five visible scars from the time I tried to feel – anything (because hurting meant that I was still alive). She will never know how much she hurt me. She will never know how much I loved her.

She did teach me some valuable lessons, though. Like how to walk in heels, how to properly hold a teacup, and how to curl my hair. But she also taught me to be kind, to have an open heart and open mind. She taught me that I should always, always put my daughter first.

So, dear daughter, if you are reading this one day, I love you. For who you are, and who you will become – wholly, and completely, I love you. I promise to teach you all the things my mother taught me (how to curl your hair, how to put on heels). I promise to teach you what life taught me – that no matter how terrible things become, there is always a silver lining. I promise to never restrict your creativity and capacity for imagination. I promise you can eat anything you want. I promise that you can carry any colored backpack.

I promise that I will try my best to protect you from the world and all the terrible things in it, but when the world hurts you (because it will), I promise to be there with you every step of the way. To hold you and hug you and make sure that you’re okay (even though you are equally as strong without me). I promise, you will be loved.

— I promise that I will never become my mother