So what now? I can cry and tell everyone about how lonely it feels to not have parents to support me on graduation day- explain in detail what it means to have my mother coming to the ceremony even though I’m sure she deserves nothing from me and I’d much rather spend my last moments of high school with the people who really cared about me. Believe me, I can go on and on for hours if someone wants to listen. But at the end of the day, what happened in the past is still going to be unfair.
Focusing on the positives:
I am safe. Although I doubt whether Mrs. Tyranski truly cares about me or is simply very effective at her job, she has nevertheless taught me many things that have made me a much warmer person. I’m different now- there’s been some grace put back into my heart, I think. I choose to find the goodness out there, even if sometimes I’m so tired and disgusted that the “goodness” is simply having the strength to drink some tea and go to bed. Crying is not a weakness; it is a form of art. Someday I will step out of the way and let myself shine and take credit for it all.
Without credit we are simply pieces of plastic. With credit, we have no limits until our interest rates are raised. When that happens, end the metaphor and get back to the point.
I’m reminded now of a letter/poem/story I wrote at the end of Sophomore year for my old Mentor, Ms. Hutchison. It was called “What I’m Trying To Say”, and since I thought of it, I might as well quote some passages from it.
“I can never tell my mother what’s wrong, because that’s not part of the plan. My escape plan: to go along with all of her shit and abuse until I’m 18 and can run off to college. It’s complicated and twisted, but I’m far too dedicated to quit now. ”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m dying in this town, living a life I have no wish to live. I go home to a “psychotic bitch”, by whom I am blamed for the horrible realities of human existence. It’s my fault that she’s lonely, it’s my fault that she can’t stop dying, it’s really all my fault … When I escape from her, I’ll ask questions. I’m not afraid of thinking the way my mother is. I know my thoughts can only save me … When I’m out of here, I’ll write. I’ll tell everyone the things I’m telling you, and more. I’ll tell them about the night I played solitaire in the pouring rain for 4 hours while my mother played with the demons inside of her. The time my father held a gun to my mother’s head, and I couldn’t stop staring at the details: the sweat on her face, the wooden pattern of the stock, the silent can of Pepsi that was keeping me awake. It’s the music that saved me and the people who made me- that’s what I’ll tell them. Something pretty and stupid and meaningless, the way I see this town.”
Two years ago, I was at the beginning of the end. My arms began to burn the summer this was written because I felt absolutely no reverence. Now, I am at the end of the beginning. My arms are skinnier, but they’re healed, and that’s something. Something is always better than nothing.
Again, I am reminded of something I wrote Sophomore year. It was a poem to my mother titled “All of the Credit in Due Time” :
For all of the things you’ve stolen from me,
This has to be a bitter poem.
You’ve been writing it for so many years,
Scratching the words into my head
Like the insults on the bathroom wall.
I’ve tried to cover them up so many times, at your command,
But they linger here in bleach and alcohol.
For all of the things you’ve stolen from me,
I’ll repay myself with sentences-
That bag of vetoed truth you never could relinquish
From the murky depths of your watery grave.
Your bedroom is your cemetery,
Filled with smoke and flies and crop circles-
Everything you’ll leave there when you die.
For all of the things you’ve stolen from me,
We play for keeps with my heart and your disease.
The weapons of mass destruction that you throw
Change shape every time I look away.
You put me in boxes and rectangles of every size,
But Mother, you must remember-
I’ve got your poison in my blood.
It all comes in due time. We have a purpose, whether divinely given or ordained by the moon, and I think I am old enough now to stop doubting what I can’t control and just cherish the beauty that I am more than capable of recognizing.
Tonight, I will close my eyes and sleep. I will be alright- no one can hurt me now. If I look out my window, I might see that everything’s on fire, but the lullaby is in my heart even when the music’s gone. In the morning, the sun will rise.
