2020/12/01 ©Photo by myself.
I sat in what was now sorta a bath collected from my hot shower. Heartache and headache self care 101. Dove soap covered my face running down my neck with the hot shower water above attacking the top of my head.. Flashes of what seemed to be distant innocent childhood memories with my mom streamed inside my head as I was washing my mascara off—they were warm and light. It felt almost like I was 5 again. Then the memory replayed in grays and blues. I got cold. Distorted laughs and bath water running.. and a whif of Dove soap.. I put my head underwater and cried for a brief second so that no one could hear me. My heart strings felt like they were going to calapse. After my worst days, my mom would run me a bubble bath and bring me a fresh bar of Dove soap while she prepared a towel in the dryer so I wasn’t cold afterwards. My parents split up when I was 13 so it’s been awhile. I lived with my mom in the beginning.. and then I messed everything up and had to go live with my father. And my fathers girlfriend. And my fathers girlfriends kids.. my mom ran off with her bf after this in denial to Arizona while I stayed in the pnw with my dads new love interest until another when things boiled over. And then another. And so on.
I often wondered if she was warm, somewhere sunny if that man was taking care of her. Which he wasn’t. Its nights like this where I wish I wasn’t sitting on the shower floor crying because of a scent reminding me of better days. Wishing my hands running over my eyes were my mothers.. I wish I could just go back and hear her laugh with me. My dad got rid of everything of hers besides the plates and the type of soap she bought. I feel stupid for crying and not being strong. My father believes crying is a form of weakness so i don’t cry very often at all.. its actually difficult to cry because of all the conditioning so to speak. Admittedly the release feels amazing. I want to add that I do love my father.. and he gets softer with old age. But I do give my father space. I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t distance myself from certain people.
I remind myself all the time that my mother and I have contact now. Which is a blessing. I almost got rid of myself while she was away. I think and feel regularly that I have no reason to be sad because of my middle school and high school days… those days are long gone right?
Shes back, yes.. but I shiver because the contact is rarely physical and I know things will never ever be the same. My family will never be the same. Especially my little sister Meg who deserves the entire world plus some. I wish I was a better sister mother figure for her. I resent my family, my childhood, my everything in this moment. Im angry.. sad.. chaotic and it feels like this is going to last forever. I resent being weak. I resent being strong. I resent reality.. in this age were violence and sex and money rule all. I want to be 5 again. I want Dove soap to just stay a Dove soap and not some sort of item that gives me chills.
greet me with glitter, Libby Lu
This aesthetic has never been matched sorry. It’s the perfect balance between low budget childhoodness looking but still glam and actually cute
I was always so mad at kids that had birthday parties, and especially ones at these types of places. like u need COIN to have these experiences. I wasn’t ever allowed to anyone else’s parties either ugh. Out of spite I always stole sum glitter from them and i thought i was being a bad bitch. At the same time I feel like if I had been allowed this type of feeling as a kid my attitude would have been THROUGH THE ROOF bratty. I woulda become a bitch in 2 seconds
Also lowkey the people that worked here were hair geniuses. Low how tf do u just get a dozen girls’s hairs to be this intricate in like 1 hour tf??
AND I STILL HAVE THE PINK SPARKLY HAT IT’S IN MY DRAWER bought a bunch of shit when it was on sale cause then went bankrupt
I remember those mirrors and that glitter table and the glitter dispensers
*sry random ppl for taking ur photos
I can hear the tugboats on the river from my bedroom window when I lay still enough. I think about the long barges steered by tiny vessels, a quarter of their size.
The air chilled, finally. A real snap to the December wind that floats off the Mississippi. I can feel it through the tiny spaces where wall was meant to meet window frame. Instead, the wind whispers through the gaps. When it hurricanes, the wind whistles through these spaces. Not a soft whistle like mother to baby. But like a cat call, loud, angry, looking for entery points.
The heater smells of burnt dust. The first switch from ac jolting the house. The lights quiver faintly as it clicks on, drowning out the beep of tugboats. Sleep comes uneasy tonight. Yawns stretch my jaw wide but my mind runs currents pulling my eyes open. I cannot hold what I love. Or tug what I want. Not upstream. Not anymore.
When I was a little girl, my dad would take me to the levee. We’d watch the river carry tree branches down her center and disappear around the curve. We always noted how high or low the waters were. If the water ate up the tree trunks that found roots at her basin, we’d deem her high. He told me to never go in the water. The Mississippi wasn’t something to swim because the currents were too strong, too powerful. I would drown.
I never questioned if she wanted the branches. Only knew that she broke them. That she could topple the levees if she wanted. That only tugboats were going upstream. That meant they worked hard.
I spent part of my life trying to swim in deep currents, anyway, knowing I would drown in them. And I did. It killed part of me. Floated down, gobbled up by tides I could not beat. The part that made it to the banks, might be strong as tugboats. Even if it is only a quarter of the size I thought.
This city knows not to place expectations on the water. A Sunday afternoon rain can be more damaging than a named storm.
Nasz tata wtedy bardzo dużo pracował. Miał prywatną spółkę budowlaną z “kolegami”. Nie mieli na niego dobrego wpływu, bo często przychodził pijany. Mama się denerwowała, bo pieniędzy zawsze przez to brakowało. W dodatku jej depresja po stracie ciąży w niczym nam życia nie ułatwiała. Często byliśmy zdani tylko na siebie. A ja czułam się odpowiedzialna za rodzeństwo i często za nie dostawałam, czy to sznurem od prodzirza czy też pasem taty.
I had it taken from me and I’m expected to think about loving the same glass that made me bleed.
mahmoud darwish, mural (2000) trans. fady joudah
did a storybook style illustration for my mom of the house she raised her sons in (for one of her christmas presents) 🥰
this was really nostalgic for me because i can remember being down by the creek or trying not to get lost in the corn fields and hearing her ring that big ass bell to call me home for dinner 🥺 i lived there until i was 19 and then she and my dad sold it a year later to move into actual society instead of the middle of nowhere 🥲
The “Did you have any friends?” q about homeschooling is so fucked because people asking it are NEVER ready to hear that there was in fact a large homeschooling community in my region, but it was full of internal political squabbles, had a glaring and largely unacknowledged class divide, underwent at least one schism because of homophobia, and had so many creeps and rapists (other homeschoolers, not their parents) in it that I’ve permanently cut off most of the people I knew when I was a teenager. I usually just go with “I knew a lot of other homeschoolers” or “I was in a lot of afterschool activities with public schoolers,” both of which are true but don’t typically open the floor to much more prying
like can people check up on kids more often?! I had an ED in the 4th grade, shit isn’t all rainbows and sparkles at that age ya know.
I want to go back to the time when I thought stairs were novel. When I was a kid, I thought living in a 2-story house was the most amazing achievement homeowners could strive for. And don’t even get me started on basements! We don’t have those in Florida; our entire peninsula is made of coral rock.
i am living my childhood dream, and I feel nothing. It’s mundane. It’s boring. It’s actually kind of annoying.
I just hope I never feel this way about escalators and elevators. Those are still magical to me; I gotta hold onto some childhood whimsy, or all is lost.
Can we please bring these back😫😫
It was a pleasure having the opportunity to chat with Steven Benedict (@steviey_b ) about his career, his childhood, and how it has made him the man that he is today. He’s a track and field star and now a new author. His story is riveting. Mom issues were what we have in common. We talked about that and so much more. Check it out on my Spotify podcast #LeadersAndLearners 👩🏽💻 #truestory #storytelling #author #interview #athlete #fostercare #adoption #ACEs #traumarecovery #childhood #leadership
(at Redondo Beach, California)