2 Months

Feelings are a complicated thing. You feel them. And avoid them at the same time.

Claim to be numb.

But sometimes cry your eyes out. Pillow soaked in your sleep.

2 months seems like a short time. But it feels like ages.

So much has changed.

I am mother-less. An orphan.

Two months ago. I had a mother. And today I do not.

I will never get to hold her hand again.

A cemetery is just a place. She is not really there.

Bones. Underground. A temporary marker with a name and date.

I know I should go on my own. But I am scared of what I will feel.

I want to lay on her. My head on hers. My legs on hers.

I want to crawl inside the box and lay with my mother.

I miss my mother.

Ma. Why did you leave.

I write this and tears fling down my face.

This is why I have avoided writing. Painting.

Anything that involves real emotion.

Ma. I miss you.

Everything is different.

A lot of good thing things have happened. And I can't share with you.

You are not here. You are gone.

Some painful stuff. I wish You were still here.

So I could crawl into your bed. Lay with you.

2 months ago. I buried my mother.

I saw her for the last time. Placed in a box. Placed in the ground.

My mother is gone. And I have to keep going.

Ma. I miss you.

20 Days

I went to the cemetery. It’s Rosh Chodesh Nissan. We’re not supposed to go during Nissan. We don’t get to go on the final day of shloshim. 

My mother is buried under that patch of ground. She is in a box. I don’t even know which way she is facing. Is her head up or down. Where are her feet. Her head. Has she started decomposing. 

It’s weird to stand there. I want to feel sad. I don’t understand how we’ve gotten here. Why has life brought us here. I don’t understand. The ground is sunken in over her box. The ground has settled. The marker at the foot of her grave has an incorrect date. In English and in Hebrew. How can they get such an important date wrong. 

My father cries when he reads tehillim out loud. Only then can I start feeling sad. Do the tears come. It hurts that she’s gone. I feel guilt that I have wished her dead for so many years. 

I miss visiting her. Holding her hand. Watching tv. Listening to music together. I miss her faces. I miss taking her outside and tanning in the park. I miss seeing her face so excited when I walk in the room. Throwing her hands up in excitement. I miss her knowing my name. 

I feel this constant guilt. And I wonder why I am not feeling sad. Why it’s so hard to cry. Why I mostly feel nothing. Empty. Walking around in a haze. 

I miss listening to music. The quiet is so hard. I need music to help me feel. It’s been twenty days without my mother. And everything feels so different. It feels so much harder to connect to my family. 

Feels so much harder to connect in general. Why am I so hard on myself. Why is there no clear way to deal with all of this. 

Twenty whole days without my mother. And I feel like I wasted all that time she was alive. I could have made the most of it. Instead I complained. I was bitter. I should have gotten to know her. Outside of the illnesses. I shouldn't have blamed her. I should have understood. 

And now it's too late. She's gone. She's in that grave. In that sunken in ground. With a marker that has the wrong date. And I am here in the silence. Trying to feel. 

Mourning

The Jewish mourning process is supposedly set up to help people mourn in stages. Five stages from what I've read in all those miserable books. Filled with rules and laws that no real human can follow. Maybe guidelines or traditions. Who knows.

The first stage is called ANINUT (or aninus for the Ashkenazic Americans). One who is in this in-between stage is called an ONEN. This person is free of all positive commandments. The law was established with the knowledge that all focus should be on the immediate death. I was in ONEN status for six hours.

It's not easy to get that call. And I have gotten it a few times over the years. The "you need to come now" call. And every time, I fly to the nursing home or hospital. Wherever we are spending our lives during those days. Driving like a maniac. Wondering is this it. Do I turn off the music. Do I run home and cut my nails. And, yeah, sometimes it was pretty scary. Walking into a hospital room. My family surrounding a large bed. With a very small person. My mother gasping for air.

But she has always made it through.

Except this time.

This was it. The final call. The call you think you have been preparing for your whole life. But when it comes. Total shock. Denial. Flying down the streets one last time. Maybe it is a false alarm. Maybe you misheard. Doubting your own ears. Your own comprehension. But you did hear it clearly. "Come now. Come now. Your mother is not doing well. You need to come now." And then within a few seconds, "she's very cold. She's dead." How can one deny such definitive words.

I entered the room and my mother was no longer. She was cold and grey. Her trach was disconnected. A gaping hole by her neck. Her eyes were slightly open. Limbs no longer stiff. Machines still beeping in the room. Feeding tubes and IV’s reaching to the floor. No longer attached. My father sitting by her side. Holding her hand. Crying silently.

My usual composure shattered. My cries uncontained. Sobbing. My mother died. My mother is dead. She lays before me but she is not there. I am motherless. I am an orphan. Have I willed this. This is what I always wanted. Freedom. From pain. For her. For me. Freedom from responsibility. So then why wasn't I ready. Why the intense shock. The overwhelming pain. How could I feel so alone. When she hasn't really been here for a long time. Maybe never.

Rabbi comes in and says we need to cover her. It's time. I scream and yell how I am not ready. I touch her feet. Something that she has always hated. Earlier years complaining. Recent years a grimace on her face. I stroke her face. Kiss her cheeks. There is no soul inside this hollow body. My mother died. My mother is dead.

We plan the funeral for later the same day. Allowing just enough time for family to come in from New York. The funeral home comes to wheel my mother's body out. All the doors are closed. We follow in sorrow. The tears just won't stop. At home, I shower and cut my nails. Not knowing when I will do them next. I sit on my bed to write my eulogy. Still regretting not speaking at Bubby's funeral. I will speak no matter how hard. No matter how painful.

At the funeral home, my siblings and family finally arrive. Thirty minutes after the service was supposed to begin. We all follow the casket. Of my dead mother. We enter a room filled with people. No seats left. People standing in every space available. No spare room to be found. In a box. In the front of the room. A large box. Way too big. My mother is dead. Inside this casket. A golden star of David on a blue cloth. Inside is my mother. My mother died. My mother is dead.

At the cemetery. We must rush. Have to beat the clock. Make it before the day becomes tomorrow. Lots of Rabbinic advisement. A rush job. Get the box in the ground. Cover it as fast as possible. So many people surrounding. All happening so fast. And then my brother says Kadish. For the first time. Something that he will have to say three times a day for the next year. Mourning publicly in front of a gathering of ten men. A minyan. Never to be missed. The mourners are ushered through two lines of people. One for the men and one for the women. And then we sit on the ground. Take off our shoes. We are officially in stage two.

The second stage includes the first three days of SHIVA, which immediately follow the burial. In an uncommon way. We started our Shiva at the cemetery. So as not to miss a minute. Delaying would cost us to sit Shiva another day. As we approach my father's house. Formerly my parents’ house, people are already on the porch. Waiting to comfort us. The mourners.

The point of this second stage is to allow mourners to experience their grief. Humans need time to be angry. To feel their feelings. Whatever they are. With no one to dictate how to behave. Mirrors are covered. Low chairs around the house. Hands to be washed. Washing away impurity. An egg to be eaten with bread. Symbolizing the circle of life. Perhaps. And in our case, due to the upcoming holiday, Shiva will only be during those three days. People will come in droves throughout the day. To comfort. Some to listen. Many to speak about themselves and their own pain or loss.

From early morning until late at night. I sat in that low chair. And I felt nothing. Empty. I laughed with some. But I could not remember any good memories to share. The disappointment in the picture painted of my mother. The careless things people said. The constant "well meaners." And yes. There were some who made a difference. But mostly numb. Until the night. When the house emptied out. When we laid in our beds. And we cried. I cried into my pillow. I sobbed. My mother died. My mother is dead. I will never see her again. I wasn't there enough. Who am I now. Without her.

The third stage is the reminder of the SHIVA. Literally translated as "seven." Referring to the seven days. This was more of a quiet stage for us. Unimaginable if we had to sit for an actual seven days.

The fourth stage of mourning is called the SHLOSHIM. Literally translated as "thirty". This stage refers to the thirty days from the burial on. Including both the second and third stage. I am now in Shloshim. The laws are not as strict as Shiva but they are still existent. Less joy. Less of everything. This numb feeling still overtaking.

And then she finally leaves. I am finally alone. After two intense weeks filled with people. I am back in my own place. My own bed. All I want to do is feel. So I open the link. And I watch the funeral. I cry out as if it is all fresh and new. It is fresh. I have not had a minute to feel anything. My mother died. My mother is dead. And now I am lost. I lay in my bed and I don't know what to do.

The fifth and supposed final stage is the year of mourning. It will be a long year ahead. Decisions to me made. Life to adjust to. New reality. New existence. Potential. Freedom.

Maybe the stages aren't so bad after all.

I was the Shabbat Imma in Gan. My mom always came. 

A Eulogy

Dear Ma, 

What can I say to the woman who brought me into this world.  You waited for so many years. So much pain and heartache.  You suffered through so much.  But despite all of the suffering, you were still my mother. Our Ma. You were so proud of us three children.  

The person that people saw in the last few years was not the real you. Although, your personality definitely peeked through. Your stubbornness. Your spunk. Your fight. You were a survivor. You taught me what it means to live. To hold on. 

I want to share some memories of the good times. 

Remember the time that we went horseback riding and you sat on the side reading a book waiting for us as a pig tried to eat your chair. 

Remember when you got your hair cutting license in Israel. You were so proud. Little did I know I would spend my childhood with short hair and short bangs as you would practice on my hair. Everyone in the Dorset area came to you for haircuts.

Remember how you were always bickering with Aunt Naomi on the phone and whenever you got together. You always argued about the time you walked through the glass door, you only got a book about animals, and when Aunt Naomi fell out of the car, she got markers. I can’t even count how many times I had to hear that story. 

Remember how you always had to match everything. Your shoes matched your skirt, which matched you shirt and eyeshadow. Your earrings were probably heavier than you.

Remember how you made coca cola chicken. Apricot meat that would melt in your mouth. And the best Bubby Kugel. 

Remember how you bought every Jewish book that came out. Your love for Rabbi Biographies. And millions of Miriam Adahan books. You went to almost every WIT class possible. Your notes were everywhere around the house. You went to shul every Shabbos. Always sitting up front. 

Remember Tai Chi. Remember how you and Bubby would be sitting by the window in Household two waiting for one of us to come. The minute you would see Abba walking towards you, you would stand up and mimic his motions. Putting your arms up above your head and copying all the arm motions he was doing in the parking lot. 

Your love for Abba was beyond anything. 

Remember how proud you were of Chaim. He is your pride and joy. Your obvious favorite. 

Remember when you found out you were pregnant withDevora. Was probably the happiest day of your life. 

Remember how you would talk to your father every day on the phone. 

Remember how you loved Simcha and Shira. How proud you were of the families they crated. 

Remember how grateful you were to Yechiel for the dedication and care for Aunt Naomi. You finally get to be with your sister. And your mother. And Bubby. You are finally pain free.  

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I’ll miss you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

Stop it

Not sure why I still let you get to me. Why do you have such control over my emotions. I try to separate myself. Be independent. Make my own choices. Live a healthy lifestyle. And yet you manage to make me feel so little. Vulnerable. Needy. Sad. Like that little girl who was never cared for properly. The child who just wanted to be noticed. Fed. Hugged. Why do I let you in so much. I am still somehow trying to fill that void. And I seem to be delusional and think you can do that. That you can step in and fix all that I am. That I feel. When it is most likely your fault to begin with.

Surgery #8

They came to get me that Friday evening. Transport that is. Two women wearing nets on their heads, chatting the whole time about their lives. As they wheeled me into the elevator on the 12th floor, “bump” one of them called out to me. The pain was so overwhelming, shooting through my lower back. My back that had been cut open two days earlier to stop my leaking spinal fluid. Here I was having to come to terms with another surgery. Was I avoiding reality? In denial. Most probably. 

We get to the large pre-op room and I am placed in a little cubicle. Two men come forward. One steps close to the head of my bed and informs me that he is a graduate student and has to ask me some questions. Ok I think, here we go. And then he stupidly asks me if I have ever had any surgeries. Umm hello? Are you for real? Have you even read my file, I ask him. He steps back as if a wounded puppy and then the next guy steps forward. 

Now this guy looks more seasoned. Not his first time at the rodeo. I ignore him and watch the TV above my head as it silently plays Will & Grace. Alex is his name. He has a faint Russian accent and informs me that he is the anesthesiologist and apologized for his acquaintance. He clearly sensed my frustration. Alex is one of those doctors who emanates bedside manner. He stood there holding my hand and chatting as we waited for my operating room to be ready. He was trying to rile me up, kept telling me to curse if I felt like it. We schmoozed about his family and career and my past surgeries, good experiences and bad. I felt validated and listened to. 

Finally the time had come to head to the operating room. They asked me if I could scoot from my hospital bed onto the operating table. I find that table laughable. How is a person meant to actually lay on that tiny board without falling off? I always ask what a fat person does. The operating room staff snicker at my questions and sarcastic comments. I try to wiggle my way but cannot maneuver or bend my back without screaming in pain. Alex and the grad student grab my arms and lift me onto the table. Holding a mask over my face and reminding me to breathe deep breaths. It’s not working, I am still alert. I feel the needle puncture my hand as they search for a vein for a second IV. I wince and Alex grabs my hand tightly while gently rubbing my forehead and whispering that all will be ok and I am doing great. 

That is the last thing I remember as I drifted off into a silent reality. I woke up less than two hours later as they pulled the tube out of my throat, me vomiting everywhere. Wheeling me directly to postop, it was then that recovery would begin. The last four months would no longer dictate my life. This surgery was going to be a solution. No longer the bandaid approach.

To be continued... 

Five Minutes

Have not been able to write in a long time. It has been many challenging months. Seems to be very difficult to get a break. 

Eight surgeries since March and my body is just not responding well anymore. I have just been discharged from the hospital on Tuesday after twelve days and two painful surgeries. 

This is not how I planned on entering another year. I was hoping to move forward. Finish school. Make something of myself. 

And instead, the hospitalizations are getting closer and closer. Constant visits to the emergency room. Spending more time with the neurosurgery residents than my actual friends. One rolling vein after another. My body can't do it anymore. My mind cannot calm down. 

All I want is to heal. To feel alert and alive. Be independent. Make my own choices. Be in control of my own body. To feel comfortable in any position. Be rid of this constant chronic pain. No more painkillers. To sleep. 

No more. I have had enough. It's gotten to a point where I cry for my mother. Who have I become. This slobbering, pathetic person. Can't get my act together. 

I whisper to myself throughout the day. Just get through the next five minutes. 

My mind is constantly running. Mostly at night. When sleep should take over. Instead, the pain and the thoughts take over. Reminding me of how awful life is. Of all the pain. The things I cannot do. 

I lay there for hours at a time dozing in and out of delirium. Imagining the worst. Dreaming and creating holocaust-like stories in my mind. Reliving memories that never happened. With people who are not here. Are not in my life. Or cannot even talk. 

I think of my mother. A lot. And I cry for the parents I wish I had. The home I wish I could go to. A cocoon where I can feel safe. Loved. Taken care of.  

I cry for my future. A future that felt so close. At the tips of my fingers. Slowly slipping away. I cry for my independence. I can't even take a shower on my own. My head is partially shaved. I am not myself. I cry for no reason at all. Being overwhelmed and exhausted should be enough of a reason. 

That's all for now. I need to lay down. 

I can make it through the next five minutes. 

That's all that matters right now. 

Five minutes. 

Bruised

I have been told by many recently that I should share what I am feeling. Not hold back. Playing the martyr. Adult. The one always in control. I'm afraid. Afraid that if I share, I will never survive. I will unleash this flood of tears that is suffocated so far down in my soul that I will not be able to stop. I will drown if I open up.

The truth is that I am bruised. Inside and out. My skin is black and blue. The staples go way deeper than my skin. They puncture my heart. Each metal piece cutting deeper and deeper until I am almost see-through. Non-existent.

I'm tired. Worn out. Beyond exhausted. Too much energy needed to pick up all the pieces. Again. Put everything back together. Function. Would you be surprised if this time I just can't. That I just want to give up. To be done.

Have I not lived long enough. Gone through it all. Put in my time. Why is thirty not considered a full life. I've given it all. I've lived. I'm tired. No more.

Whatever. That's it.

Waiting Room

Scheduled for early morning. Delayed due to a rough night. One blood transfusion and nine hours later, I get a call from my father. I fly out of work. Arrive in record timing. The elevator can't move fast enough. My heart is beating through my chest. I make it to ICU just in time. 

The anesthesiologist is instructing the transport team. I ask for a minute. As I fumble to get the gown and gloves on. I hold her swollen hand and lean over to kiss her cheek. Stroke her hair. She cannot hear me. But maybe somewhere deep inside she can feel me. 

They start wheeling her out and I ask to come with. I walk slowly behind the procession of nurses and doctors. Walk behind the bed in which she is confined. I try not to think of past and future processions. Nothing good can come of those thoughts. 

In the blink of an eye, we all stop short. The nurse informs me I can go no further. I am not welcome through the double doors. She tells me it's time to say goodbye. Everyone steps back. 

I lean over the woman who carried me for eight months. The woman who I call Ma. I kiss her cheek. And I tell her I will be right here. That she should be brave. And that I will see her when she comes out. She cannot hear one word. 

And then she is gone. 

And now I sit here. And wait. I wait for the unknown. 

I wait. 

Ma

Mother. Is an abstract concept. A given. Everyone has one. Or do they. Biological. Part of humanity. Society. Way of life. But is it. Some do not choose it. Others forced. Precious few are deserving.

My mother wanted me. She waited and waited. Let down one too many times. She suffered. Suffered for years. Much heartache. And then I appeared. Tiny but not really. A bundle of joy. Surrounded by difficulty. Constant suffering.

Ma. Mommy. Imma.

Where are you. Why does this keep happening to you. To us. I just don't understand. How are you able to withstand all this pain. All this sorrow. Ma. I wish you knew who I was. I wish you were my real mother. I wish you could make everything ok. Make me ok.

I can't look at you. So pathetic and sad. So small. How did we get here. How did this become our lives. How could I have thought we hit rock bottom so many years ago. And look at us now. Broken. Alone. Ma. Where are you. Open your eyes. Can you hear my voice. Blink.

Where is the justice. On your birthday. Is God mocking. Playing the evil puppeteer. We are helpless marionettes. Ma. Wake up. Breathe. Take those precious breathes. Fight. Don't leave me. I can't live without you. I need you more than I have ever realized. So what if you weren't perfect. You were still there. And maybe I wasn't always there. Still not. But I knew where to find you.

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

If it's your time. Then let go. It's ok. We will all understand. We just want you to be calm. At peace. Pain free.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I need you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

What Are You Waiting For

Don't ask me for an update. If you really cared, you would just show up. I know that you have your own life. Wrapped up in your own world.

So far away. Four whole hours.

But seriously.

It is really hard for me to be understanding. Stay open-minded and positive. Your occasional message checking in. What are you waiting for.

A funeral.

Because it will happen one day. And then what. What will you feel then. Will you regret. All those times you did not bother to come. Those precious moments that you missed.

You can still catch that brief smile of recognition. It's not too late. But the clock is ticking. Decline is happening. And you are not here.

What are you waiting for.

Waiting for that phone call.

The phone call that will change all of our lives. Alter reality as we know it. And then you will show up. And be sad.

Mourning.

For this tremendous loss you feel. But never actually took advantage of the time that you did have. And did not bother to come and make a difference. You left it up to others.

Us.

Always our responsibility. Burden. Pain. Privilege. To care for. And hold. To feed. And cheer up. A lifetime revolved around. Affected.

In the end. We will have very little regret. Will feel pride and comfort. That we did all we could.

Almost.

That we were there.

And you will come and it will be too late. You will drop everything and finally show up. And it will not matter anymore. Because you missed out. Your loss.

And while it will be a loss for us. We will be consoled that our faces were recognized. Hands squeezed. Occasional name uttered.

We were always there.

6 Years.

6 Years.

72 Months.
2190 Days.
52560 Hours.
3153600 Minutes.

Time is a funny thing.
Slows down when you need it to pass.
Flies by when you want to catch the moment.
You can't change it.
Only relive it.

Time has a mind of its own.
Memories are confused.
Brain in a fog.
Thoughts rearranged.
Is any of it true.

Time never leaves.

Always in the background.

You can't escape it.
Only avoid suffocation.
Wait to forget.

This day comes every year. 

Less and less meaning. 

As time evaporates. 

Memories fade. 

Tomorrow is another day. 

#AllLivesMatter

#BlackLivesmatter

How about 

#AllLivesMatter

Why do we separate 

Each other

Ourselves

Paris

Orlando

Dallas

All sad events

Unnecessary

Could have been prevented

Appearance

Lifestyle

Should not be a factor

Changing your profile picture 

Sharing a hashtag 

Using social media 

Makes no difference 

Helps no one 

Is absolutely useless 

Did you ever think 

About Israel 

In constant state of attack 

When's the last time 

You changed your profile picture 

Because a Palestinian stabbed an Israeli 

Blame the cops 

Point out color 

Rant and rave 

Just remember that tiny country 

Smaller than rhode island 

Suffering daily 

At the hands of the devil 

Constantly on alert

Defending its life as a nation 

So just cut it out 

A waste of words 

Get off that stupid soapbox 

This is all I have to say

Written By My Sister

Hi everyone. Tonight I want to share my mother with you and the journey my family has been through throughout our life.

When I was four years old my mother’s kidney failed, yet she was successfully able to have a transplant from a three year old donor. This wasn’t all. She was also diagnosed with diabetes and a hearing impairment. My mother is a petite and fragile lady; she weighs roughly the same as the average 9 year old. I can barely count the many trips we took back and forth from the hospital. All I can say as life went on, so did my mother’s health as it slowly deteriorated more and more.

In 8th grade my mother completely lost her hearing, not just in one ear, but in both. She underwent surgery to insert cochlear implants. These are magnets inserted in the brain, connected to an outer piece, and without it she is completely deaf.

The summer going into highschool I was fortunate to have been able to attend sleep-away camp. This opportunity allowed me to feel like any ordinary 13 year old girl. As I was coming home, I was most looking forward to having my mother pick me from the bus. But as the pulled in to the parking lot, I saw my father sitting there instead, I automatically registered something was definitely wrong. My father then told me the news that would change my life forever, my mother’s health was spiraling out of control. My mother had a stroke leaving the left side of her body severely damaged. That summer was the beginning of a new reality. Instead of me spending my summer shopping and having fun with friends, I sat by mother’s side in the hospital and prayed for her recovery. Fortunately, we were able to bring my mother home a month later. Along with my mother’s presence came nurses and physical therapists who attended for my mother when we weren’t home.

Half way through 11th grade my mother developed a disease called fahr’s disease. For those unfamiliar with the disease symptoms include; deterioration of motor functions and speech, seizures, and involuntary movements, headaches, dementia, vision impairment, tiredness, slow or slurred speech, difficulty swallowing, and neuropsychiatric symptoms. These are all symptoms similar to Parkinson’s disease. All of this is caused by a buildup of calcium in the brain. Unfortunately, there is no cure for this.

Because of all these symptoms we are no longer capable of taking care of my mother in our own home. From that point on till today, my mother lives in a Jewish nursing home that I and my family have spent that past three years of our lives.

Just like most of us, I haven’t seen my mother in the past 9 months. YET FOR ME IT IS SO DIFFERENT. As of this year my mother is no longer able to walk, my mother is no longer able to speak, and my mother barely knows my own name.

Just imagine if YOU had to shower your own mother. Just imagine if YOU had to dress you own mother. And just imagine if YOU had to feed your own mother.

• A major lesson I have learnt from this all is that in life we are given our own personal situations. I knew I had no choice but to accept mine. 
• I learnt the real meaning of chessed. From all the volunteers who are still constantly helping me and my family. 
• I learnt that the phrase “I am bored”, should never be said. Because then Hashem will place something in your life so you won’t be bored. 
• Lastly, this lesson we can all work on. THE POWER OF SENSITIVITY! It is so easy for all of us to just talk without thinking. We all discuss topics without thinking who in the room my words might be targeting. 

Just a simple example;

Many times people talk about how they miss their mother’s homemade food.
But for me I just miss my mother’s presence.

Many people complain about doing chores to help their mother.
But I just wish my mother could ask me to do something for her.

I want to end off by saying we should all look around and recognize the people we have in our lives; for some people it’s their family, some friends, and some teachers, but regardless of who they are it’s what they are to us.

Polar

Polar opposites

Two sides of a coin

Day and night

Sun and moon

One young and the other old

The young one is quiet. Often introspective. Thoughts flood her mind at all times. She is mostly sad. Stuck in a past life. Forever reliving memories. She is 6 years old. Wants to be held. To be heard. To be listened to. She is artistic. Creative. A loyal friend. Would drop anything to be there for you.  

The old one is loud. A leader. A bitch. Take charge kind of gal. She has a hard shell. Built a fortress around her heart. No one would dare enter. Giving up is not option. She shows up. No matter what. Fights to lead a functional life. No one can think she is weak. She is 80. Propelled into adulthood. Forced to be mature. Make life decisions. She is a fighter. She will leave before you hurt her.

One is mean to the other

Telling her to snap out of it

Not to fall into the trap

Of life

Of love

The other is sad

She is tired

Begging the other to make things ok

To hold her hand

Waiting for a pain free moment

They are polar

But perhaps one day they could meet

Join forces

Unite

And form an alliance

Authenticity Is Overrated

She feels calm

Calmness to breathe 

To sleep 

She has clarity 

Clear minded 

Clear conscious 

She is free 

Freedom to express herself 

Be herself 

She has no fear 

Of others

Herself 

She is unique 

One of a kind 

Unlike anyone else 

She is legitimate 

Solid and whole 

Accepted and needed

She is genuine 

Inside and out

Transparent 

Wake Up

I'm still here
And I am tired
I need a break
From life
From everyone
But mostly from myself
A minute
Would be nice
Of calm
Freedom
From reality
Life
Just one second
Pain free
No thoughts
Sleep
Why does my body
Betray me
Just need a break
Not sure how much more
I can take

Cry for the Future

I am always so composed
Together
Hold my real emotions inside
The deep dark ones
That no one really knows about
Would scare them if they did
The ones that control me
That I think about day and night
No break
Control my every moment
Suffocate me
In silence
The cup is not full
Or Empty
There is no cup
It is missing

Today
I cried for the first time
In over a year
I cried tears
Real tears
Flinging around
Uncontrollable
My mother
Is in the hospital
Again
She will not open her eyes
Cannot hear me
Register I am in front of her
Holding her hand
Stroking her face
My tears are dripping on her
And she does not notice
My mother
Who I never visit
Never appreciate
May never wake up
And now it's too late
I may get my wish
And be an orphan

My father
Now he is another story
Does he even realize
He is suffocating me
Killing me slowly
Day after day
Year after year
Does he even notice me
He walks out of the room
As if I do not exist

I sit there
And I cry
I cry for the past
I cry for the present
And I cry for the future

an orphan with living parents

How do you write about something when you've been avoiding facing reality for so long. How do you open that wound that has been so neatly packed. Danced around for so long. What do you say when you don't think anyone is listening. And if they are, you know they can't handle what you have to say. What do you do when you are afraid of your own humanity. Your own reality. The power. The sadness. What do you do when the sadness takes over your life. Threatens to swallow you whole. Suctioned to another place. Six feet under. How do you verbalize those words. Capture those deep emotions. Where do you place that self awareness. How do you keep going.

I am an orphan with living parents. I am alone. I am surrounded by people but I am alone. My parents are living and breathing. But they are not here. They do not know me. They do not want me. They are selfish. They never really looked at me. Seen me for who I was. They used me. Abused me. And left me to rot. All I wanted was to be loved. To be welcomed. To be wrapped in their hearts and never let go. But they were distracted. Consumed. And I was left to fend for myself. I am left to pick up the pieces. Of my shattered soul.

You have abused your power. You were supposed to be there. Love me. Hold me. Guide me. You held the blueprints to the future. And instead you shunted my growth. You altered my reality. You forced me into roles where I did not belong. I took on everyone else's burden. But no one was there to protect me. You abandoned me. I am abandoned. And now all I feel is a void. An emptiness deep in my gut. That cannot be filled. You were supposed to be the parents. You were my example of how to navigate this complicated world. And you failed.

All I ever wanted was unconditional love. And support. And you couldn't even give me that. A basic need. My human right. Everything with you comes at a cost. A hefty price. Sanity is not an option. You don't care if I make it through the day. If I ever materialize to be something real. You have sucked me dry. Corrupted my thoughts. Controlled my mindset. Your voice echos in my brain. Saying nothing helpful. I lead my life in fear. Of others' knowing me. Of myself. Of never amounting to anything. Because you never believed in me. You didn't even give me a chance.

And now you have robbed me of my anger. The only defense mechanism left. There's no more hiding. Or avoidance. The truth has finally surfaced. Hit me in the face. You are toxic. You were never good for me. No matter how hard I try to find another conclusion. I can't. There is no choice. I can't survive with you in the way. You missed out on knowing me. Of being in my life. Of making a positive impact. I am an orphan by choice. Because although you are biologically my parents. You don't deserve the title.

I am an orphan with living parents. It's not something anyone wants to hear. It's not something I want to say. But I can hide from it no longer. I am an orphan with living parents.