healing

A Child’s Function

Children are not born with jobs

But I was born to provide, a function

To this family of mine, to be

born with eyes to see, everything

All the cracks and broken wings

And I have seen them pour

What they can, into the cups

Of all who came before, and yet

For themselves, they leave dust

In isolation they place their trust

An isolation that feels so free

They locked the door

And threw away the key

I was born with the capacity

To fill my brain to brim

With every word and phrase

That might resuscitate

those feelings within, they have

long ago shut down as sin

I was born to be a healer

But I was left in pieces

And yet still so loved

By all who saw, the beating

Heart which should not thrive

Still yet it grew, with jagged edges

Like a garden of thorns, overgrown

In a bed of sweet roses

And these jagged pieces, they had

whittled so well, began to pierce

my allies and leave instead, enemies

of small, large, and middling size

For my enemies were clever too

They were slick and from there they slipped

As thin strips of soft metal, smoothly navigating

this garden maze, a straight shot to find

the petals within, and in these enemies

I poured all my love and hopes

Leaving behind, only what

Was sharp and rough but could not cope

Because I have had a function

To see with eyes that pierce

The veil of apathy they wear so well

I thought it was their face at first

And yet the veil does speak

There is an outcry from behind

A voice from which I cannot turn

When I can pour so much more

Into this emptiness I see before

And so I love them even more

Because I was not taught

Children do not have a function

They do not provide a need

They are allowed to exist

And grow with love

Without pouring into mother’s cup

They are allowed to exist

In blindness to the emptiness

Of a father’s still beating heart

They should be taught, to fill

Themselves before they come along

To those whose cups lie still

There are children whose ears

Do not hear the melancholy ache

Of a silent heart that can only take

And so I cry for myself, for all

who I encounter, for all the cries

I hear that I must leave unanswered

Because my function is not to heal

My function is to live and live in love

A love so bone deep, I can fill my cup

Because I can lift my veil and the truth I see

Is I was not born with sharper eyes or better ears

It is that I was pushed, and I was shoved

Into a hole so small, I was molded

Into the tool I thought I was

A hole so small they could fill my cup

And believe they had in fact given me enough

Do you ever break your own heart? Asking for a friend.

“You’ll Miss Me When I’m Dead”: A Mother’s Lament

I am filled with an idle sense of ongoing grief over my relationship with my parents. The worst part about growth and perspective is the people you leave behind in the process. For me, two of those people were always going to be my parents.

“I don’t need therapy, I’m going to die like this.” I’ve heard this from my mother multiple times in the last few years. Not only is that a bold assertion that between now and your death, you do not intend to grow, but it’s also the sharpest dagger you could wield against someone you claim to love. To their face, you are telling them you do not want to be better for them. You are telling them they are not worth the difficulty in initiating change.

One of my mother’s favorite things to tell us is: “You’ll miss me when I’m dead.”

The truth is, I miss her now. I, so distinctly, feel the absence of the intimate connection you are designed to have with your mother. When I need comfort, I turn to myself. I turn to my dog. I turn to a hug from my nephew. I turn to a FaceTime with my best friend.

This is the ongoing state of grief. Physically, she is present. Financially, she pops up for help when she can. Emotionally, I have never been able to depend on her. The cost of this absence was the building blocks to every opportunity for intimacy I sabotaged between high school and now. The cost of this absence was the people I chose who mistreated and devalued me. The cost of this absence was the deeply rooted belief “you are too much and no one will understand you.” Letting go of the idea that I can only depend on myself has been an ongoing ordeal. Like her, I have participated in the self-abandonment necessary to believe I am better off alone.

I have allowed myself to eat crumbs off the floor to feel the validation I should have been instilled with from the beginning. With my mother, it is not a question of whether she will hurt me but when. Most conversations are laid with hidden mines of triggers. The worst part is always the few times we truly can have deep conversations because it perpetuates the illusion of intimacy. She’s right, when she’s dead, I’ll miss her. I will grieve her loss. I will also grieve the relationship I always wanted but could never get.

I want to meet you,
With love in my heart.
I want to meet you,
With a shard of who I am.
This fractured bit,
I saved for this moment.
Which train did you catch?
Did you book a one way?
You’re further out to horizon,
Pushing farther and farther.
Say you’ll hop off and walk.
Slip out the back with an excuse.
Just say you’ll walk back to me,
So I can meet you with love.

I have endeavored to learn everything I could about mental health and trauma to better understand not just myself but also my family. My mother laments the sour edges of our relationship, but she will take no action to improve it.

The worst lie I ever told myself was that I can live with less because someone else can’t provide more. The truth I’ve had to accept is that I allowed this mindset to permeate my life for too long. The connections I want now are deep and real. I am valuable, important, and worthy of effort. You can always choose to pivot. There is always opportunity to change. You can admit that you want more from life than what you have witnessed around you. There is no reward without risk. Admitting your vulnerabilities, your wants, and your desires is powerful and necessary. Healing from trauma is a gift you give to yourself and the world around you.

I never like to give power to my trauma. I am not grateful for it. I am grateful for how I took control of my interiority and how I have grown from it. So is it a tragedy or a flex that no one has or will ever break my heart like my own mother has before?