cindypovs

[cindypovs]

it’s a beautiful day and etc

So. Tomorrow (or today, since it’s already past midnight?) is mother’s day. My second after the passing of my mother. Last year I celebrated it in true grieving-daughter-fashion: taking my dad to lunch. This year, with quarantine and all that, there’s no possibility of doing that and to be honest, I really don’t want to. So I am celebratin in true my-mother fashion: by drinking wine late night and listening to U2. Last weekend I binge-watched the whole first season of Never Have I ever and it really kicked my feelings. My mother was a die hard rock n’ roll fan. She was all “Stairway To Heaven Is My phone Ring”, “I Have Watched Pink Floy’s The Wall Countless Times.” “Yes I Have Pretty Much The Whole Beatles Discography On Vinyl.” kinda person. Nobody ever took her very seriously. Everybody (inclusing me, honestly) just kinda... Never cared about her taste ‘cause she didn’t knew her music anyway, right? 

But she actually did. I took my passion for music, rock concerts and recordings from her and I recognize it now. Back in the begining of the last decade, she had this phase in which she was obsessed with this U2 live concert she saw somewhere (I don’t know which one is, I’m not that big on them so I can’t really recall their records) and she asked my dad to burn it for her on a dvd. She would listen to it all. the. fucking. time. 

Aside from liking Sunday Bloody Sunday and Still Haven’t Found, I’ve never got her crush on Bono Vox. I mean, U2 was just too... White-50-something-dad-ish to me. But as I was watching Never Have I Ever last week and the (now) dead father said Beautiful Day was his favorite song I fucking cracked. My mother was a hell of a woman. Damn, she was wild, smart as fuck, one of the best people I’ve ever met and I am honestly not saying that as her daughter. She was definitely a good person; and she was too good at just... Being good. She was a die-hard activist when she was young (and for that reason she spent pretty much all of her adult life being kinda scared of authority and such, having grown up in the middle of a military dictatorship); she was a die-hard volunteer to lots of causes when she got older. And to be fairly honest, she did it in such a natural way that I only realized she spent her whole life helping others when I was an adult already.

That woman was... I don’t know. She was her whole fucking person. She had all those quircks and qualities that were so hers, I think I’ll spend the rest of my life searching for a friend like she was to me. She couldn’t swear (she just hated curse words), so she would just splash those random words angrily when she felt the need to curse. I heard her say the portuguese equivalent for “fuck” exact four times in 22 years. I took many things from her. My passion for writing, my hability to watch the same movies a hundred times and never get bored, my taste for white-dad-music, my taste for cheap red wine, my depression. Me and my sister got the same diseases she struggled her whole life: depression, anxiety, eating disorders, personality disorders. My mother, unfortunately, was not lucky enough to have been born in a time in which it was okay for her to go to therapy without telling anyone. Or taking her meds without being considered a complete nutcase. 

There were thousands of things I couldn’t understand about her. I just couldn’t get why she couldn’t manage to work properly, why she got so fucking thin in a matter of months, why she refused to go to her therapist even if she was collapsing. I understood some of those things exactly a month before she died, when I went to my first appointment with a psychiatrist. It took me three weeks to tell her because I was scared she would disapprove, or that she would tell me to stop going. The day I told her, over a phonecall, was actually our last conversation. It lasted more than an hour and she said she wanted me to do whatever it took me to survive. I am still trying to and it is not getting any easier. 

I miss her every. single. fucking. day. Even though we wouldn’t call everyday after I moved out of her house, I knew she had my back, I knew I could call her and ask for her meatloaf recipe. It took me a long while to get out of bed after she died and even a longer while to start eating again, to go back to my doctors. When I finally did, right when I decided I was ready to go back to work, we got quarantined. And well, I fucking hate it. I wish I was out there, living. Not right here. But I am living. Good or bad, happy or not, I am living. 

And today is mother’s day. I don’t want to celebrate with anyone. Not my dad, not my stepmother, not my grandmother. Dammit, I don’t fucking want to celebrate it at all (sorry ma for all the swearing, I hope the translators in the afterlife tell you I am saying ‘bananas’ like you taught me). I just want to get it out somehow. 

So yeah, it’s fucking mother’s day, I am kinda wine-drunk, quarantine sucks, this thing here has no proper ending, I love my mother and I am glad for the 22 years I could spend just... Being around her. Even when she got obsessed with Bono Vox. Or when she sang weirdly to his tunes. Scratch that, I loved her specially then. That woman gave me my sister, who is the most important person on the fucking earth to me, she gave me lots of things that I don’t like, such as my mental problems and my ugly feet. But she gave me life and she taught me that I matter. When I needed her the most, everytime I needed her the most, she had my back. And told me I am important, that she choose to have me. I will be forever grateful.

And I will not reread this shit so it will be full of spelling errors.

It’s a beautiful day, etc. 

I love you, mom. Thanks for 23 years and counting. 

[cindypovs]

margareth mae: short sentences.

Sunsets. Three A.M. phonecalls. Crying on rooftops. Skateboard injuries. Surfing injuries. Random shivers during the day. Smiling behind curtains. Stretching. Dancing. Getting better and better at dancing. Getting better at singing. But screaming to classic rock anthems in the shower with a terrible voice. Working hard. Crying at backstage bathrooms. Flower scented shampoo. Hoodies. His hoodies. Going to the gym when stressed. Missing the beach every single day. Driving too fast. Drinking too much water. Complaining about having to go pee one too many times. Listening to indie rock bands. Secretly fantasizing about weddings. Ripped off jeans. Dirty sneakers. Oversized t-shirts. Crop tops. Pretending not to know which t-shirts on the closet used to be his. Secretly returning his shirts once they lose his scent. Borrowing another ones. Hating dresses and skirts. Loving shorts that are too short. Screaming at the phone. Crying of anger. Apologizing. Watching the movie Almost Famous more times than a regular person should. Planning tattoos that will never be made. Hating her name. But smiling everytime her father says it. Missing home. Never wanting to go back. Writing secret songs. Being too jealous. Laughing too hard. Being too loud. Making pancakes. Putting smiles and eyes make of honey on them. Going to sleep to the sound of beach waves on her headphones. 

[cindypovs]

what day is this, besides the day you left me?

The hardest thing is that every love song I hear has been contamined by those unfaithful and depressive thoughts. There’s no long lost love songs for me anymore, since every single one of them remind me of my dead mother or my absent father. There’s no love songs for me, because love was taken away by the certainty that every person that steps into my life will come, sweep me of my feet, destroy every small thing I’ve been able to build on the past few years and then leave.

Leaving is, of course, something that happens. People die, or their priorities change, or we leave them before they can even think about leaving us. But leaving is also something that hurts.

To be farily honest, right now, the only thing I want is to leave. To forget this life and try it again somewhere else, to give myself a new chance of being alive. Because this place, this situation, this madhouse I’ve been living in has been taking my mental stability away since years ago and I have reached a point in which I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get it back.

Did I do all that I could? What if I haven’t tried enough? 

But it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, those who want or who need to leave will leave. There’s nothing you can do about it. 

I am not scared of abandonment. I’ve faced it so many times that at this point I have learned to see it as something that will eventually happen and that’s ok. That doesn’t stop me from having the good times tattoed in my heart. But this time, differetly from the others, it hits at different places. One day my mother left her comfort zone to protect me. The other, she left everything she had so I could be happier. The other, she left me. She left everyone, she left her own life. I’m done blaming her, or me, or anyone for that, it was her moment to go and I respect that.

But now, exactly one year after, I feel like I am being left again. And this time by the person who swore they would always stay. This time by the person who has the choice to stay, but keeps choosing to go. And well, he will keep choosing to go. I don’t want my dad to put my happiness in front of his, no, not al all. I want him to put his happiness in front of everything. And by extent, to respect the fact that I have not chose to be born, I wasn’t offered a choice. I was never offered a choice. 

I just want him to respect the fact that I am his daughter, not his roomate, not a friend he can discard. I don’t need him to take care of me. I just... Need to be respected. 

And I am so, so, so tired. I just want this to end. I just want to be able to move on. 

[cindypovs]

hopelessly devoted to you

Stella Song has always been a hopeless romantic. More hopeless than romantic, to be fairly honest. Even though she poses as fierce and independent, all the years of trauma, bad male figures and failed relationships have turned her into someone who is torn between her constant need of self-preservation and her constant starve for affection. Damn, that girl had seen all sorts of wrong role models while growing up. Her mother had no sense of what was thinking for herself. She was a good woman, who went to church, did her deeds, had two beautiful and equally polite daughters. But she always put her man first. Always. In front of her, in front of the girls. 

The same extended to her aunts and pretty much all of her Georgia friends. Good girls, polite, talkative (when the men were not speaking), smart (but always a step behind the men around them), pretty (but always wearing skirts that would not upset their boyfriends and husbands). Good girls at heart, with so much potential, that would get nice careers, but never grow more than her men could. 

Her sister was though as nails, a girl who always fought for her rights and independency, but still failed at pretty much any relationship she had. She would always be dating men who would took her money, her hopes, her dreams and leaft her there, standing and wishing the next one would be at least a little bit better. They never were.

Stella tried hard to break that cycle. Oh, she tried. When she left the state, her big sister in tears at the airport, she just wanted to become a full human being who didn’t need anyone by her side. As a fairy-tale oriented girl, she still believed in prince charming, but she wanted to want him around, not to need him. She dreamed of someone good. But, with all sorts of bad role models, all sorts of poorly done choices and bad taste in both men and in relationships, the trauma stayed and kept her from even letting people know her. The undying fear of starting to love again just to find out that the guy wanted her under him and not by his side kept her from even liking anyone. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting herself stay under this hipothetical guy’s command. Not again. Not after almost giving up on ther univeristy scholarship because her boyfriend didn’t wanted her to go.

It kept being hard to runaway from old patterns. Hard to runaway from those men who made her who she is, a more hopeless than romantic girl. But she tried. With all of her heart. She tried to believe that love existed and that it didn’t have to be bad. It didn’t have to be full of dominance and fear. 

She is still, to this day, constantly learning how to pursue someone who let her be free, who appreciates her mind more than her body and her growing devotion towards him.

Even though she still get into trouble for being so naive and clueless, she still tries to maintain a strong bond with herself. She still thinks one day someone will give back all the love she knows she will give them. Because she knows that she’s not capable of loving without devoting. Without expressing concerns and care. She cannot be in love without putting this person on her arms and without worrying about his health, his safety, all of him as a person.

She just wishes one that there will be a boy that will look at her and keep her just as safe and cared of as she will do for him. 

[cindypovs]

tag dump. ⊹