whosingsofjoy

[whosingsofjoy]

Stranger Animal

I shovel the grief into my mouth, digging a wide grave, blind by insatiable need for misery or proof of moral failure.

I can hardly see, it’s all too loud, I’m haunting through the hours of my life. I’m covered in dirt and my skin crawls.

Notice the roadkill, how fur blanketed shoulders face the median. The deer always lie there like a lover scorned, or sickly friend if that’s more fitting.

Don’t forget to look at the blood, the black skidded intestines along the interstate.

I pray your death was quick, pray that you can be happy now that you’re gone. But surely I’m too optimistic, as I always am.

I’ll dream of you tonight, stranger animal. Rust colored and smelling like hot asphalt.

I’ll even count the days it takes to forget.

. One

. Two

. Five

. Six

. Ten

Perfection, how ridiculous. The same fever as wrath. I don’t see perfection, I don’t want that unnatural glamour.

But no matter my protests, agony, denial.

I’m chained at the wrist, fated to hear those whispers in every dark room.

125610

You only live once, right?

125610

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125610

125610…

[whosingsofjoy]

TW: this may be a heavy vent piece. Scroll if you don’t want to read vague descriptions of my childhood! It’s just been on my mind lately.

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8 years old, cocooned

I wonder if they know how I would lay awake, staring at the closet, missing the light that dad took away because it reminded him too much of mom.

Trying hard not to think of the dark, trying hard not to think about what I can’t see. Too young to understand.

Before, I would wake up crying, reeling from a nightmare filled with blood, I would hold my breath and gather the courage to walk across the hall into their bedroom. Quickly off the bed, away from what’s underneath, my eyes wide and searching down the hall, I could never see through the dark, but I made sure to memorize that spot of hardwood that squeaks too loud. I would take another beat in the doorframe of their bedroom to debate if the fear of my room was truly greater than my fear of accidentally waking them.

“mom, dad, can I sleep with you tonight?”

I wonder what it would have been like if I could have asked them. But my fears are too easily pushed to the side, inconsequential and an annoyance.

I’d crawl right between their tossing and snoring bodies, trying not to move too much, trying not to wake them. Even if I couldn’t hear their words or be held in their arms, at least they would save me if my nightmare came true, right?

What little comfort I found there, in my efforts to stay nonexistent, is something I can hardly remember. I don’t remember what that felt like. Any peace I could steal became impossible for me once she was gone, I know that very well.

9 years old, dad doesn’t take it well when I cry that I miss mom.

He says a quick goodnight, he turns off every light and leaves the bedroom door open. I’m too scared to get up and close it, he might hear me, it’s too early, but I can feel something watching me from the dark hall.

I can’t steel my nerves anymore. I can’t risk hearing what he would have to say, and I can’t risk being dragged down by the shadows waiting for me at every turn.

I stay in bed, shaking in silence, begging to fall asleep, but I forgot to check that all the doors were locked. I’m trapped on all sides by unfounded fear, I wait there, I try not to breathe.

Wake up, please. Wake up, please. Wake up, please. Wake up, please.

A silent prayer to a God I can’t comprehend and don’t believe exists. But mom says he can hear me even if my eyes are open. I have to be hopeful.

I’m so scared, I feel like I might die, but if I scream he would come to save me, right? Please say you would, Dad.

9 years old, awake before all others.

blue light cuts through my window, finally, the night is almost over.

I’m free now because that corner is no longer as dark, but I have to wait until I can see the end of the hallway.

I try to think of the bakeries and coffee shops starting to open, but it doesn’t stop my shaking.

I wait, focusing on the roses in my quilt, the scratches on my dresser, the lamp that laughs.

When it’s light enough I’ll feel okay getting out of bed. Just a little longer. The sun always takes its time.

I pace the living room, the carpet keeps my steps quiet, I ensure that nothing has come unlocked, I ensure my sister didn’t leave a mess for dad to clean up.

I’m bored, too focused on keeping silent, and I’m jumping at every creak of that houses bones.

I don’t remember much about that house. All my memories are in blue, quiet and haunting shades. I really knew how to take it all in when I was alone and scared. I didn’t want to forget my home when I left. The walls were too close together, they loomed and suffocated and laughed.

Soon dad will be up, he’ll let me watch TV before school if I’m polite. I can’t stand my thoughts anymore, I can’t stand the silence, the shadows, the mocking sounds of a house asleep. But I have no choice but to stew.

Do I even remember it all right? I wish I could know. I wish I knew what to say about the birth of my trauma.

Was it even there? Was I just too afraid? Why can’t I remember what happened to me, why do I feel so disgusted when mom asks if I had a good childhood?

I stopped asking questions. I’ve accepted there are parts of my life I’ll never recall. I don’t ask about it. Neither of them would tell me the true story, anyways.

What was it like for my siblings?

I cared so much for them, I did all I could. And still, sometimes I was not well behaved, sometimes I forgot to check the doors before bed and I’d know the next day I’d be hurt by my siblings or in trouble for feeling so scared. And maybe it’ll be my fault when everyone forgets about me as they leave, and it’ll be well deserved when I’m scared and crying again in an empty house.

What did I have to fear?

Why did I learn so quickly not to trust the ones who made me?

Why do they beg for my love and attention, beg for me to make them proud, now, at 22.

Why then, why now, what happened, what was lost, and what fear created me

I don’t think of my memories. I let them be. They can never leave me alone though, no, not like mom or dad could. They will not dismiss me like my siblings could either.

I experienced that all on my own. And I downplay it all; how embarrassing to be so afraid when everyone else had overcome that childish fear. It clings to my skin at night in the same way it did when I was little. I’ve learned to ignore it. I’ve learned to double, triple, check my surroundings.

I’ve learned to trust and love and give now, not out of necessity but out of want.

It doesn’t mean that I stopped freezing when I’m scared.

I feel safest when I’m alone now. When I’m allowed to let myself go without checking. But then I don’t know if anyone else is okay. I try not to worry, they’re not as fragile as I think.

I think I might die in the same sort of prison as my childhood bedroom. I don’t think I can ever escape the fear.

I am afraid. All the time. And that’s all there is.

How cowardly. How selfish. How ugly. How problematic. How ridiculous.

I can’t help it, please tell me you can see, I can’t help this fear that festers inside my body.

I wish I could cut it out, if I did it myself at least it would be done well.

There isn’t anything to say, no event to unpack in a therapists office.

All I do is my best, I’m not trapped anymore, but some things I can’t change, I don’t even know where they came from.

I am not ever the person I was yesterday, but I am so easily possessed by that little kid’s shake.

I liked to be monstrous when I was growing up, I didn’t care about the consequences, I wanted to be brave, I wanted to be a fighter, I would not be laughed at for long, I didn’t want anyone to get too close, and it worked. I felt invincible during the day. I lost so many friends, and it felt good to be left alone when it was my choice. I wasn’t as scary as I wanted to be, but letting myself be consumed by shadows and impulsive behavior seemed to work well enough.

No one has ever been more scared of me than I have been of myself. And the worst part is how I remained so forgettable in the process of tearing myself apart.

I’m not that way now. I care about myself. I want to do well and I’ll do it all. I’m haunted and nervous, but the waking world can’t kill me.

Hard work doesn’t scare me. And if I fall, I won’t fall for long, I couldn’t let myself even if I tried.

God, I’m just rambling. Turn that damned lamp off. Find something to do until…until…until…

Amen.

[whosingsofjoy]

In a Sunroom of My Own Design

This is a very unstructured, stream of consciousness...thing! I wrote last night, just feel like sharing!

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It's a weird feeling when you realize that you're becoming someone who you've never known you wanted to. It's a weird feeling to know myself, be myself, without feeling like I really really know myself. It's a certain kind of detachment, hard to describe. Who am I? I don't know. I guess I'm nice, and funny, sometimes overly passionate or enthusiastic, I'd do anything for my friends.

I like art, and by that I mean patterns and colors and stories. I like music, and by that I mean I feel invincible flying along the freeway with all the windows down. Sometimes, I feel like there is a ball of chaos wound tightly in my chest. And in some cases, the ball unwinds and that passion comes at the wrong time and I make mistakes, or feel like wandering the streets like a stray dog. And, I know that's okay. Sometimes. I sit in a sunroom of my own design and think of wishes.

I like stars, but not the real looking kind, the childish ones. And definitely not the ones my childhood neighbor taught me to draw. I am me by design. I am me by the choices I've made, and that's heavy sometimes. But, I make apple pie to share with my families, and sometimes just for myself. Or because I heard a song I really liked. I can make any place a home, I've done it so many times. Maybe it's easier, letting myself, my body, be my stable home. I cover the walls of my green apartment with love, on accident or maybe not.

I love change, and by that I mean I love getting to decorate and learn and become more of who I am. There's pain sometimes, of course, everyone feels it. I'm not sure if there is a way to fumigate those crawling worms. So maybe, I just move them outside. I can hold that pain gently, despite. I am grateful to experience what shapes me. I am grateful for the reminder that I am bigger than my mistakes, I am bigger than what has hurt me, I've made my life beautiful and I sit in a sunroom of my own design.

I am surrounded by color, everything I have is mine. It is me. I made this, and I made who I am. It was not my mother, or my father, or any of the other uncountable adult figures that have passed through my life. I decided to be kind. I decided to do what's right. I decided to care for myself even when its hard, I decided to stick it through with the people I love, especially when it's hard. I still make mistakes, and I wouldn't claim to be a saint, or even correct about most things. But I am good, and I don't think I ever cared too much about being bad. And by that I mean, not when someone or something I love is on the line. It's all relative. And I'm happy to have come to a place where I am glad to be who I am most of the time, and no one can make me feel ashamed for that. I've suffered my share, I have fought that sickly doubt. I am so much bigger than lazy expectations.

I am here on this earth to be me, recklessly. I am here to love, recklessly. I give everything my all and I will see it through. I used to describe myself as a boulder, but that doesn't really seem right. Too stagnant, when all I do is move. What is resilient, but not unmoving? Not predator, not prey? Maybe I'm more like the moss, that grows and lives, finds its way in so many places. Brings life where there might not be. Yeah, I guess that seems more right.

I think the simple fact is that I am me, I made me, and I might not know exactly who that is but there is so much joy to be found on this journey and until I know for sure, i'll just keep on going. Going and growing and loving and persisting and I'm gonna do it all.

In a sunroom of my own design

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[whosingsofjoy]

9/22/23

[whosingsofjoy]

In other news, I’m hopelessly in love 💕

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Another one about my mom? Yikes

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This is really intense maybe a bit of a trauma dump? I’m still posting it

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Silly Fun

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With my love 💕

[whosingsofjoy]

4/25/23

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Gender Neutral bathroom at my college! 2/13

[whosingsofjoy]

[whosingsofjoy]

I stare out of the parking garage from the dirty bench. The trees, the street, and the people. Elements of a painting framed by concrete walls and overflowing trash cans. The cold potion of will goes flat in my hands. I stare and the colors mesh together, this isn’t real. I think it’s not. The scene blurs to white and I’m left with the sound of muffled cars behind the waves i feign to find comfort in through my headphones. Carbonation rests in my gut, my back aches and reminds me who I am. I blink and the scene has returned to my day. I am here. I think I am. I recycle the can and march myself along the gum splattered sidewalk. I can’t be late to work.

[whosingsofjoy]

October 2022

[whosingsofjoy]

September 2022