When you’re 16 and when things happen, you consider it the worst. Then years go by and you’re 18 and the problems at 16 are nothing to what is at 18. Then you’re 21. Then 23. So on and so forth. A mutual exchange for what is important and you have experience to weigh the problems. Each year though the blinders become broader on previous events and this wisdom connects them in place. Because everyone has problems, one or more that creep into their heads. Because everyone cannot run from their problems, especially in their heads.
I can’t speak on your behalf, but only of my own.
I didn’t think so many years later that I’d be once again on a bathroom floor asking myself questions through tears and smeared eye-liner.
At 7 or 8 I was in the bathroom eating my mother’s lipstick as I tried it on. I would drown McDonald’s toys in the sink, and oddly enough I would contemplate life on that tile. I would gasp at the thought of losing my mother and father and write them love notes and slip it to them while they slept. My mother said I was an old soul trapped in a young body. I told her I was running out of time.
When anything happened I would write a note, write some kind of letter and slip it to them. No matter what age. The last letter I wrote to my parents was one to my mother in 2008 when we lived in that hotel, and a MySpace message to my estranged father the same year.
A decade plus later and I’m on the tile recollecting the events of today.
The hardest things I’m going through. Forgiveness. Letting Go. and my sister.
Like I said, I didn’t think I’d be here again, tasting my own make-up in a salty form.
I didn’t want any regrets. That was the intention for any action.
I was in my own bubble. As for my sister, brother, and mother. When we each arranged ourselves on that one bed every night, my mother rest assured that one day we would laugh about it.
The hotel is a different story, but it brought us closer. I mended most of my anger, not knowing that next to me my sister’s bubble was building.
Today I saw a girl who was angry. Who refused to forgive, who said she let go but clearly this was a lie…yet I don’t blame her.
We yelled at each other, years worth of hostility built up.
She resented me. My own sister was asking me in a disgusted tone, how could I have left to San Francisco, how could I have done that? Leave her holding the bag.
The inside of my head was screaming, “I needed to leave, I needed to escape!” With a million of voices yelling at each corner backing this statement up. “The money, remember how I waisted my financial aid money! The school. You didn’t help me, she didn’t help me. It was you. You went to school. You got the car. You!” This didn’t come out. Just tears.
The thought of me always being smaller resurfaced. Here it was, all said burning my ears and shrinking myself.
I was 8 again. I was hiding in the bathroom. I was playing outside alone. There I am again begging for her to play with me. There she is leaving me. Then I’m 16 and she wants a relationship. It’s too late. I’m 18. No, no. I’m 21. Finally, yes…still no. 23? No, no.
I come back to stare at her. Those eyes. They’re angry, but wounded. She’s blury because my eyes are full of tears and cover my view.
“You talked to dad! Dad!”
One more thing thrown at my face.
I’m back to the tile.
I don’t regret any of it.
My one goal in life was to not have any regrets. To live to the best of my own judgment as I possibly could.
I believe a lot of people need closure, and I strongly recommend every human being to get it. Whatever this “positive” form of closure may be. Because with each action, and reaction we are the ones that are left holding the pin from the grenade, or the ones with the broom cleaning up. And as much as we think we’re doing the right thing for other people, we’re not. It’s not us to decide or judge what another person does and with this, it is the one idea that holds up what I did. Peace.
If there’s no peace with yourself, there’s no peace in your life. No matter how far you run.
I think back to her eyes. I want to tell her that I just needed to close my own box with our father. I didn’t want either of us dead without things being said. I didn’t want to be angry anymore at him because it needed to happen or I don’t doubt that he would have been dead.
I think back to my own eyes. Black smears across my pale face. Dew drops stuck to my lashes. I was angry at myself, or still am. I’m the last one on my list.
And because of this, because of what I know and feel. I do not hate her. I do not wish harm to her. I am hurt, but it will pass. Because we all are fighting ourselves and I have no idea of her time on the tile tasting saline, nor her of mine.
Because I’m sorry sister that you grew up too fast, I’m sorry you wanted normal. I’m sorry you wanted your father to walk you down the aisle, and I’m sorry for the debt piling up.
…but I’m not sorry that we matured earlier, and I’m not sorry for being off because we got wiser getting back on. I’m not sorry for our dad missing the wedding in your head because there’s still time, and I’m not sorry for you being pushed and getting promoted left and right.
because it had to happen, because we still need to fight.