“Our fear of death is directly linked to our fear of living.”
– Sonya Renee Taylor –
I wish the last 27 years [especially] could have gone down differently. I wish that we were given the opportunity to be at least somewhat of a cohesive family. I wish I felt safe in my either of my parents’ homes. I wish they chose not to foster an atmosphere of competition, but collaboration. Playing favorites, complacent and controlling, each of us dedicated to our role, life-altering decisions.
Somehow I am being asked to make peace with all of this. For the last couple of months however, I have been blinded by an inconsolable rage, hardly conducive to letting go. It’s eased a bit more recently, as I focus inward and attend to these sore and achy parts of myself so needing to be seen.
Reopening old wounds: wounds I thought I’d largely healed, long ago. Peeling back multiple more layers of the onion to reveal further complexity and generational grief. At least in photos, he too didn’t smile all that much as a kid beyond a surface level shifting of muscles, perhaps simply and only because he was told to do so by the adults circling round, just as they did with me. Looking through his photographs I find 1 in every maybe 30 or so where my sibling and I appear; our absence evident in a much more visible way. Looking through these and other childhood photos of mine evokes first an intense sadness for my younger self, then visceral feelings of evasion, deep unhappiness, and uncomfortability. I have always had a terrible poker face. But even if I could have faked looking alright, wouldn’t that just be dishonest and unauthentic?
Significant, heavy feelings of regret resurfacing, reminding me that all the anger and resentment I held onto for so long only served to help and further prevent our forming any sort of deeper and realer connection. Unable to even imagine what it could have been, so afraid of getting my heart broken that I just plain refused to put myself out there. I wish I could have dedicated more time, seen him as a complicated human being he was, reacting to and attempting to avoid his own pain. Residing for years in the shadows: skewed reality, lost time, off track, and incredibly detached from my true essence: cut circulation in a cold dark room are impossible conditions for growth, much less any sort of flowering. I shoved it all down just to survive.
They say that as we get older, the more we need around those that knew us when we were young. And while I believe that those who are getting to know me now are able to see me at my most evolved and happiest form to date, I’m not totally convinced that they can fully understand the various miracles that occurred to deliver me here.
I’m beginning to live into a deeper level the value of devoting my energy to both more seasoned relationships who provide that longer-term perspective, acknowledgement, and appreciation for our journey’s random and unforeseen turns, as well as more recent connections who bring a new perspective, challenge and invite us to try things differently this time around.
Many times throughout my life, I have looked into the mirror and been surprised and somewhat fascinated to find my reflection so utterly different from how I felt inside. In the past 3 years, my appearance has changed dramatically, perhaps most notably in the way I carry myself and the softening of my features. I doubt that many who knew me before would recognize the woman standing here today: an orphan runaway migrant with a new name, cut hair, one tattoo spreading across my entire left arm and another running from my right armpit down to the top of my thigh, and eyes far lighter than ever before. I have lived infinite lives in the past 30 years.
As I build structures and systems of greater stability, I learn how to truly take care, which may just indicate the permission I needed to truly fall apart. As I prioritize myself, my joy, and my passions, I have begun to take selfies quite frequently, and smile freely into other people’s cameras: bold, bright, and taking no shit.
Crescent Phrasing 