I had a baby in May, the spring before last; in one afternoon my entire childhood veil was lifted. I was a mother; I saw as a mother; I thought as a mother; and I mourned my youth. My definition of a mother was very damaged, skewed, rough -- broken. I am still fashioning and healing my past mommy problems. I felt ripped from the illusion I had been holding together with paper-clips and safety-pins. The cloaked torn; I was now a parent. I now knew as little as mine before me; I could no longer think about my past. I now had a little boy who would be creating memories of his own, the emotional baggage that I pulled behind me must be sorted through, organized, and burned. I must take my parents down off of the pedestals that I hoisted them upon in my childhood; they were not Gods, they were people -- as human as I. I was living in a perpetual child's mind, and that all needed to change.
I needed to change.
I could no longer stand the painstaking efforts to attempt to change my parents.
Grow up I must; because I was getting sick and tired of the dishes piled up in the sink. Dog hair littered the floor, the counters were dirty, the bed was unmaid. My sibling once told me: "This looks like a frat house," and "I never appreciate a good plan more than after getting home from my sisters [aka me]." And those words kept repeating in my mind, as I saw the laundry piling up -- living in a barn was just not my style any longer. Because, once upon a time -- the mess never even bothered me. I could hang out in a dungeon of depression for months on end. I started to reassociate, my awareness began to turn on -- I began to notice patterns, I began to see a mental maps. And it was those mental thoughts that let me know that I was actually changing. Even if on the outside, I lived in a frat house where the population was just me.
I changed my mindset first.
At first it was a conscious, effort.
And now it was popping up, like boiling water
To my forebrain from the deep subconscious
The thoughts came naturally now,
This was my awakening.
I once thought I was late,
it turns out that I am running ahead of schedule.
Damn, I figured out that life puzzle too quick.
I love being early to thing.
I thought these days would last -- forever.
I could not imagine growing old.
I could not imagine death.
I was living as a perpetual child,
Who now had a child --
I had to grow up.
I had to change.
I was walking with my sister through the beach neighborhoods of Lewes. I held my baby, while she rolled hers in the stroller. We were talking about her upcoming wedding and the various flowers that she would have in her bouquet. I asked her if she knew any of the symbolism behind the plants she was ordering. We began looking them up, I looked up the thistle. I read a post somewhere that to some it was considered a weed and to some -- a flower. As the distinction between the two is simply: one is wanted, the other is not. How was I going to reframe my mindset? I could keep looking at the glass as half empty? Or, perhaps -- now, half full?
I kept asking my parents; "Why did you send me away? I don't understand." and the question would replay in the back of my mind when the words would not slip casually from my lips. The question on repeat has made me very ill inside. Today I flipped the question. I asked myself the inverse: If I knew that my parents would send me away if I wrote a diary -- if I could go back and replay the past, knowing everything I know now... Would I still keep a diary? Technically, it's the same challenge; this time to myself -- someone whom I can control, someone whose subconscious I can program.
If I never kept a diary, my parents would have never been as keen to send me away. If I decided to still keep a diary; the outcome would have been the same. I could not convinced them to not read it -- my sister asked me, "why didn't you just play along; you knew we had strict parents, sometimes it seemed if you just liked rubbing it in their faces? Why did you keep a diary?" She expressed she was mad at me for exposing myself. "Why weren't you self preserving, Laura?" So, I asked myself the question again -- knowing what I know now, would I still keep a diary?" My insides shuttered; I knew I couldn't control the mind of my parents. I can't program them to understand the intricacies of my inner world. I could not make them understand why I should have been allowed the simple freedom of write without an audience. I can't expect them to alter their vantage point; as I will not alter mine. I can only raise my son now using the best tools that I have acquired, because of my past. They were just doing the same.
"Common, Laura -- would you have done that? You'd be sent away if you did not choose to abandon your writings," I said to myself. A pause, a deep bitterness; my writings gave me incredible joy in my teenage and preteen life. I'd have to give up those hours upon hours I'd sit writing in the confines of my room. I'd have to give up all the laughter and joy I received when I read them out loud to my friends. I'd have to give up the joy I got from rereading images and story of my youth. I'd have to sacrifice my greatest joy in order to prevent my greatest sorrow. There was a reconciliation at that moment; I realized I was not fully victimized. Meaning, I kept a diary when I knew how strict my parents were; that I was not ignorant. When I went into the depths of postpartum depression, I went back to the emotional world of my childhood and teenage life. I stepped back into the emotional pain that was wreaking havoc on the deep unconscious parts of my ethos. It hurt, my writings helped. Who would I be without my diaries? Who would I be without writing? It wasn't this two dimensional picture I plastered to the insides of my mind as a form of coping after I left. Why would my parents send me away for my writings was the question I could not control the answer to; I was giving them my power. I was remaining the victim inside that mindset.
The truth was, I would; I'd do it all over again.
My childhood was now full of color. It wasn't all good; It wasn't all bad. There wasn't just white patches and black smudges across the memory board of my mind. It wasn't either my parents were right or I was wrong; it was a little of both. It was a conditioning response and I was a pavlovian dog. Trapped and slobbering at certain trigger words and behaviors as if it was a bell. I had to switch the flip; I had to break the pattern. I had to smash the bell. The riddle of my life was paradoxical. To expect a field of vegetation and fruit not to have a few thistles is foolish. My past could be a dandelion, or a lily; depending on how I utilized the jet fuel. Would I use it to push me into my life's work, or would I use it to bury myself in my own pity? I am first a writer; next a scientist; and always an artist in my perspective. I see the world through a perspective of those suffering from addiction, emotional turmoil stemming from sexual assault, and mental illness.
I've been on the inside,
I've held your stories in my heart,
I've walked in your shoes.
I want to tell our stories.
I had to heal first.
I sat on the beach with my son, the same beaches that I used to go to as a child. I had multiple memories that sat with me in this environment. And I felt immense joy. I walked through the backyard of my grandparents house to see a imaginary child me running through the ivy. I was intergrading, I was accepting the past -- my higher self was spinning the globe of my conscious experiences. My grandfather was dying physically, I was dying emotionally -- my child and teenage self began to decompose in my aurora. The jagged edges of my past began to smooth. Like I pebble, I skipped the smooth stone on the surface of Lewes bay. The black and white visions I saw turned to color. My memories came back to me in the first person. I had control again.
I was in the driver's seat again.
I got sent away due to patterning and conditioning that I experienced during my early life. I took on certain projections of my parents and acted them out in my own way -- on my own stage. I became a creature of my environment, and like all human must do; we must figure out the initial programing, deprogram, and reprogram to a higher version. This was my first conscious upgrade. I realized that my parents truly are only one man and one woman representing their era; representing their own version of consciousness patterning from their own childhoods. They were as innocent, or as guilty as I was; up close you cannot admire or despise anyone. We all have stories that define who we are, and why we do what we must do. At the end of the day -- would I be much different if I walked every mile in my parents shoes? How could I expect them to know my personal experience? How could I expect them to understand what I've been through? They're purpose was not to live my life; I couldn't let my father be apart of all my life decisions, forever. I couldn't hate my mother, forever.
I also couldn't be depressed, forever.
I had been preaching the solution for years -- only to fall into an emotional rut that paralyzed my soul. Only to continue scrolling through facebook while consumed with self loathing; only to intent to reply to messages, but cannot. I could not keep making lists of all the productive things I wanted to do only to complete none of them. With tears in my eyes and fire in my gut-- I had to clean up that baggage that I had been carrying for nearly two decades. I had to dig through the piles of masks that I wore; only to realize that the image was not myself. I began reprogramming. Who did I want to be? What did I want to do? Who did I want to become? What did I want to see? Time was flying: I never went skydiving; I never wrote that book. I put a pause on college to figure out all my question; once and for all. I had to answer the question -- who am I?
I used to begin every new diary entry with a page full of "I AM" statements and affirmations. Standing in the transition between the bathtub era and the blue era allowed to me contemplate; time paused, the world shut down. Trapped inside a plandemic virus apocalypse, I was able to ponder. Who am I, NOW?" I have to take on a new identity, a self imposed identity -- I had to own the energy behind the mask. I had to take ownership of my precious consciousness. I had to take ownership of my story. I had to stop living life so passively, waiting for my mother and father to pass me my dreams on a silver platter. It was my job to create my life now; childhood was only one side of the narrative. I took back control with that question and it was that question that allowed me to envision the wise witch of my future.
If I knew everything I know now, would I put myself into the same situation -- knowing I'd have to dig and claw my way out. Knowing up front the pain, knowing up front the sacrifices I'd have to endure; would I still keep a diary? What would I say to that little girl who had to finish up her mac and cheese so her daddy would give her the $50 it costs to purchase the red leather bound journal from "Italy" in Epcot? What would I tell her in that moment? I'd still lean down and whisper in her ear that this diary; that writing, words would become her best friend, confidant, and favorite mode of expression. I'd tell her to keep writing; I'd tell her to hone her craft -- that she would take down an empire with her words one day.
I am no longer a victim of the past; the bath tub era taught me that.
The bathtub era came to an end,
when I stepped out of the lukewarm water,
and began living again.
and began writing again.
The air smells a bit clearer on the other side of delusion.
The air smells a bit fresher on the other side of the devil.
The air smells a bit cleaner on the other side of the lies.
The air blows through my inch long hair -- welcome to the blue era.
The era where I step out of the emotional world;
The era where I take ownership my melancholy,
The era where the I master the sea; instead of drown in the tub.
I find your work wonderful. This is a love letter of coming of age.
The beauty of art - of writing, of expression, is that it serves as a mirror. You bring this out from the depths of your being, you give it away - you breathe it out, and then we can see ourselves in your words and heal as well.
I celebrate your upgrade haha. I feel that mine's still loading but it would come and I'm keeping working in the meantime.
Thank you for not stopping writing your journals ❤️
@vicvperezdelara Thank you. Being on Hive has really encouraged me to keep writing; it has been really helped me open up and heal. I really enjoy and love writing — I am just grateful to have begun again. Thank you for the encouragement; it means so much.