In Coming Home

There was an emptiness in touching down in Toronto - and in greeting my best friend - and in catching up with my people.

There's an emptiness in the thought of going back to Kitchener for Christmas. An emptiness in the thought of opening gifts and eating turkey.

There's an emptiness.

I will never again have a mother's love.

My mother's love.

Her love was my home.

I'll never be able to go home again.

Oct 15

You were so flawed. I have a lifetime of complaints and grievances I could make against you. There was so much about you that I didn't like and I never want to become. I have a lot of issues and troubles that I'm sure are a result of your imperfect parenting.

But the thing is, Mommy, you were still perfect. You were still everything I could have ever asked for. Because you were my Mommy - and I am your daughter. Your imperfections and fears and failures are, as much as your successes and strengths, my legacy. You are every contracting beat of my heart. You are every resounding echo of my footsteps. You are the dimples in my smile and the salt in my tears.

I do not miss you. I ache for you.

Mama: with my every breath, I love you.
Please rest in peace and in happiness.

Happy Birthday
xxx

Molest

"To subject to unwanted or improper sexual activity."

I have been lying to myself and to my loved ones for a very long time. I've been lying about my past, about my problems, and very much about my grief. I hit a very deep and dark low a while back, and I confessed to my family what I thought I would take to my grave.

The truth is: my brother molested me.

When he was still alive, I hated him and feared him and was disgusted by him (and I loved him). But when he died, I started creating narratives in my head: "he just wanted to explore." "He didn't know what he was doing." "He was a child too." I was creating ways by which I could preserve his memory. So that I could grieve him like everyone else; like all he was was a brother lost.

But none of it was true. Whatever his thoughts or intentions, he was older than me. He knew better than me. And it was his job to protect me, and instead he hurt me.

I confessed my dirty little secret to my aunt and brother, and suddenly I could admit to everything that I'd always known was true:

My brother used me for his own gratification. I started self-mutilating because he made me feel worthless. 

I have never stopped hating myself or blaming myself, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to escape those thought processes.

The year before he died, I wished with everything in me that he would kill himself.

When he died, I was immensely relieved.

I do love him, and I do miss him - but I'm glad he's gone. Because now I'm no longer afraid that he might touch me again. Now I'm no longer afraid of what he's thinking when he looks at me. Without that pervasive fear, I am able to actually love him and miss him.

This is the true source of why I always feel so alone and so broken; and I have a lot more to work through surrounding this than I do about losing my parents.


I had never identified as having been 'molested.' When I first spoke it out loud (to my best friend back in high school), I used words like "he made me touch him." As if different words would mean something different. But the morning after I broke down and told my family, I looked the word up. Quite simply, "to subject to unwanted or improper sexual activity." And if that's the definition, I was molested as a child. And my big brother molested me.

The Broken Child In Me

Sometimes I really, truly, honestly believe that if only I had apologized for everything I had ever done, they would never have left me.

(I'm so sorry.)

I Want My Money Back

You expect that when you go on a long, sunny vacation with a good friend that you'll come back happier - more relaxed - more at ease.

Maybe even comforted and rejuvenated after a long absence from your country and your people.

But then -- you just go back to a foreign country while she gets to go home.

And after a long, sunny vacation, having had someone to share your meals and your experiences with every single day -- having been with someone who loves you every single day -- you just go back to being alone.



I'm back in my dark place - and it seems like it's determined to hang on to me for a while.

Happy Mother's Day

“A daughter without her mother is a woman broken. It is a loss that turns to arthritis and settles deep into her bones. ”

― Kristin Hannah, Summer Island

Things I Hate

"I know I can't ever complain to you about anything because your life is so much worse than mine."


"Wow, now I feel so much better about my own life."


"You're kidding, right? You're not? Oh. Um. So, nice weather today. Um. Hey, I should get going."


"So you're seeing a psychiatrist, right?"


"Wow, you should really talk to someone."


"I thought you told me it was a car accident? Really, you didn't? Are you sure?"


"So is your brother seeing a psychiatrist?"


"You and your brother should talk to someone."


"I'm so frustrated, I could kill someone! Oh--! Oh, sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean that!"


"Wait, so BOTH of your parents are dead?"


"Your brother's dead too?"


"Yeah, you did mention how they died. It was a car accident, right?"


"Wow, I would never have guessed. You seem so normal."


"Really? But you're coping so well. Are you sure that's what happened?"


"Oh. I feel a little sick now."


"Oh my God! Well, I'm really glad that that would never happen with MY family."


"So when was the traffic accident?"


"Oh my God, now I can't believe I've been complaining to you all this time about MY little problems."


Every single one was actually said to me, in those words. Imagine three years of it. It's become so predictable, so tiring, and a little ridiculous.

I opened up to a couple of my newer friends yesterday, and I was preemptive: "Let me guess, you thought it was a car accident?"

"...Well...yeah."

What a surprise.