Tag Archives: Writing

Grief

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Over the last few years my grief has capsulated me into a space where I am unable to feel . I have been walking in a haze wondering when the days will end. I ask myself why and create responses that reflect facts and aggressive fiction. I have issues with my self-esteem. I see every incident as a sign that shows abandonment . I have allowed moments of clarity keep me treading water while the other moments I am just floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with no sight of land for miles. I just float in an endless brilliant sun and waves that kind of cradle me instead of pulling me under.

I have been living in the scene unable to process the next steps with a clear mind and spirit. My ancestors have been cradling me , mainly the ones that crossed the great sea and chose freedom in the depths of the sea and the ancestors who escaped into the mountains and brought our traditions with our gods to the new world of the Caribs. My ancestors may not have been great fighters yet they found a way to stay alive and they have been keeping me from sinking. My mother has joined them and I hear her saying ”mommy loves you “. Its what she said every time we were together about to part ways. She said it in every message as well , Hi, its mommy in all her messages.

This is her favorite time of year. It was mine too and still is which makes it feel conflicting. I have lived with unprocessed grief and have forgotten how to keep her alive in my soul. I forget to soak the fruit for cake, to buy a tree , to play cheesy music and watch atrocities Christmas’ movies. I just sulk. I stopped hosting , creating a space for community that felt safe and freeing. I just walked out the door to sink into grief.

Grief has had an easy passage since I have dealt with bouts of depression for years. I have had moments where I never left the bed , just sleeping because in my head I felt seen , well, loved and successful. I have struggled for years. I pretend in public, thanks to taking theatre classes for a year. I pretended so much that now I am tired and say fuck it.

I scare people now. I am honest and clear on how I feel . I say what is hurting to those who are closest to me. I let people know that I have moods. I get nervous if I am overwhelming and try to balance who gets which parts of what is heavy on my soul. I have people that know how hard this month is for me. How it would be full of light and sensory endorphins to now bleakness and grey skies.

People that thought they were my friends , have left me because I am no longer “fun” because I cannot hid anymore. I am open now because I need help. I am open now because staying closed could cause my final chapter to happen. I have dreamed a particular dream for years where a death of some kind is coming for me and I run but not really. I had it again however this time and embraced it . This threw death of course and hesitated to attack me . It came to me slowly only for me to kill it. I want to live and proclaimed it . I want to live for my ancestors hard work and for me. This is my present to myself. To live for me because floating will eventually give me a horrible sunburn which would ruin my velvety chocolate skin plus the pruning could become permanent. I have decided to swim towards the next step in a vast body of water that currently hasn’t land in sight.

Will I find land , hopefully. If I don’t at least I have started to swim. The waves have always been kind to me all these years. I think they want to me to explore.

Do They Know?

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I wonder if when a person leaves this realm do they truly know that you loved them because you didn’t say the words despite your actions or if your actions seem awkward and your words meant truth? Do they know the truth when you have intentionally ignored them , birthdays and holidays -never a word. Do they know or do they learn the truth in the possible afterlife many of us have been taught to believe in . I think about my encounters with those close to me passing . I have mainly arrived after the fact. I have never seen a person slip out of this realm in a wake sense. I have seen those in a coma state , resting and waiting . I think of this at times because I don’t want the idea of dying to be scary to me. It cannot be because so many people that I truly love are there. If they are there, why should I be afraid to see them again, if there is an again.

Do they know in that final moment or is really just shock and then nothing? We are mortal and are adamant of representing immortality. There are those of us who really have no idea of when the last breathe will happen , then there are us who are in areas that make this thought center stage. The knowing that resting is not possible. The sound of explosions, the entering of buildings that are on fire, the profession of cleaning a window on the 250th floor, the idea of just crossing a street or the fact your skin could guarantee no tomorrows if you ask for help in an area that is prejudice against you. Will they know that they were loved? Will they think of you? Is there an inner journey that seems like the quantum realm to the living be at a crawling pace for the departing?

The idea of spirits coming back for unfinished business is nice to me, yet I think is not real. I like the idea of my ancestors journeying with me , after all I am their wildest dream. Spirits , if real , are seen as bystanders when good and active tyrants when evil. Why are good spirits always so helpless in movies and evil is without bounds? This is a poor mindset that the media has given us. One thing I have noticed with the idea of spirits is that they were evil because of abuse thus they form a pact with higher evil resulting in multitude of films repeating the story in various forms. I want spirits to be real because I want to make sure my loves know I loved them even though they did know; I want to say it to them to ease my soul. It’s selfish, I am human.

I doubt that the spirit world is real because following the ideas we created about angry spirits , there would be no Europeans walking this realm. So many ethnicities have been wiped out by this group of people thus they wouldn’t be. I cannot comprehend the idea that they would allow the oppressors linage to continue. So , my ancestors are possible not spirits. However, it is through the storytelling of spirits one’s ancestors are kept close, dying can have some balm, and abstract thought can thrive. The thoughts felt and dreamed may be DNA; the passing of organic material infused with new material in a new era. It possible could be explained by science. Is it their anger, fear, joy and countless emotions I feel or am I delusional? Either case I know never respond direct if a voice call my name that I cannot see, be mindful when beating the drum for I could be calling the dead and keep a white candle on standby.

So, do they know that you loved them? Maybe

Will I ever get my answer to this ? Yes

Will I be able to share it ? No

Because some things of this life are meant to always be pondered.

Happy Hallows Eve.

Conditionals

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My mom was depressed and wasn’t able to make use of her amazing insurance to get proper help. She had her faith and her quotes. She needed someone to talk to and it wasn’t me.

My mother was hurting and I didn’t understand however I felt it. I grew up hiding within myself dealing with my own confusion of adolescence and believed that my sister would be enough for support since they were so alike. My mother and sister looked alike. When we would go out , people would automatically understand they were mother and daughter regardless of the skin tone difference. When people saw me they would say, “You don’t look like your mother, is she your mother?” They would ask this as if a man is not needed to make a child. This sentence would trigger me so I would say I was adopted so they would walk away feeling satisfied in their ignorance. If I engaged in this conversation it would end with the person no longer speaking to me .

I was hurt every time someone verbalised this separation between my mother and I. It was if they were manifesting our separation. I was sullen and secretive of my feelings because like my mother and her mother before her and so on… no one spoke about their feelings, you just prayed them away.

I was distant with my mother for issues that she wasn’t aware of or she wasn’t sure how to address them in me. She would have my sister as her representative and I would feel agitated when she did that. I became protective of my intimacy and held everyone at two arms length although I only wanted their closeness.

We had a confounding relationship and yet I would destroy anyone for her and my sister. I didn’t know everything yet I tried to protect her with my distance and I also hurt her with my distance . I wanted to speak to my mother about everything that was troubling me yet she was working her main job and building her company while going through a divorce. I was in school. Our time never seemed to matched up. My sister was able to bond and I couldn’t and it bothered me.

When I was little , my mother was my best friend; I truly didn’t need anyone else. I don’t think I have ever advanced past this stage and have felt a betrayal because we grew up and life happened and she kept me out in order to keep me safe. I grew up wanting that quality to continue however her life changed and I could see it yet she never shared with me. So I hid within myself in my own home in plain sight. I hid with for my emotional safety and have left it on auto-pilot ever since .

Later in life she had told me she didn’t think we needed to know out of fear of hurting our wellbeing She grew up in a lovely home that was filled with trauma. I know parents think kids don’t see , but they do; I did. Telling ” white lies” is still a lie. I felt the energy of trauma yet I wasn’t sure of the details and no one would tell me outside of me ease dropping in adult conversations in passing and I would hear some of my relatives saying the worst things about my mother. In those moments I would plot my revenge as her protector and cause them hurt later with my words. I feel for my sister, trapped in the middle of this with her own developmental concerns while absorbing this energy of discontent. I wanted to save my family.

My mother was hurting , she cried often and in private. I have inherited this. She was a shy extrovert and her life propelled her into a fearful reclusive person. I became a risky introvert just to feel alive. We loved each other but I wish I could have done better. Death makes you time travel. I go through her books filled with her penmanship, with her loops and elegant P’s and Q’s. I learned her signature as a child mainly because I thought it was beautiful. I have her book of thoughts. I read her words and remember seeing her writing them. . All I have now is her handwritten thoughts. I think about the stories she had told us about her childhood and about bits of her life that she kept inside while raising her children. I remember all I saw with my overly observant eyes . We missed opportunities to repair and nourish our family of three.

My mother lived the majority of her life hurting and without proper support. My sister lives guarding her new little family in a reclusive way. I live a life going back to the past to have a future.

I feel like I am living a third conditional life.

The noisy man

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He wakes always before the dawn yet never tries to embrace it. He keeps his home dark, shutters closed, blinds drawn, it’s a bit musky even. On rare  summer days flickers of light find their way in through the cracks. He wakes  up early yet doesn’t move. Instead he listens for the first sound of life with in the building.

He lives in a 11 story building on the fourth floor in a up and coming area. His mother, God rest her soul lived on the third floor. He used to check on her at time, regardless if her caregiver was running late or not , it was his mother; he missed her. He  had retired ten years ago and yet he still woke up  before the dawn. He would lay there with no where to go , at least in his opinion.

Once he heard the first patter of feet from the floor above he would begin his grumble  and rants of  porca miseria . His voice was quite deep, attention grabbing even, yet he barely spoke about anything substantial. At times , he could be heard by the couple upstairs cursing about random things they did like mop the floor to breathing. He had sonic ears they thought.

Soon there was the sound of the dog’s paws tapping on the floor above , probably following its owner around the house.  Shortly after began the cry of a baby, not loud just enough to get it’s mothers attention. He wondered if it was a boy or a girl then thought who cares it’s noisy. He hated the sounds of the living -even his own.

He was a Roman, in Rome yet he had no family. He was a product of a one child household, with limited cousins  and now ,in some ways, he was  an orphan on pension , who grumbled  about everything. He didn’t do much with his freedom,  he felt he was too old to go anywhere.  ZZZRRRRRRR went the blender,  the family upstairs is having breakfast, he could hear the sounds of an active kitchen. He could picture them , at the table -together.

He wondered if he had ever  married  or had a girlfriend  would  life be okay. She  would bring me a caffè in bed, he thought, one less activity for me to do . Then he thought about all the noise she would make all the time, the activities she would want to do, the time he would have to spend being with another and realised he was better off alone.

After a few  minutes he could hear the buses passing on the street below and cars making their way to and fro.  He got ready for the day. He put on the outfit he had been wearing for most of the month ; black pants , white undershirt, long shelve grey shirt with a collar, his jacket and his cap. It was still clean, he barely did anything to cause a sweat. Even in the heat of summer he wore a jacket -still no sweat.

He was off to begin his day.  As he waited for the elevator he wondered ,why does the elevator have to make noise. He sees the  family walking down the stairs , “Buon Giorno,” they say, he  would responded back  just  a bit under his breathe. No one really holds conversation with me , he thought.

In fact no one did. All he ever did was explain how dark and dismal the world was. He complained about his first world problem of being tired. When people recommended spending time by the sea or going on a holiday he rebuffed them. He would explain how traumatic it would turn out by the sea or on a holiday-  to empathise his plight he was only lacking violins in the background.

Once downstairs he spoke a bit to the doorman, a fella around his age yet still working, still traveling and indulging in hobbies. The doorman  was also an odd man,  had a  hot and cold  personality as if he menstruated daily ( he’s a story for another day) . Once out the building into the hustle and bustle , he turned right and walked less than  10 meters (32 steps) to  the bar, where he would get his breakfast of a cornetto and second caffè and would spend his entire day talking with the other elderly guys until lunch time about the crisis in Italy.

After lunch he  would return to the bar and have a drink , begin again a discussion about the same subject that they have been discussing for the past 10 years ;the crisis. As the night engulfs the day he would head back upstairs.  Enter his home, turn on the light in the corridor and sigh. He  had a tough day.

He makes his supper , turns on the TV yet it watches him. Instead, he listens to the noises upstairs. The sound of the dog following his owner , the shuffle of feet , the faint sound of voices, laughter, the cry of a baby, the sound of the elevator being called to another floor, the noise of the street as the night life begins, the creaks of the day settling in for the night. He listens, he hates it. Yet without it he is alone.

Rambling IV

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The writer who never writes can never  be complete.  I  have no idea if someone has said this but it came to me .  I have been getting opportunities to really be a writer , at least a solid novice writer and  I am scared  so  I  either procrastinate on purpose or  is there  more to my fear of writing ?

I have never learned how to type properly despite it probably being a simple practice yet I find my fingers going all over the qwerty working and some how making the brainwaves that are my words into reality.  Go Brain!

The world is strange and unusual. I find myself lost in a relationship and with friends and yet  I am so happy about these moments I forget to document them the same way I documented my misery.  Thankfully I  have photos yet what is the sense that the emotion that gives me pain I remember yet the simple , chill moments I always wanted -I  ignore or barely give a moment to reflect. I am Twisted !

this ramble is complete …  sort of

Aero

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I ‘m dabbling with writing. I made a vision chart before arriving in Italy 2 years ago. My goals are to be a photographer, a painter, a yogi, a lover and a writer.

So this is me writing…

 

Aero woke from his nightmare, sweaty and thirsty. He wanted to pretend that it was not the same nightmare that had been haunting him for months. He shook of the feeling and wanted to quench his thirst with a glass of water that he usually keeps on his bedside table. The glass was not there. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He was absent minded; however when your parents were psychoanalysis thought retention was learned before the alphabets. I did put a glass of water here, where did it go, he thought.

 

He slowly sighed, and figured he would go to the bathroom for some water. He swung his feet off the bed only to feel a strong tingle in his feet traveling up his spine and ringing in his head. He didn’t drink that much last night; he was the designated driver. He took baby steps with his hands outstretched heading to the bathroom adjusting his eyes to the darkness  while shaking the sleep off his legs.

 

The bathroom was filthy; he hadn’t done laundry in weeks. He maneuvered to the sink only to realize the faucet wasn’t working. “Great! this moment is really getting annoying. He contemplated going back to bed; however the thirst was overpowering him. His nightmares always drained him. The only consistent memory involved a crow cawing and flying around his head. He needed water; he sighed and headed to the kitchen.

 

The kitchen was downstairs. The steps were very old and wooden that exploded with noise with each toe touch. This house has been in his family for years, every inch reminded him of his parents and Jess; he painfully missed them. He always felt guilt for their death; if only I wasn’t abroad this summer I could have stopped what happened. He saw it in his sleep for weeks. His nightmares were not really nightmares but premonitions; he took them lightly back then. If only he understood then what he did now, if only.

 

The kitchen was very modern; his dad had made many upgrades to it. All his friends said it was pretty cool, in fact there’s an appliance attached to the sink that turned tap water into carbonate water all from an app.  He felt tears filling his eyes when he turned on the lights. The table was still set just the way his mother loved it. He touched the 4 piece setting like fine silk, chasing memories of all of them together in this very room. How Jess would put baby carrots in her nose and scare mom. He wanted his family back. His hangover began to throb in his temples and the cawing became louder, the room began to spin.

He fainted. He felt something gently scraping at his face; it was Pluto their tiger cat meowing. He sat up and pulled Pluto close to him, stroking his head. Aero felt the thirst again, stronger even. He stood up and got a glass of water while holding Pluto. Once he gulped the last drop he realized Pluto shouldn’t be at home but in a cage at the veterinarian since two days ago for quarantine. Then what am I holding; he thought. He slowly looked down.