We are Holding onto Each Other

When I was 18 I wrote a poem called, "An Artful Drown," younger than I am now, I was probably more naive and less hopeful to find a solution for the waters that drowned my darkest shadows. 

"How does it feel? 

to be able to fall without realizing, 

to deprive from ones soul

to lose thoughts 

One.

By.

One.

Vivid anxiety of suffocating. Feelings running around my head. Seeing the lack of sunlight as my head looses the air that was once closer to surface; where it is now lying beneath. 

My lungs can feel  the vile salt

- Submerging - the waves tangle inside of me. 

Unable to understand the drift departing." - 6/28/2020 

I tend to think of my younger self more and more the older I get. I feel a part of our souls try to find a piece within that still needs tending to. Still needs a hug or two more. I was never unaware or in denial of the intrusive thoughts that controlled parts of my live. I was sad about so many things I sometimes had to remind myself to put a smile on. 

Rereading journal entries and melancholic poems, finding snippets of my past - crazy to think that they used to be my own reality. A flood of memories always find my mind. Moments of bittersweet happiness and gloomy rain clouds. I wish I could tell her it will be okay and to just hold on. 

I hate how hard we are on ourselves during teenage years and especially in our early adulthood. Shit sucks and people suck. I just wish someone could've told me that in high school. That it will suck a lot of the time but its okay. Instead they are so quick to make you feel like the crazy one. Concluding to the fact that you don't need to be happy 24/7 to be content with yourself. Being happy all the time is exhausting and simply draining. I am not happy all the time, but I know that that is okay and normal. 

I am a huge believer that the expectation society has on the youth is dangerous. Why is the standard getting a perfect job after college? Why is the standard applying for every internship constantly having to advocate for yourself. Begging them to see that you are the right person for the job. Writing cover letters and perfecting your resume only to never hear back, or to get rejected without a reason why? I hate it. I hate it all. Having a job until you are able to afford to retire, or to never do that and die without exploring every corner of the world sounds miserable. I've always been drawn to the unknown. Curiosity does not kill it excites. 

I hope to leave a trail untraced. Having stories to share rather than riches. Sharing the wealth of knowledge and compassion. 

I had this similar discussion with my mom the other day. Crying by her side because she understood/understands her job as a mother (or at least as my mother). "My job was to never pick where you end up; to never force you into something just because I want it for you. You are your own person. You have and always will be your own person. My job as a mother is to give you the right tools and raise you to be the person you want to be, not the person I want you to be. That would be selfish. When you were born I never imagined that tiny baby in my arms would be a poet; but that is who you are, and that is who I love." 

I am eternally grateful for her and the fact that her unconditional love has made me the person I am today. Parts of her trace back to pieces of Carol Joy; seeing her light shine through her is pure magic. Leaving me to know that her love had never died it was passed on. 

I talk about family, their values, and the overwhelming emotions they embark. It was the way I was raised and I think it goes deeper to my roots and cultural background. I love the parts of me that reflect from them. Simple things connect us. 

When you smell something your brain uses the same areas it would use to process emotions and memories. Smells hold memories. Memories you didn't know you had until you feel that connection. There is a specific brand of lotion my mom always kept in the house, Jergens Cherry Almond, its aroma would tickle my nose as my mother sat and rubbed her hands in circular motion. She has never not had it. I can still picture her sitting in her towel on her bed after an early morning shower. Her soaking wet hair and face bare. I bought that exact lotion two days ago. I sat in my chair with my robe on and pumped a little more than a teaspoon into the palm of hand. Feeling her hands in mine, and her grandmas in hers. 

Pondering, reflecting, holding on to the moments so nothing slips from the palms of my hands holding us.