dentro de mi a florecido una nueva planta, mas verde que nunca, pero con menos esperanza y mas fantasía. florece con la capacidad de traspasar mis órganos y romper mi piel violentamente. la sensación se queda conmigo como el aroma del mar y su sal esparcido por cada hendedura de mi cuerpo. vive encima de mi y su peso me hace su esclava — apretandome y exigiendo que lo ahogue con mi dulce liquido.
I remember the feeling quite vividly. Or, more appropriately, the lack of feeling in my toes. Grishko’s. Size 8. Fitting my feet inside the narrowest space possible. And the first time I got up on pointe, rising up on my toes with the hard block under them, holding them in place. Bruises and blisters. I don’t remember bandaids though. They would just slide off while I was dancing. I remember not feeling my feet but still having to get on pointe to do relevés and plies. The first time I got my pirouette down. Then I could do two in a row. And three. Until I finally accomplished fouettes on pointe. I think I cried. After every class we’d all go up one by one and see how many we could do. The most I did was ten and it was probably the proudest moment of my life. Not graduating College but doing ten fouettes on pointe. It was the most beautiful thing my body has ever done. I’d trade in the daintiness of my feet any day to be able to do ten fouettes every day. I know I still could if I practiced…a lot. So maybe I’ll be proud again someday.
Sitting here trying to figure out how a human being could be as good as my boyfriend is to me and how it is possible for my heart to be this happy and full of love and I just want to make him breakfast every morning and make sure his cup of coffee is always full.
It was dark and I hid quietly inside the bathroom that marked the territory between what was happening across the street and the inside of my house where I was standing. Leaning my head on the gray window sill tile and my arms on the wall tiles I waited.
The lights came eventually. Red. Blue. White. Then the loud sounds started and I remember finding them familiar but could only remember hearing that sound on the television or while dosing off in the backseat of my parents ‘88 Honda Accord.
Louder than what I had no idea were sirens were the voices. I could hear them from across the street even when I plugged my ears and I could see the lights even when I squeezed my eyes shut so hard I felt them pop.
I started sobbing and heard a door slam. For the first time in my life I felt terrified and not of my immediate safety but of what would come next. For the first time my future didn’t seem bright and full of rainbows and sunshine. I was four years old but my mind felt around eighty.
I didn’t see it happen but I knew. I knew because I had gotten the same feeling before. I knew because he didn’t come home for a few days. I knew because that’s when he started to become more angry and that’s when he started blaming everyone else. And that’s when I started blaming myself.
I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve seen my father happy. I can count with 3 fingers the amount of times I’ve got a positive phone call from him. I can’t, however, remember one single time where he’s said he’s proud of me. At my college graduation I saw him smiling and I knew he was proud, but he would never admit it. He would never admit to supporting my decision to move away from him. To this day he thinks the only reason I went to college was to become an alcoholic and a whore. It pains me to know that no matter how hard I try to be a decent human being and a caring person I know he will never truly know me. Everything I do and say gets misinterpreted and wrongly translated into something negative. I am slowly realizing that trying to live up to expectations is breaking me down and emotionally killing me, because no matter what people will believe what they will want to believe and will always be judgmental. It’s times like these when I wish I could be a cold, heartless bitch who didn’t let anything affect her, but after years of trying I just cannot.
Yesterday I got a phone call from my father telling me he is going to close the store on Saturday. For good. After 5 years of hell, he’s finally giving up. Although I know he knows deep down it’ll be better for him (because his health has been compromised and he’s going through intense depression), he doesn’t see it that way. His dream is to own a store and have his children work for him and one day take over. Of course, neither me or my brother’s dreams involve owning a Quiznos, so his expectations have been shattered year after year.
"I’m sorry, but this is going to be so much better for you." I said, trying to be supportive. All he could tell me, with the saddest tone of voice I’ve ever heard him speak to me with since his brother died, was "I don’t want to give up on my dream, but my dream is killing me."
Having to hear my father sound and feel so defeated is a paralyzing feeling I’ve been carrying with me since we spoke. It’s way overdue, we all know, but it’s still sad to hear my dad so hopeless.
Expectations are the root of all evil, I think, and also the root of why my father was never satisfied with how his life turned out. I want to open his eyes and make him see that a) his life isn’t over and b) he is truly blessed.
I don’t care if he’s outwardly proud of me because I’m aware how impossible it is. But I will do my best to be proud of myself and I know that deep down he will be proud too. Until then, I want to show him the simple beauty in life that he’s been hiding from. Baseball games, walks along the beach, and having actual stress free conversations with people. I want to see him laugh so bad. And maybe one day he won’t consider us his kids that disappointed him.
Te veo y siento en todo. Te veo en fotos, en los arboles, las flores, la nieve, y en los ojos de la gente que me miran con ojos que no son tuyos, los cuales no me importan ver. Te siento cuando me lavo la cara, cuando miro mis manos, solitas y tristes. Te huelo en el cafe y en las almendras. Pienso en ti cuando me levanto con las intenciones de no pensar en nada. No quiero ver tus manos secas, tu pelo mojado, y tus pies sobresaliendose de las sabanas. Me quiero olvidar de tu voz y de tus palabras. De la sensaccion de amor que me hiciste sentir. Me torturo cuando pienso en tu ropa y peor- en tu risa.
Y ahora, siento mi pecho aplastado. Para revivir, tengo que respirar profundo. Lo mas profundo que pueda..hasta la proxima vez que aparescas.
Zhiar is my aunt (pura) Nazanin’s son. I felt a bond with him like no other when I went to visit my father’s side of the family in Kurdistan this summer. He was the sweetest and goofiest kid and I loved being around him. Although he’s just 9 years old, I was content with spending my days with him. I miss the simplicity of it. Our favorite thing to do together was play dominoes (domina). Over and over and over and he would sometimes cheat and I’d always catch him and he’d give me this cute little smirk that said “shhh, don’t tell anyone” and most of the time I wouldn’t. We’d go for walks onto the roof of my Nana’s house and he’d tell me random stories as we looked onto the surrounding mountains. He always wanted to be next to me or around me and it made me feel so special. Everyone over there made me feel so special. If you were to walk into a house in Kurdistan you’d see that every person (old or young) carries prayer beads with them. Zhiar gave me one of his and showed me how to use it. Allah, Allah, Allah and you repeat it each time you move the bead along the string.
Although I was unable to have full conversations with Zhiar, he is one of the people that made the most impact on me during the trip. His warmth and compassion which I could feel not by the words we shared but by the looks he gave me and the hugs and kisses he’d give me- is something I could never forget and something that I miss every second that I can’t be around to share my bread with him when I’m not hungry or teach him how to say things in English or even play bootleg video games with him on Playstation. I miss this little boy something fierce but what I miss most of all is when he’d say “you my sister” with the biggest smile on his face.
Been trying to swim through the waves of sadness and emptiness I’ve been feeling on the daily for what seems like years. But these moments when I can feel the goosebumps protruding from my skin, when I can feel the pit of my stomach form knots, these are the moments I realize I am human and all I can tell myself is “it’s okay to feel” and don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.
For about 20 years I’ve known that my parents being together was not a good idea, to put it lightly. After living in this house since I was 7, things are actually changing now. But the difference between knowing the change needs to happen for our own emotional/psychological good and accepting that it’s happening…finally…is fucking weird and I almost want to fly to another country, forget everything and everyone i’ve ever known and pretend this isn’t happening. But even though avoidance is the easiest answer…it’s also the worst one and i’m trying to avoid the avoidance at all costs. The circle of fucked-up-ness lives on.
Today was the first official step, though. We fixed all the little things wrong with the house in case we can get a short sale. Patched up all the anger holes, fixed the plumbing, etc. We’re also down one love seat, my brothers mini-weight lifting area is gone, and the pool table is in the process of getting sold. It’s getting emptier and even though I thought it wasn’t possible, so am I.
so many demons deep inside
the same spot where my brain resides
sometimes id like to run and hide
from all the shit i put aside
lock it up and then ill wait
and take out at a later date
when my minds not in a race
when my mouth knows what to say
but until then it’s all the same
i’ll reject what comes my way
exactly how you said i’d be
these demons won’t stop chasing me…..
vivo mi vida entre fantasias, flotando de una nube de esperanza a otra. cada una menos real que la anterior, sin embargo no paro de soñar. no paran estas ideas desesperadas y ya he llegado al punto que no puedo mas. no lo entiendo, las cosas que me parecen obvias, parece que a ti ni te ocurren. y me hace sentir invisible. estoy ahi, mirandote con la mirada de una alocada, una desesperada. no soporto la idea que no se como alcanzarte. me hace sentir como una fracasada, una boba que esta perdida en el mundo de la idea del amor. te hablo indirectamente porque tengo miedo, pero no me puedo quedar callada. por ahora, esto es todo lo que te puedo dar. pero se que no sera el final de estos pensamientos que me persiguen progressivamente mas cada dia que pasa lentamente.
i thought kurdistan would make me feel good about myself and help me discover things about myself i never knew but instead i felt all that towards everyone but myself. about me i felt so confused. as confused as i’ve felt in years. i had some of the lowest points i’ve had since ninth grade. but i learned so much about others that i can’t even remember all of it. everything there revolves around family and it felt awesome- but i missed my mom and i missed my brother and my cats- i dont know i was being a bitch but my dad wasn’t helping. i was sick and he didnt give a fuck- if it wasnt for certain cousins and aunts i wouldve been sick every week of that trip not just 2 weeks out of 4. i had conversations with my nana and gave her back massages and asked her xosha? [good?] and she said ahhh [yesss] and by the end she said i was way better and she could tell a lot of people had showed me which was true- when i was sick everyone would give me back massages. if i had a headache- head massage, it felt so good. you’d put your head on their leg or or thigh and they’d press down on it with their hands softly but i’d tell them to do it harder and it felt so good. in the morning they’d ask me nan ahoyt? and i’d shake my head like saying no - id rather sleep. not hungry. thanks. but for lunch and dinner it would be so much food. same thing rotating in every meal. no dr. pepper. they have coke, sprite, and orange soda. i read a really religious book while I was there. one of the first spanish books ive finished in a while. i saw a goat get massacred in the garage. the head was off and it was still baaaah'ing.
Para mí eres tesoro más cargado
de inmensidad que el mar y su racimos
y eres blanca y azul y extensa como
la tierra en la vendimia.
En ese territorio,
de tus pies a tu frente,
andando, andando, andando,
me pasaré la vida.
I sit, wondering, staring deeply at the red wall whose darkness bounces off the paint and around the whole room and into my mind through every crevice. i want you. i want you. this thought has become a daily ritual and the weight of it presses against me in the most devious ways. i want you. i want you. like clockwork my mind takes me to a place where you’re in every corner. i want you. i want you. and suddenly you’re there. the air brushes through my body and i feel it everywhere. it’s an easy air i’ve never felt. i breathe and the air has never felt so clean.
it’s cold but your presence brings me an overwhelming comfort I haven’t felt since recess. we share a coffee and the heat that it’s giving off. I blow air out of my mouth and into the cup and its warmth illuminates my face. i never dreamed it could be this fun. but it is and now we’re running. we reach the perfect place and laugh until it’s night time. before the sun went down the sky turned a peculiar color purple but it pleased me and kept me at ease. there were orange leaflets everywhere. some more orange than others. the rest red. its branches were all rich brown. i felt them crack at every foot step. we make music to the sounds of it. sounds of leaves crunching. i want you so bad. it’s driving me mad. the realness of the sounds and the realness of your embrace is replaced by a wave of pitch black.
hand over my face. not again. not another case of false advertising. "We used to think that sound was something pure." the wanting is still there, it comes in waves. in waves that all stem from my two naive eyes, the ones that starve for your attention every day. i have yet to get a single thing. what must i do to convince you that the craving is sincere? maybe i could flash a big sign in front of your face that reads WE ARE IT. until the idea gets pushed into the depths of your brain. i want you. i want you. this is it. we are it.
but alas, we are nothing.