Delving into Subconscious Territory

Since I can remember, I always wrote. But I only shared from a place of thoughtful reflection. Writings on scraps of paper, scribbles on old shopping bags or envelopes from yesterday's mail, letters, essays, poems, blogs. These were a part of my home that I opened for guests. But the notebooks, those were only for me. It was a place of deep contemplation-- my thoughts, my dreams-- that no one could alter because it was the unexposed parts of me. 

Once Rae read my Hello Kitty diary. It had a lock on it, but one could easily pick it with a bobbypin. I was ten and she was well on her way into high school at the time. The shadows from the spinning ceiling fan gleamed off her mouth full of metal as she read the last entry aloud. She laughed as she repeatedly yelled the forbidden crush's name so loudly that I feared mom and dad would hear (I wasn't sure if I was allowed to like boys, and if that were true, I might've gotten in trouble). She towered over me as I tried to snatch it from her, but my small frame was no match for her lengthy model figure. She stood on the bed with her arm raised, nearly shredding Hello Kitty to bits. 

I think this was the moment I knew I could not share anything without being ridiculed. But I was ten. That summer I turned eleven and everything changed. Notebook after notebook, I'd fill it with all my thoughts, memories, and secrets. If I found you worthy enough, I'd let you peak into that part of my life. If I found your worthy, I just might let you sign my purple composition slam book. 

But some I thought were worthy were definitely not. Writing shared was meant just for that-- to be shared. Some people had other ideas. Once Mrs. L confiscated my slam book. Someone wrote something horrible about Mia. Of course, I took responsibility. After all I was the keeper of the slam book. The most heartbreaking part was seeing Mia's eyes well up with tears. She was my friend and I really liked her. My parents were called into school for an intervention meeting, and I had the biggest lecture about bullying.

I don't recall ever apologizing to Mia. At eleven, I don't think I knew how. Things were never the same after that. I went home that day wanting to rid the shame, and I threw away all my journals-- years of writing in the trash. The first basketball game I cheered for, the team ended the night at Wendy's. My crush said hi to me that night. I broke the tip off the beige frosty spoon and taped it to that page. Wendy's engraved, plastic face smiled back in that entry-- in the trash. Pouring my heart out over Devon Sawa, explaining how Im so much better than Christina Ricci-- in the trash. The entry about the day our teacher was out sick so our class went to the library and wrote the school mission, vision, and expectations 100x-- the trash.  I met a girl that day, Jane, who becomes my forever friend.

Although I thought I emptied the garbage a thousand times, I somehow came back to find that there might be something in the trash. Perhaps it's a matter of sorting out useful memories and pulling out those recyclables. However, some things are meant to go straight to the landfill, buried, and forgotten!

I think this is the moment I realize I want to see my story written out. I can't explain the itch I get right before I sleep to get it out there for the world to see-- or at least for the five people who read this. I don't know what may become of this, but I'm definitely excited to find out. I'd be happy if you join me on this journey as I write my heart on this sleeve. 

Golden Hour with My Stranger

December 24, 2006, the day I took you home from the hospital was one of the most joyous days of my life despite the trauma surrounding it. I was nineteen, only a couple days into my second winter break in college. While many people were celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ and the end of the semester, I could barely even stand. 

I felt the metal tugs from the line of staples that sunk into my skin, which ran like a railroad track across my abdomen. My naive mind conjured thoughts of them popping out, and every exasperated organ inside my body would finally escape that impostor. But I slowly walked towards your crib and your longing eyes cried out in anguish.

He left that day, discontented by the burdens of parenthood. We were abandoned once before when told him about you. He came to his senses eventually, but I don't know if it was out of guilt or sense of duty. But now, it doesn't matter. 

That night was my first time alone with you. The waves of isolation carried the two of us into a life of uncertainties. You crossed over and longed to be a part of this life-- with every lack of boundaries, emotional maturity, and sense of self-- with every desperate plea for acceptance, and validation. I couldn't offer you anymore than the little love I had in me. I could only give you what I had-- the little knowledge world I knew-- overestimating my abilities to fulfill your needs.

You cried a new song I never heard before. I cried too, but a sad, old played-out tune . We cried together in disharmony, which would be an all-too familiar ballad that would replay throughout the rest of our lives. I held you in my arms as you suckled the last bit of comfort, and the few drops of joy that was left in me, I gave to you. You fell asleep on my chest as Burl Ives, the voice of the snow man, serenaded us through a 24 inch box screen, "Everyone wishes for silver and gold. How do you measure its worth? Just by the pleasure it gives here on Earth." 

This is a moment I never shared with anyone until now. I don't know if anyone could comprehend how this one experience influenced the existential dimensions of my life-- questioning everything I had ever known as I crawled back into infancy. 

Midnight struck with no one around except God smiling upon you as the clay figures prounced in our tiny television. I never felt tired the way I felt tired that day. I never felt every single emotion at once until that moment. 

Merry Christmas, my baby. It was your first Christmas, yet you were one day older than me in that moment. Recently you asked me how can I love you (in all your complexities, every tear cried, every I hate you, every manic episode). I don't think you'll understand because you don't remember that one Christmas day.

I wrote a poem for you a little over a year later, reflecting on that exact moment. 

My Stranger

Stranger, you are foreign to me

Yet, you lie on my bosom

Stranger, you are untouched

Yet, you cry for my comfort

Skin of milk, hair of silk

an Angel's impression

upon each cheek.

Desolate stranger, you are

a flyspeck entity from my womb

Yet, you are larger than I—

filled with innocent sway

over my heart.

Oh little one, if only

you could see...

Not every tree sprouts flowers

But I, to be so lucky to

bear such an impeccable seed,

will water you with the

sweetest syrup and glaze you

with the lushest soils of the earth and you

will no longer by my stranger.

October 2008