I just hit a car. A neighbor’s car while parallel parking. Thanks to the universe though it really is only a scratch and the reaction from the owner was more than comforting. It’s deeper than the accident though, especially considering why it happened.
I always had a very vivid imagination. I knew it, even if I did not show it per se in terms of manifesting it into some sort of artistic product. I don’t know how to play any instruments. I think I can sing but I am in no way a singer by any means. I don’t really draw, though I enjoy it though. I do write though and think a lot. In my imagination I always think of one thing, then another, then third and stories are made, even if they are never told. I write. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes it is hard to express in words…or should I say quick enough to write everything down. Though even looking back at the start of this paragraph alone I can see I am lying even to myself. Too many “I don’ts here. Just last night I was driving in my car to work and had an out loud conversation with no one to listen to in German. I don’t speak German…scratch that. I do! I have recorded some dancing sessions of myself as I was moved by the music to express what my soul and mind were feeling at the moment. I am not trained in any type of dance, yet I have always danced – the music always moves me. I have recorded freestyle songs for only but myself just last months ago. I am artistic…whatever that means. I am creative I know this. Yet I transgress. The accident.
I hit the car. I did not even see it. Not for a moment did I see it. How could that be? Simple. I was in another world, consumed by the pain that I feel inside which in reality has never been dealt with to the point that it needs too. You can’t escape some things, no matter how much you try. Trust me. I declared to my mother that I am not surprised yet still affected each and every time I do not hear a positive thing of “Ok, well that plan sounds interesting, now hear me out on what I think?” I never outwardly lived the pain that I feel inside. The feeling that I am not good enough to be loved by my own parents. Just once to be told, “Look, you are very different from us…we see it, but we love you no matter what.” I don’t need money – I just need a hug. A sense that you love me enough to just say, “We don’t believe in this personally, but if you do then there must something you feel and we love you enough to think it is not a crazy thought.” I am asking for a lot? I forgave the abuse…yes it was a torturous abuse that I did not deserve by any means. No one can justify it, because I was not raised in the same environment they were therefore to me I can only describe it as “abuse”, not cultural norm. No child in any culture deserves that. Yet I am grateful to the clarity to accept this and not be forever crippled by all of the surreal cruelty towards me during my childhood. I feel for that little girl though still. She is still in me. She is often confused but stays very silent about it all. I did not chose to be a child of a diaspora. I did not chose to be affected in all the ways that I was and become who I am now fully. I did not chose to be so colorfully creative in my thoughts. Or did I? Do I? I think I am doing much better this time around. Shit. Last time I was hit with this situation of uncovering the wounds I fell into the big D. Yes, I came out of it. What seemed like alone. But I did. I won’t go down that path again. It was a very dark, hopeless, consuming and exhausting path of self disintegration. If I did not vow before, I vow now to never go down that path again. Never. I will cry it all out, make a full of myself talking and writing about my struggles, but never go down that path again. It was an awful place to be. I better write about this then feel anger or self pity. That is the medicine; to still think and bring it out rather than let it rot inside.
I am proud of me really. Even if I accept that I myself am a bit weird. I just need a hug. I just need my mother’s hug.
So yes, hi my name is________ and I have mommy issues.
Anyways more is cried out than can be written.