Speranza

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when i was younger my mother sat my siblings and i down, gave each our own note book and said i want you to write half a page everyday of anything, things that bother you, what your feeling or thinking it could be anything she said… i don’t remember if someone asked but she told us that we could put anything we wanted in there and that nobody would know because nobody would be able to read it…

i wrote a lot from that point on, i felt safe there and found a form of comfort… it would ease my mind and i not only vented there i used my journals as an escape… i knew there i could get as dark and vulnerable as i wanted… it was exactly what i needed.. my mothers instincts must have told her the kids needed somewhere that would give them a momentary escape from the chaotic surroundings… i never talked to or opened up to anybody so it was perfect for me, i finally had someone who would just listen to me for hours and hours

… it would seem like at some point someone has to violate you, and this person went through me and my brothers journal.. i didn’t know how much was read, but i made it a point after that to keep it hidden… that little journal was all i had to comfort me…

One night in writing, i thought how lonely i felt with it because granted i was getting a release with it, i wasn’t getting a response to tell me everything would be okay… I brought my journal to life, i don’t know what made me think i could but i did.. i had issues with men so i knew it couldn’t be a man, but i was comfortable with women.. I knew my journal was a her, i named her *Speranza*.. Speranza means Hope in Italian… Speranza gave me hope, and every time i wrote she was right there….

I usually left my journal at home but I brought it with me to this house when i was younger, i should have known better because if violating me when i was younger was that easy for this person, then doing it when i was older would be no different.. I ended up leaving it there but i didn’t remember right away.. i had to go back over to this house real quick and when i walked in, this person was buried and lost in a notebook, i didn’t think anything of it and it didn’t register that it was my journal being read.. later on that evening someone called my mom and said i forgot my journal at the house and that it was being read by this person… When mom told me all i could think of was “hopefully this person read the entries about their actions done to me as a child and much i hated them for it”….

i never let no one know anything of me, no one would understand me anyways.. i completely gave up on Speranza after that… the one place i had always felt safe no longer protected me… When this person who read my journal told my mom that one of her kids were gonna commit suicide, i knew a lot of my journal had been read… what was writing my thoughts supposed to do for me when people kept peering into my mind, how do i trust in that when trusting in it i became violated…

it was awhile before i wrote again, and i found comfort and something else to ease my mind… it only provided so much comfort, granted the occasional line on a center console or mirror numbed me it didn’t release my thoughts like writing did… and granted the puzzle pieces brought me into a whole new world and helped me escape my present reality, but that escape was only a moment and when the puzzle piece wore off i was back in reality…

I needed more then what that offered, and when i started getting my life together i went back to the journal, i went back to a place where i found the most comfort…. at that point i figured if anyone went through them it wouldn’t matter..

i recently saw those journals i wrote in so many years ago and i realized that Speranza (hope) didn’t go anywhere, she waited for me to feel comfortable with her again… and that even though i gave up on Speranza……

she didn’t give up on me…

 

Mister Misery

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It wasn’t all bad all the time growing up with these men, there were moments with them that meant everything to me… the moments where certain things are said or certain things are done that had appeared to be genuine confused me because prior to that they couldn’t stop being violent or cutting us children down..

The moments were the talking is rational and their behavior is normal had me wondering if this is who they really are and if it was why would they try so hard to hide this person… but i also wondered if how they were acting was even real and how hard they had to pretend to be that nice… i couldn’t tell… because for so long prior to those moments they were mean, violent and couldn’t get enough of degrading our mother to us… maybe they thought that a rarely given moment like that we would overlook everything they had done just moments before… maybe they thought that their nice words or nice way of talking we would overlook all their cut downs.. i wondered how hard it was for them to be that nice and that if at some point they couldn’t handle the fact that there being so nice so they went back to their usual self…

Did it bother them seeing other people happy? happiness and chaos seemed to dictated by the men of the house… if things were running to smooth they didn’t hesitate to shake it up a bit… maybe they’re addicted to the chaos…

The thing is they were apart of my “childhood” all the bad and the moments of it being okay, I never wondered why they did certain things because what are the chances of getting an honest and genuine answer let alone them owning up to what they did… i did wonder if they wanted to be a better person but just couldn’t because being a better person was to difficult for them, maybe they were comfortable being completely miserable… perhaps the statement “misery loves company” couldn’t be more true… maybe the fact you hold on in hopes to see them change, be better or be nicer because they show you just that in those rarely given moments.. that might be their key to how “misery keeps its company”….

 

The “Real dad”

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my mother asked “did you come to terms with your Dad”….. i paused to think about that question for a minute……..

early on my real grandfather thought that being a young child i was ready to be told that who i thought was my father was not my father at all…  i don’t recall my initial reaction but i can still feel the confusion felt… thinking about it now i don’t know that it ever bothered me, or that younger me was so good at making it seem like i was always okay maybe i’ve tricked myself into thinking that i wasn’t bothered by it…

by nature i was curious about him but being a child it seemed i was to concerned with enjoying some kind of normal childhood but when i got into middle school and things seemed to be at it’s most dysfunctional the random thoughts came up more… middle school, my thrill for fist fights and weed kept my mind occupied from what was going on and from those random thoughts of my “Real Dad”…. even though i had random thoughts of him it didn’t mean that i needed him or wanted him around but i did wonder if he was any different from the man who was raising me.. what could a mother possibly say to comfort a kid who knows his “real dad” wants nothing to do with him as i was constantly reminded growing up, but mom in her own comforting way would tell me that maybe life was protecting me from something worse, which was hard for me to understand being that the environment i was living in was chaotic&dysfunctional .. a phone call or 2 all my life from him which was completely pathetic and when the phone call ended he insisted i say “i love you dad” which was the biggest fucking joke from this man and when i refused to say it he just like all the other men in my life resorted to the cut downs (why grown ass men cut down children is beyond me) the only name i can recall is him calling me a “sissy lala” which i am still confused to what that is and if i should take that as a cut down or not… i gave the phone to my mother, i wasn’t about to tell some “man” who wanted to hear his son who he knew nothing of tell him that he loved him which wasn’t gonna happen… in 17 years i never got anything on my birthday from him which wasn’t a big deal by any means but then on my 18th birthday i got a box in the mail from my real ‘real dad’ and when i opened it up there was 18 gifts , a cheap attempt to make up for all the birthdays he missed… perhaps if i had gotten other birthday gifts or even a note throughout my childhood from him this gift might have mattered.. it might have even meant something if he took the time to get to know me instead of getting me shit i had no interest in.. probably bought me gifts he liked and clearly my step father had a interest in…

years went by and i never heard from him again until i got a facebook friend request with my “real dad” and some kind of a classless attempt at being a father through a social media site. and that was the last of him…

i answered my mothers question .. there wasn’t a lot to come to terms with because i was never pissed off at him… how do i get upset at the fact he wanted he to live and enjoy his life without the responsibilities of having a kid, i look at it like thank you for doing me the favor and staying true to your choices…