i found myself on a by accident hiatus based on fatigue from school from fatigue of a cold then flu but i am back. i hope you all had an amazingly great holiday and will be having an epic new years. thanks as always for stopping by.
I found myself acting out. Acting out in the middle of the mountains. In the middle of my parents. In the middle of my family. In the middle of not my adolescence but the beginning stages of a supposed maturity of the 30s. But somehow when I come back here. Here. I find myself teenage again. In my antics. In my ability to respond. By yelling. Pounding my legs down the hall. And slamming the door again. Again. See this is the way I behaved before. It was the norm of me. But never do I anymore. Until there is something about the bringing to together of the family. That makes my younger self re-submerge into me. I drop a few pounds, my hair lightens to a blond and lengthens, my jeans expand to boot cut, flannel tied around my waist, womanhood not budding enough and there she is. I am time traveled back to my old school abilities to cope. In dramatic ways. I am well behaved mostly. In my life. But sometimes even I need to act out.
Somehow in the equation of my father- trying to be caring as always, trying to be the strong one although diminished by disease and age and injury plus my brother-who worships money and power and spews it upon us in his tirades, we wipe our faces but it still stinks and a momentarily sweet pause plus my stepmom-trying to balance the job of peace maker knotting her belly into two, she is the keeper of my father plus me-the one who talks, talks too much, and has learned the boundaries I must draw to survive equals into the mess that we only can know as our own.
Time. I am late. Late I am not with her and haven’t been in years. But through a misunderstanding of time. Reconfirmed by a father unable to now keep time. He lives in the abyss of the fox, of the morphine, of the cloud of poker and airplanes on his computer. Are you going to be ready? Her face distorts and words are not needed for her to inflame my wound of a 15 year self. No I am not. But I will be in a few minutes. Dad told me. Now dad sitting in my face, Kate you should get moving. Shit. I am usually the well behaved and hounding they are me. But my brother and dad make everyone wait all the time. But no time out for them. No lecture. Just me. Done. Pounding and slamming. And father coming. And I am saying leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. I am not myself or am I. I walk down the hall of my own childhood to be like the teenagers I work with. Heart starts pounding against my chest the adrenaline of years past pump into my system.
Now my brother is coming in for round 3. Kate what’s your problem. I am sick of you. Leave me alone. I repeat. I do one thing and now it’s the apocalypse. I am sick of being well behaved and somehow she is here as I stare at her in the mirror. The girl I left behind. T you do whatever the hell you want and never make an apology so leave me alone and get out of here and close the door on him. Him.
I guess it doesn’t matter how old we get, or how we work on ourselves to play well with others out in the real world because when you return, return to your roots of home. You are once again. Again as you were. At first very adult, but each adultness layers chips off and fails to the fall, I watch it drift as leaves of the tree. Just as the pimples reappear and my confidence begins to sink. And I am again slamming the door. Door. Running away from them. Running away from myself. Running away from the fact, we can’t grow up when others remind of us of the piece forgotten.
Happy holidays-you say upon your signs and cards and in words or smiles unspoken. Me I cross my fingers and make sure to have prescriptions and see if this year I can make it sober. Sober without the help of numbness. No one wants a drunk teenager. But a slightly sedated one. Maybe. But there is a part of us one before the weathering of life and the tempering occurs. Our younger self. She likes to make appearances. Sometimes. Never with your family. Just with mine. Here in the mountains. But always when I least expect it. But now I walk down the hall. Slowly. I remember. I remember to say sorry. And try again. Next year.
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