preface.

“Because we were treated neglectfully and abusively in our young years—when we most needed self-love to be mirrored—it was difficult to hold onto…We take up the challenge of learning to love ourselves, through our highs & our lows, when we are finding acceptance from others and when we are being closed out and rejected.”

   tw: mentions of child neglect, emotional abuse.

the mother.

   Mornings waking up to the smell of pancakes. Your laughter, coming from downstairs but wrapping around me while I lie in bed. Being curled up in your lap while we read together. Entering the house, covered in dirt and worried about what Father would say about the mess. "I'LL DEAL WITH YOUR FATHER." I was so young when I knew you, when I lost you. But I carry your memory with me everywhere I go.

   I have to wonder how different things would be between Father and I if you had stayed with us. Your life was such a light, bright and thriving, and when you died, I wasn't sure I would ever feel warm again. I can hold him accountable for his anger, the times he raised his hand against me but never let it fall. But I can't hold the silence. He can't look at me for remembrance of you. And everything he has lost.

   I aspire every day to exhibit the qualities I remember. Your warmth. Your kindness. You used to speak to the other children in the neighborhood on our stoop, wrap your arm around their shoulder while they spoke. The other women would come to our dining room table to talk about their issues. You were GRAVITY. I wish I had the same pull. I can only try.

the father.

   A door slamming and a voice bellowing. Dishes discarded on every clear surface. The smell of alcohol on your breath as you loomed over me. The weight of your silence pushing down on my shoulders. Every moment I reached out to touch you and you flinched away, in disgust, in ANGER Unsigned permission slips. Knowing you weren't in the crowd at my concerts. The realization I will never be enough.

   I think I liked you best when you were drunk. Of course, I could have done without the arguments. The tiniest mistakes, hills, being made into mountains. You had enough self-control not to raise your hand to me, but, oh, how you raised your voice. I think the only thing that stopped you was that I look like her. Sound like her. The only time you let me touch you was when I helped you up the stairs, when I helped you into bed. You looked at me and you saw her.

   The only time you looked at me with fondness.

   I shouldn't blame you for the way I feel now. I haven't been a child for a very long time, and I still feel so low, so small. I know that it's wrong, to throw myself at the feet at whoever will take me. To bend to the will of others so easily, to allow them to use me. But it's the only way to prove you wrong. To prove to myself I can be loved. I mistake neglect or abuse so easily for love. But then again, that's all I really learned from you, isn't it?

the product.

   Mother, I'm trying to make you proud. Father, I know I will never be able to. But I have found things that bring me joy, take me out of my head. I tend to the green of my garden and help others to do the same. I talk to people and help draw them out of the black hole that I find myself in, that I think I am. I wake up every day and cling to the things that make me happy and make life worth living. I have to. I'm trying.