The earth feels moist in my hands as I pat the soil down, this plant needed tending to.

It’s a piece of ginger root I planted some time ago its sprouts are now strong and tall and green.

As I continue to pat the soil down I realize a lesson I’ve been learning for the past few years starting from this point in my past:

After picking bad people to surround myself I decided I no longer needed friends.

I’d alienated my family.

I was alone.

I’d been violated and worse than that, I’d starting finding ways to hurt myself further.

Isolating myself was just one more step in this direction.

I bought plants because some blog somewhere said this can help with depression.

I woke up, I went to work, I came home, I went to sleep.

I hardly ate, I was barely alive and nothing more.

the plants began to die.

Splotchy yellow leaves, drooping with the weight of poor care.

I couldn’t even take care of myself but I was determined to take care of these damn plants.

So, I watered them, worked to bring them back to life - these plants became my purpose.

My plants started to grow again, still traumatized but alive.

I quit my miserable job. I studied my ass off to pass a test in order to get the job I wanted.

I failed that test 3 times.

Still, my plants were beginning to thrive.

Eventually after much failure and then a final success I got the job.

I made friends, good friends.

I met good humans. The kind of friends who shine light on the pieces of myself I’ve refused to see, the kind of friends who helped me learn how love me.

My plants were lonely I realized, so I bought more - the collection growing slowly over time.

I began to eat more, to stretch more, to breathe more.

I broke up with my boyfriend. He was a piece of shit.

Still, I held onto my plants. I’d put too much time and effort in to let them die now. I’d invested in them the same way I began investing in myself.

I got my own place, plants and all.

I found myself.

All of my yellow splotchy, wilting leaves began to fall. I was growing anew.

Love found its way into my life.

I take care of my plants, I take care of myself.

As I pat down the soil of this plant I am reminded, all of my trauma is a part of me.

Just like this plant that is now 5 years old, I too can come back from the brink of death, I too can live again.

Not just live but thrive.

The thing about ginger root is, after you plant it you don’t see a sprout for a few weeks to a few months. You can’t check to see if the roots are growing or you’ll risk jeopardizing the plant. You have to water it, give it light, and wait.

I thrive now because I invested in myself and I never lost hope that one day I’d emerge from the Earth and keep growing, never stopping in my pursuit of light.

Disclaimer: I do not have a mental disorder and I am not trying to offend anyone here.

Vinte- Vinte is the writer in my mind and every time I sit down to do something, she's the one that comes to life. She is the one that has all the information gathered together and sorted in some chaotic way. She can also take the side of any character I'm working on and figure out what their reactions and such would be.

Jordan - Jordan is the carefree side of me, the person I want to eventually be. I don't see a lot of her as she only appears on good days when I'm happy or helping others. When she comes out, it's like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders and the mask has fallen away and I can actually be me.

Emily - Emily is me. The one that I have to live as day in and day out. Emily holds all of my doubts and insecurities and feels the pain. Unlike Jordan, she's not as happy and sunshiney as some think and unlike Vinte, she has a hard time keeping everything together.

Fangirl - Yes, that's what I call her. She's the totally happy side of me that loves to sit down and talk (hahaha) about what she loves. This side of me comes out on a daily basis whether it be at the dinner table or in a chat with my friends. This is also the part of me that feels the most happiness, aka, second-hand happiness.

Apollo - She is the precise side of me that is meticulous in everything she does. Everything must be perfect and just so and she never leaves a job unfinished. Apollo never really appears and so I continue to procrastinate.

Addiction.

Come on.

Take a puff.

Just a little.

One isn’t enough.

Another?

Come on.

Take a sip, just a bit.

It’s good!

You will love it.

Good?

How about another glass?

Another?

That can’t be your last!

Another for your brother?

Sounds familiar?

My minions…

Your so called “friends”.

The ones that are my slaves.

Slaves to my slaves.

To help me get more slaves.

Come on,

I’m not cruel to anyone, definitely not you.

You came to me, willingly!

Do not pin the blame to me!

I love you.

I treat you well.

Your soul I get to drag to hell.

For all eternity

I am your new master.

Obey me.

Obey my minions.

And always remember that I love you, so stay close to me.

I am Addiction.

Ready?

1, 2, 3 and 2, 2, 3 and:

Row, row, row your boat...

Row, row, row your boat...

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...

Gently down the stream...

Row, row, row your boat...

Life is but a dream...

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...

Blue bird ringin’ my doorbell...

Rollin’ my blues away!

Huck- “Hey Hoo! What the hell was that?”

Hoo- “It’s John Fogerty, dummy.”

Huck- “I know it’s John Fogerty, but he doesn’t sing Row Your Boat!”

Hoo- “Would sound better if he did.”

Berry- “True that.”

Huck- “Will y’all please shut up. Let’s start again, from the top.”

Hoo- “Forget you, Huck! Who made you the boss, anyway?”

Huck- “Well, my name does come first.”

Berry- “True that, too.”

Hoo- “Can we at least get in out of the rain first?”

Huck- “Not until we get it right.

Hoo- “Screw that, I’m getting out of the rain. My Momma didn’t raise a dummy.”

Huck- “But, we have the same Momma.”

Berry.- “Too true, and she raised three.”

Huck- (Heavy sigh) “Everyone together, from the top:

Row, row, row your boat...

we’re running side by side, feet pounding against the concrete, syncing with the beat of our heart.

the sun is beginning its descent, melting slowly into the horizon, one oozing drop at a time.

we could reach up and pluck it out of the sky, it seems.

we could hold it in the palm of our hand, put it in a little lantern and carry it always, a reminder that even in the darkest times we will have light.

but we keep going, pushing ourselves faster than we ever thought we could go.

we feel like cheetahs striding through the open prairie, like a horse bred for racing, tearing around each and every corner with the power of a falcon soaring into the star speckled beyond.

i am pulling slightly ahead as the sun falls behind our backs, and the light is fading, a firefly that has been kept in a jar for much too long, struggling to stay alive.

i cannot stay much longer, that I know.

it is becoming too dark.

we stop on a corner to pick up the paper.

we lift it in our hands, examining the front page.

in the dimming glow of the streetlights, we can begin to make out the words thrown across the page: kennedy elected, usa saved.

folding the paper in a neat roll, we cram it into our pocket and hand the young boy running the stand a few coins.

he tips his hat gratefully and we begin racing again, but it is not before long that the dark comes altogether and i slip away into the darkness, anticipating the next time we will get to play.

we are never far apart over the span of the next few years.

i am always by his side, and although i do not speak to him, he knows i am there.

i am there the day he has his first kiss, watching in bittersweet happiness as my boy begins to grow up and find himself for the first time.

i am there the day he finds out his father is dead, and i am the only one who stays by his side as he crumples into a little ball of hopelessness and despair.

i lay down next to him and comfort him with my quiet presence.

there is not much more i can do.

i am there the day he meets the man he is to love, as their broken eyes find each other across the room of the dimly lit bar.

i am there when he edges over to the man with a nod of his head, and slides into the seat next to him.

i am there, standing against the wall, when my boy brings his new love home to his mother, who smiles sorrowfully with tears in her wrinkled eyes, wishing her husband could be here to see this sacred moment.

i am there the day they move in together, as they hold hands and gleefully run through each room of their new home, laughing and hugging, planning out their lives together in their small temple of hope and dreams.

but i cannot help but feel an ounce of sadness course through my being as I remember the time that my boy would spend with me, skipping and playing and going everywhere together, just the two of us.

i shake the thought out of my head and replace it with thoughts of how truly happy i am for him, to be with the person he loves.

i am forgotten.

i am there the day they adopt their daughter, a small girl from some far away place you only hear of in fairytales.

the youthful flame in their eyes that has been forgotten since childhood is reignited, and i feel a spark of warmth inside of me at the thought of my boy filled with so much love again.

but as the light outside the windows begins to dim down, i can’t help but feel as though i am being replaced yet again.

i disappear into the darkness as i do every night, only to be awoken the next morning by the indifferent sun beginning to hover over the horizon.

i am there the day their daughter leaves home, as all three embrace tearfully and promise to never let go.

i stand apart in a corner, watching as they part with wet eyes and aching hearts, and some small corrupted part of me feels a tinge of happiness.

maybe, just maybe, i think, i will be remembered, with one less person in his world.

but life is too busy to work as such, and i find myself dreaming of the times we would run together, racing against ourselves and the world.

i am there the day he finally notices me, the sun high overhead in the sky, beating down waves of heat on all who dare set foot outside.

he looks over at me, up against the brick wall covered in decades of graffiti, and smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, no doubt remembering all the time we spent together as children.

without looking away, he begins to run.

we jog side by side again at last, down the winding, smoky streets of the city.

neither of us are as young and nimble as we used to be, but our feet slap the concrete in unison once more.

legs burning, arms pumping, chests heaving in and out, i feel a surge of nostalgia.

i will be alone no longer.

but I see the car before he does.

a large truck, green, a color rarely seen in the city anymore.

rusted around the grille, large and threatening and dangerous.

i see it all, taking it all in in slow motion.

every part of my body is warning me to stop, to slow down, to do something, but i cannot.

all i can do it watch as the car slams into the side of my boy, who didn’t even see it coming.

he is thrown like a rag doll across the road, and i feel myself being jerked along with him.

our bodies slam into the ground with the impact of a meteor, and i cannot do anything but stare as my boy takes a final rattling, painful breath, spilling out onto the pavement.

i look deep into his broken eyes, hoping, praying, and cursing myself for not doing something, anything at all to save him.

but how could I have?

i am banished to a life half lived, to watch from afar, never to be anything more than the reflection of a man.

a shadow.

My father told me he spoke to ghosts as easily as people.

Coming from him, this did not seem crazy.

He mentioned  a conversation he’d had that morning with his grandfather, retold the joke he had heard.

The fact that his grandfather dropped dead on the golf course on an April day in 1927 was of no consequence.

The joke was a good one.

Timeless, like its teller.

Now he too is gone, my father, gone to join the ghosts to which he spoke so easily.

I did not inherit his full facility with ghosts, only a touch of it.

I can feel my father and know he is there, but he is mute.

It is as though we swim together in the sea, masks and snorkels and fins.

I can neither speak nor hear as I float through this world, its currents wafting hot and cold, up and down, the only sound my own stertorous breathing and the rush of blood in my ears.

I see him there, my father, floating in eddies of his own.

Behind the plate glass of his mask I can see his lips moving.

To hear his voice is my utmost wish.

And I see her there, wild and feral in a cage made of lace and pastels. Snapping through an underbite smile and singing an underbreath song. She stood on benches and ran through grass in buckled shoes not made to move. She held frogs in hands sprouting fingers adorned in gold trinkets. And skinned knees through white tights wrapped like nets. Carried on the backs of her brothers she learned to walk in her own time and ran rather than stumbled through her first solo journey. She spoke in her mind full soliloquies rather than mumbling letters aloud. She spoke with the confidence of one with something for which to be proud of. She played with her own hands and created worlds with her own thoughts. Twirling spaces jagged lines soft rather than tough. A sense of humor that didn’t quite match but was regardless targeted to be struck. A hope to teach without much of a desire to sit and learn. Because who needs equations when you could hunker down and feel the world turn. A mouth full of laughter and a heart full of sensitive songs all coming out on the swings. A defiance of commands demanding silence trying to cut her words wings. I see her for all she truly was and all she wished she could be. I see her there and beg her to come back to me. She is wild and feral, she is within my reach, little ragamuffin girl, she is me.

#childhood #poetry #feminism #mentalhealth #growingup