Longing

  • For none of this to have happened
  • For two loving, wonderful people, or even just one, to adopt me, to want me as their child, to love me
  • To not be alone
  • For it to be different, their reactions to have been different
  • For my t to love me
  • For my best friend to not live so far away
  • For me to know what I’m doing with my life
  • For parents
  • For gentleness and kindness, and a hand to hold. For someone to stroke my hair or my cheek, to tuck my hair behind my ears, to look me in the face and be patient and loving and take care of me
  • For someone to go back in time and scoop me up and take me in as their child
  • To have a family
  • To have a home
  • To be safe
  • To feel safe

fifty-two: longing

ugh.

i don’t think i can do this one justice today, it’s been a completely shitty day.

what i long for most is for this not to have happened. the possibility that somehow, i wasn’t a little girl to whom these things occurred. that i wasn’t really a receptacle for the lust and sickness of two grown men, that i was safe, that i was protected, that i counted.

secondly, i long for a lap, into which i can keen and sob and wail because it did fucking happen, all of it. so many disgusting things, to my small body, so many disgusting words, into my young ears.

and lastly, i long for the day when i don’t long for that lap, when my motherlessness doesn’t feel like a stone in my gut, when i stop needing so desperately and often. when i can hold her and me both, and know that we’ll make it through.

Kindness

I didn’t want to write this yesterday, sorry people. And really my thoughts on it have only felt more coherent today anyway, I needed longer to think.

I’ve always been kind. I don’t know if it’s natural, maybe somehow my parents’ chromosomes combined in some way that meant I came out with kindness despite their lack of it. (Though I suppose that’s complicated, and not completely true to say… My dad can be very kind, but it’s hit or miss, and those he loves are far less likely to be on the receiving end.) Or, perhaps, I ended up that way because of the environment I was in. I suspect the latter.

But anyway, it’s always been something that’s been commented on, the fact that I was kind. I’ve just sifted through old school reports and it’s cropped up multiple times. And the one strong memory that I associate with it in terms of myself is winning awards for kindness at one of the schools I went to. I actually think it was such a good thing that they did this, that they made it clear the value of kindness and helping others, as well as academic success. So this school had two award systems. One for endeavors (doing something well academically) and one for citizenship (acts of kindness or helping others). In both cases you would receive an award after you filled a chart once a teacher had commended you for those things ten times. And then, at the end of the year, the student in the school with the most citizenships would win one overall award, and the student with the most endeavors another, and the student with the most combined awards the final one.

I won all three in my 3 years there, but I won the kindness one twice. I never really worked to be kind, I have just always hated being mean. I don’t understand mean people and I don’t like it. Kindness makes such a difference to people and is so easy to do, I don’t understand why people aren’t generally kind. And no one is always kind, I’m not, but I don’t understand intentional meanness.

But the thing is, this word was sitting horribly in my gut. Because yeah, I was on the receiving end of a lot of unkind things, and kindness wasn’t well practiced in my house growing up, but actually I realised today, the reason it sits so uncomfortably, is because I kind of hate myself for being kind.

Because all these school reports I’ve read tonight, they talk about me being kind, and considerate, and easy – going with a ready smile. I’ve read ‘a pleasure to teach’ so many bloody times, and yet it makes me feel a bit sick. Because I put up this facade, this fucking wall, and I was there and helped people and was kind, almost always. And yet I never asked for help, I never relied on anyone, I never rocked the boat.

And I could kick myself.

I sat back, and I took it, and I was affable and pleasant with a good sense of humour and kind and considerate and a pleasure to fucking teach. And nobody knew, because I never told anyone, I never trusted anyone, I buried my shit within myself and became a different person for everyone else. I could’ve done what my brothers did. I could’ve been a nightmare, raged, gotten angry and violent and caused trouble and had questions asked. I couldve let people know I wasnt okay, that nothing was fucking okay. But no, instead I decided to be kind. To put myself on the end of the important list, to be unworthy of care and kindness and attention.

And fuck, I hate myself for that. I hate myself for being kind.