The thunder rumbles in the distance. The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle. The lightning is sporadic but the lightning bugs are constant, flirting about under the cover of thick bushes and trees.
I always wanted to sit under a covered porch, my covered porch, in the rain, and enjoy the ambiance. Ambiance. What a ridiculously big word I learned from a ridiculously simple woman. I miss what our relationship once was. I miss it a lot. Like the death of a mother, one who actually gave a shit about her kid and who the kid actually gave a shit about. I found that so late in life, and lost it too soon.
My actual mother apologized recently. She said all the right words, had the right tone, meant the right things. It was, at its core, exactly what I wanted. But now that I got it, I hate that she did. Things are messy now. The guilt and shame I managed to shake off is back, even if it’s not valid. I think I never wanted to forgive her. I think I just wanted the past to never have happened. Those thoughts bring a whole different kind of guilt and shame to the party.
It’s been nearly 11 years since I tried to check out and really meant it. Although I’m not looking to turn in my room key anymore, I had hoped that I would have forgotten what it’s like to want to by now. I haven’t. I think that’s why it’s been 2 1/2 years since I got this covered porch and just now got around to experiencing the chaos of the summer under it’s protection. I still don’t feel like I deserve it’s protection. I still feel like I deserve the heart of the chaos.
Things are different but they’re not. The porch was my favorite part of the house when we viewed it. I dreamed of this moment before we even had the keys. I never thought we would have this. Could have earned this. Would had survived to get this. I cannot explain how thankful I am that we have this, together, we have this life. My greatest fear was always that I’d turn out like my mother. Now that I realize I became her anyway, my greatest fear is that I’ll ruin what we have together. These beautiful things that I’ve got. Please, I want you, I need you, oh god.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop being 16. I don’t think I’ll ever shake those feelings. I don’t think those wants will ever fade. I think I will always, at my center, be scared, angry, cruel, lost. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being 16. But I’m hopeful there’s room for me to be someone else too. Someone who doesn’t say shitty things to bring others down just to gain 5 whole seconds of satisfaction. Someone who doesn’t refuse to communicate and plays mind games. I’m trying, so fucking hard, to be someone worth coming home to. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being 16, but I want to bury her under someone who’s 30. 40. 50 still sounds like I’m asking too much, but if we get there, I hope she is strong enough to forget where 16 was buried. And more than anything, I hope she still has Magpie.
Things are different but they’re not. It feels like reality is a ball hanging from a string. The wind flings it around, but in the calm, it always comes back to the middle. Reset to default. The rain has stopped. The birds are back out and singing. And I want to ask the front desk where I place my room key at checkout.
I never liked talking to people though, anxiety and all that. So I guess I’ll blow on the ball that is reality, set it adrift, and enjoy the sunset on my covered porch.
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jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
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romaincrisis
dededos
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
