From The Viper Room show in Los Angeles, a week before the album release. September 2006. One for me, one was sent for her.
Oh. My. God.
(Grade 10’s picture was the day after I got braces and I refused everything.)
Pretty accurate description of the relationship between my grandmother, mother, and myself. Mom says something awful, I get upset, grandma mediates and soothes. Can’t believe a photo of this actually exists, but I remember grandpa coming in to take pictures of all of us and it was the worst timing. Grandma came in from the kitchen where she was finishing cooking and did her best. Christmas Eve, 1992.
I hated wearing dresses, can you tell? The next Christmas I started compromising with skirts.
First day of Kindergarten, September 1989.
Every year on the first day of school, my grandpa took a picture of me in front of this section of the roses. Check out these high top Reebok’s with purple kitty bow biters and this huge catholic school jumper, though.
Everything is breaking my heart tonight. These things should not have been taken from me, and that statement makes me feel like a lost, crying child between clothes racks at Target. I want these things. I promised to take care of them. I promised her I would take care of him. He talks to me like I’m my mother, and he talks to my mother like he should be talking to me. He means more to me than I could ever express and I’ve treasured every note I could save that they’ve left me on the kitchen table. Now I can’t even call him without feeling worthless, like I’m causing trouble, or that a certain person has already filled his head with alternate realities.
Sometimes I wish I could show him all the things I have saved and say, “Look. This is what you mean to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I don’t know what I would do without you. But I would make it. I stay here for you and I can’t enjoy that. Let me go and be proud of who I am. You did so well, and you would see that if you didn’t see her when you looked at me. Open your eyes. I am a good person. I am a smart person. I am a loving person, and I have so much love for you that it hurts me. Be proud of me. My life is going to be okay.” But I can’t.
Instead I’ll turn on only one light in this apartment, pack things while I cry in silence and be angry for feeling so alone and sorry for myself. Not feeling it and putting all the blame on another party is getting exhausting. I’m tired of my anger and I’m tired of grieving for someone who is still alive. What can I do? The process has started before its time. Not feeling all of these things is impossible.
What I want most in the world can never be and it breaks my heart in ways I could never express. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. I miss you already.