This prose poem is amazing and painful and beautiful and true and seems to have been there forever, but apparently it’s brand new.
These are the bits that tug at me, personally. Maybe some time I’ll write about those tugs.
My biological father was long-since crazy. Crazy scared me.
I don’t like those people who tell kids that adolescence is the best years of our lives.
That’s a lie.
That’s the kind of lie that can really kill you. The kind of lie that makes you feel alone in your depression. The kind of lie that can scare you for a long time.
There were other lies like that.
Maybe that night on the park bench, like Borges, I dreamed my grown self sitting next to me. Maybe I half-woke and she told me all the wondrous and terrifying things that would come, so that when I woke fully with only a fleeting memory of my dream self but with a basic faith I could carry in me always that answered the questions:
Will we survive?
Will we be all right?
Can I be a mother and an artist?
Can I be a daughter and an artist?
With an unpanicked yes. Yes, of course. Follow me.