Blessed Burden

Being the only child of a single parent for a majority of my life, I know what it’s like to feel obligated to look after that parent. For me, it’s my mom. She’s my best friend and I love her more than anything, but there was a time when I loathed her with every inch of my existence. I used to be afraid of going out with friends, or even going to school and leaving her alone. I was so afraid to leave her by herself because of what she might do with that free time. I tried spending time with her, but I soon found that sadness was contagious. And her sadness was so immense, I found myself bowing under the weight of it more often than I’d like to admit. When she was coherent enough to process that what I was displaying was anger, my mother did not understand that anger. She didn’t know that she was fucking me up beyond repair, and she didn’t care. Her parents were always around when she was growing up and they would never have left her alone to make her own food at age 10, never would have forced her to grow up so fast that she could feel her childhood being ripped away from her. So how could she fathom that what she was doing to me was making me hate her? I understand that depression, when you have it, is like a black hole sucking you in, or a blanket of fog suffocating your thoughts. And I understood, at age 10, that I was all my mom had. I was it. It was my responsibility to take care of her; I was the only one who could even try to ease her pain, pull her back down to Earth, and clear the fog.

Worn Out Minds

If I could have the hands of someone else, I would want to acquire the hands of an artist. I’ve never lacked in terms of creativity, but I’ve also never had the patience, or humiliation, to create a painting or drawing that I’m happy with and confident enough about to share with others. If I had the hands of a painter, I would be able to experience, with certainty and confidence in my work, creating something that would be able to convey exactly what I want it to convey. I remember reading a quote somewhere that said, “An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.” At the time, I recall being blown away by how true of a statement that was. I’m not calling myself an intellectual by any means, but I know if I were to choose a side, I would fall more so on the side involving expression by means of letters and words, sentences and conversations.