self soothe

Part 1: Self Sooth 

self soothe 

my shrieks echo 

off the white walls 

of the empty nursing room

inconsolable 

rocking in my cradled cage 

rage rubs my throat raw

until i am pacified

by the lullaby 

of my ringing ears 

singing me to sleep 

falling into dreams 

of sinister silence 

caressing my cheeks 

until i am woken once more

by my muted needs 

hushed and pacified 

by this silent seed

planted before

skepticism could question 

why i was taught 

neglect’s cruel lesson 

I am thirty pounds less of a human than I was since I first left home for college. The Michigan frost aggressively gnaws at the corners of my lips as I punch in the code to the garage. My eldest sister shivers frantically behind me, her red hair glowing in the pale moonlight. 

1-2-0-6

My birthday. Though before it was my father’s, then my mother’s, my eldest sister’s, and now mine by default. I am 21 now, and the joy of celebrating another year has seemingly lost all of its nostalgic glory. I am beginning to feel old now. Too old to still be scared to return home. The same fear consumes me that when I open up that door, I will revert into the same resentful sixteen year old I was, and lose all progress gained.       

My shaky hands push through the door expanding into my childhood home, and I am met with the familiar musk of dust. The house is empty…my parents and youngest sister haven't yet returned from their vacation in Mexico. The silence is palpable. I remember it well. I breathe it in deeply and cling onto what memories I have not repressed. 

My sister flicks on the kitchen lights, illuminating the crumby hardwood floors and mail accumulated across the table surfaces. The house seems to be falling apart. A neglected sadness carried within the decaying surfaces that I knew intimately. My sister goes on expressing her disgust with the state of the house, which unravels into a larger critique of my parent’s mental well being. I validate her claims with a tired nod before rolling my small carry-on suitcase into my room. 

Nothing is where I left it. My youngest sister began to colonize my space the second I left for college in California. Her collection of makeup is caked onto my mirrors while her clothes sit shoved into the corners of my closet. I stopped caring after my first Christmas returning home from college when I realized my expectations were never to be met. I simply shortened my stays and packed enough just for the week I could tolerate. 

To be the middle child is to be forgotten. We are stereotyped as the attention seeking type, which my track record does not refute. Though this futile plea for recognition was soon dominated by the satisfying alternative of invisibility. My needs cloaked by my eldest sister’s wellbeing and the extra attention afforded to my youngest sister.

I try to let go of this resentment. For the sake that there is no room for it in my conscious mind. I rarely call home, but when I return, I am to be the amiable glue that connects the family and their clashing heads competing for attention. The role of observer suits me well, though I fear I have zoomed out into a state of dissociation. The familial connection others describe as innate has devolved into foreign concept I learned to live without. For the most part it doesn't seem to affect me while I am away, though when I return I fight the small hope that we can act like a real family again. 

I nestle into my bed after the seemingly infinite day of traveling. I stare at the chipped indents of the ceiling where my glow in the dark stars used to be. For each star I could count I would say a hail mary, numbering them off like sheep until my mind settled down to finally drift into the darkness. The brown underbelly of the ceiling from the lifted paint stares back at me now, as I comb through my anxieties until my eyes are too heavy to keep open.  

I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night crying. I can't remember my dreams anymore since I took up smoking weed daily. I peel off my clothes and rest on top of my comforter naked, tracing my finger across my protruding ribs to ground myself in reality. My cat scratches at the door and I welcome him in before burying my face into my pillow to resume the silence of the night. 

The following day, noise returns from their vacation. My father immediately fills the house with the sound of his voice, while the trailing sound of rolling suitcases introduces my mother and younger sister. I take a long inhale of nicotine before leaving my room to greet them. I swat at the trailing smoke in embarrassment that they might see. 

Part 2: Sacrifice 

IT IS SO LOUD

i search for silent ways to cope

a burden i keep tucked in my pink purse  

blackening my lungs 

with cigarette smoke 

WHY CAN'T YOU HEAR ME 

i seek out silence in a fix

dulling my inhibition 

as sweet red wine 

stains my lips 

OPEN YOUR EARS

i forage for a quiet mind 

biting my tongue 

with the avoidance 

that makes my teeth grind

I AM HURTING 

i hunt to mute the pain

stored in my hips

starving the body until synapses 

snap from my brain

SOMEONE HELP ME

i reach for familiar patterns 

of childhood neglect  

grasping on to the only

truth i have left 

DO YOU FEEL THIS TOO?

My grandmother drives me to mass the morning of the 25th. I stopped going to church years ago, but eagerly commit to appease her expectations of me. Though the rest of my family has casted her off as a bitter woman, I always seemed to identify with her the most. Her icy blue eyes engulf me with recognition, and always validated by distant feelings toward my parents. 

The church smells warmly of incense, filled by the sound of wet coughs by the elderly sorting themselves into their seats. I pretend to dip my hand in the holy water, fearing the statistical likelihood of anointing myself with fecal matter. My body naturally mirrors her genuflection into the pews and kneels before the chiseled white Jesus pasted onto the suspended cross.

The father speaks of sacrifice, interjecting the sermon with his own form of stand up comedy that I sympathetically chuckle along too. Jesus sacrificed himself for the forgiveness of our sins because he loved us so much: a statement of empty words engraved into my mind specially compartmentalized for catholicism. I begin to wonder about the voice I sacrificed for the sake of my family. If my needs suppressed by silence was really an utilitarian service of devotion, or simply a selfish scapegoat to avoid conflict. Did sacrificing my needs really do anyone any good? Or did it just magnify my inclination toward self harm without a purpose? 

My questions remain unanswered like prayers. I bite down on the eucharist that snaps like cardboard and swallow away my skepticism before it can taunt me further.          

I am welcomed on Christmas by my relatives with a drink. Red wine peaks through the translucent glass reminding me of the grief from recent blood shed. They know me well, and I thank them for the medicine to ease my experience throughout the holidays. After losing track of refills, my cheekbones flush a raspberry red complimenting the ring of wine etched between the cracks of my lips. 

I have always felt closer to this side of my family than my own. I lean into the conversations with my aunt, squeezing my eye sockets tight with drunken laughter thinking this is what a mother is supposed to feel like. My cousins all possess the same quietness as my mother’s side, the same silent intuition I inherited that birthed independence from chaos. I sit at the dining room table shoving crackers and cheese down my throat to supplement the lack of calories I drank with my wine. I begin to wonder if they think of me as “other” the same way I see my side of the family. If I too am outspoken and take up too much space for my convenience. 

My father and eldest sister speak in gradually increasing decibels to match the other. I grow embarrassed of our innate ability to disturb peace within a home. I make several trips to the bathroom clutching my vape in hand to relieve the gnawing uncomfortableness that constricts beneath my skin. I stare at the bathroom mirror swirled behind an aura of smoke and try to make out the features that look like my relatives.

My mother’s almond shaped eyes and chocolate hair are spliced onto my skull with undertones of my father’s irish skin. The oil accumulating on my nose reflects back a sinister glare on my textured skin and I am filled with disappointment. I can almost feel sad for a moment before I rip my vape again and resume my impaired dizziness that numbs all sensation.  

The alcohol aided in dwindling time, and before I knew it, my mother was herding my family to begin our descent back home. My eldest sister resists, insisting she stay longer. Messy words of hurt and hate are exchanged in the public space of the home, creating a spectacle for my watching relatives. Before I can process, there is screaming and tears exchanged between my mother and sister to which I avoid within the haven of the car.

I rock back and forth in my drunken haze, filling the empty car with smoke from my hyperventilating lungs. I can not bring myself to cry. I can not bring myself to incite more conflict or stress. I remind myself that silence is the best solution in situations like these. We were never going to be a normal family. I hated myself for holding onto this hope. 

My mother and sister stagger their return to the car in silence, their faces both consumed with hurt, inverting their eyebrows toward their swollen eyes. We drive home in silence, my eldest sister’s sobs muffled toward the proximate car door. I sit in the backmost seat muted by observation, weighing out the odds we have another Christmas together as a family. Every calculation led to the conclusion of unlikely. 

An accusatory statement from my mother’s lips splits the silence, initiating the second cascade of chaos. My eldest sister confirms my predicted analysis with the heavy words,

“I am never coming home again”                 

Part 3: Skepticism

My knees heal from kneeling.

I stand up as an atheist.

My prayers evolve into poems.

I repeat without repentance

the forgiveness creation grants,

rhyming to reject consumption.

I lull myself to sleep,

counting stanzas sheepishly.

My mind meets the page.

Ariel reclaims her voice,

once silenced by sacrifice.

Pink fleshy lungs expand,

inhaling the promised land prophesied

by my undead parent’s will.

The stillness around me

births the clarity to introspect,

that I am no longer bound

by this familial curse of neglect.

  

San Diego welcomes me home with open arms. The second I touch down to the Airport, I feel the warmth of blood rush back into my veins and I am human again. I throw my vape into the first trash can I see, and feel my hands open with the ability to grasp new things. 

My best friend is waiting for me at the airport with a wide wingspan, encapsulating me in her arms as she swings me around with the physical touch I have been starved of all week. I made it through December, through the holidays, and if I am lucky, won't have to return until summer. A triumphant exhale leaves my lips as I sink into her passenger seat warmed by sunshine.

I eagerly swing open my dorm room door, welcomed by the open space of our living room freshly cleaned upon my departure. I fill my water bottle to the brim and hydrate myself for the first time since leaving. The bellies of my cells expand with gratitude, as the lethargy slowly leaves my body.

Upon entering my room, my first instinct is to sit down and write. Write it all down, raw, messy and unapologetic. The keys of my keyboard kiss my fingers with uncharted chemistry, transforming my silence into Arial letters of existence. Tears and laughter emote from my face previously paralyzed by instinctual fear. I begin to remember what it feels like to grieve. To feel my heart expand to the depths of love lost and realize the range of my emotions. 

For the first time in months, I lace up my tennis shoes and suit up in athletic gear. The stretchy fabric clings to my ribs and reflects back the neglect of my own doing that I have been avoiding. My body is weak from starvation, though my mind is sharpened through the accomplishment of resilience. As my arms pump in the unison of my knees lifting, my feet claw the ground with the new found appreciation of freedom. The questions I knelt to in church find resolution as my lungs burn with the pain of new beginnings. No longer will I kneel to the shrine of silence and sacrifice. I have casted off all false idols to resume my connection to spirit that thrives in expression, and exhibits unapologetic ubiquitous existence. 

I soothe myself with skepticism. Paradoxical questioning that redefines the culture that raised me. The child inside of me starved of basic love and touch is now nurtured by the maternal instinct born of absent example. The truths of the bible foretold immaculate conception, and the life I created for myself embodies this prophecy. I live in free verse, finding resolution in rhyme and connection through creation. Though I do not have the capabilities to harness the ever expanding chaos of the world around me, I embrace the will to expand with it. I embody the elasticity to bend rather than break under the pressure pushing down on my weight. I exist with the new found trust that I am able to cope with whatever forces that aim to silence me, through my peaceful retaliation of creation.

Epilogue

My heart goes out to all those who suffer from similar familial dysfunction. The holiday season is often glorified by our culture, with pressure to cherish family time regardless of the conditions that exist behind the four walls of our upbringing. I encourage those who find themselves in this situation to prioritize their peace when going home, though it is important to recognize that avoidance is rarely the solution. We cannot change the past, nor erase the key moments that shaped us as individuals. An essential truth I realized through many painful visits home is that we cannot turn a blind eye to the parts of ourselves that we resent. Rather, we must give ourselves grace and understanding for our shadow. Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung, whose quote I often find myself returning to, said, “What you resist, persists.” All the maladaptive traits we developed in childhood under the weight of dysfunction, in order to soothe familial triggers, are bound to resurface in adulthood. Regardless of the physical distance we create between ourselves and our family (moving across the country, in my case), it is futile in dissolving the beliefs we carry about ourselves.

Returning the same grace we give ourselves to our family is essential in the healing process, should we want to rebuild relationships. Rather than expecting change from individuals who are unlikely to conform to our expectations, we are called to love them in the same ways they were unable to love themselves. Toward the end of my stay in Michigan, I was able to mediate a difficult conversation between my mother and eldest sister, leading to resolution. Offering a space of neutrality and safety for those unable to communicate their feelings immediately brought me a great sense of peace. Writing, in the same way, offers an outlet for retrospection that may be unavailable to us in times of immediate frustration when faced with volatile triggers. Remember to breathe and pause. You are no longer a child faced with the conflict of your own safety and well-being. Adulthood births the autonomy of skepticism and the critical thinking to alter the predisposed beliefs that may be torturing you without your consent. Believe in your resilience, and accept the freedom that comes with choosing to release yourself from past suffering.


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alchemy of poetry