experiences, mistakes and poem 54

I have to admit at some point in my life that I might subconsciously like the thrill, the adrenaline pumping into my system whenever I make a pretty grave mistake in life. And even though I know better, I don’t do any better because the anxiety is exciting.

But I also should admit that I consciously hate that I’m okay with the thrill.

I feel a ton of weight on my shoulders build up with every second of every day I remain me- not personality wise, but my position within my family. As an older sister, I’m ashamed of myself because my brother is slowly getting his life together and here I am spiraling down. I’m so proud of him, but this dislike towards myself feels deeper.

I hate where I am in life. I hate where I’m heading towards and I hate who I’ve become.

Lying shouldn’t be second nature. Secrets shouldn’t exist. And sadly I’m buried so deep that I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out. Do I have the will?

Mostly, I’m wondering if I should continue down this path or take another risky leap of chance. I have a little over a year left. Is the risk worth taking?

The answer is and will always be, don’t take that risk. My mother is already beside herself trying to make ends meet as it is. All I can keep doing is complain, cry, breakdown and then after repeating that over and over again, pick myself up, strengthen my skin, set aside my thoughts and dreams, and just keep moving forward. I can’t afford to pause, to stop and to make detours. I have to finish what I started because I don’t want my mom hating me secretly. I don’t want to bring more grief to her, to my family.

A couple nights ago, I had a revealing dream. I guess, the situation is reaching its climax and the choice that I make from here on out is a make it or break it situation. (To understand, check out my post: dear brother – the dream.)

 

To my readers with their respective religion, pray that I find the strength necessary to trudge on. I really need the strength.

 

The Letters I Wrote to the Brother I Never Knew

 

I dreamt of days when you might appear,
but more than dream, I believed and hoped.
Thanks to you, I learned to year
and ask questions like ‘why’ and ‘what if’
I was never satisfied with only the thought
that at one point you could have been here
because most days, I wish you were
here to give me support for every adventure,
protect me from harm both physical and not
from the me who seeks pain
for every grave mistake made
I wish you were here to take the load
off our mom’s shoulders, to share it all
so that she never cries from frustration
or from the pain our father gives her.
Maybe if you’d been here, things would be different
Yeah, I’m kind of blaming you
for not being strong enough to life
young as you were, wordless and new,
I still wish you’d been here right by my side
for every cut and every tear
for all the times I wished to die
and times I’d found reasons to keep on living
You’d have been the one I share the brown M&Ms to
not some guy pretending to be you.
I wouldn’t have needed a dad amongst friends
if only you’d lived and aged with me
with just your existence, history would’ve changed
I’d always be happy and living my younger years
not thinking about how I’d had to change
at such a young and naive age.
But I dream of only freedom, not in reality,
I dream of moments shared with you,
in private we are siblings, unmatched.
You hold my hand to comfort me
and smile so big to show you do care
even if only in my private world of fantasy
I wish you’d return right by my side.
I know they’re just simple dreams
but they were times I cherished most and why
I even learned to want and wish
for things I could never have.
It’s how I learned to the ‘what if’ questions
because what if you had lived,
where would I be and how did I turn out
or how all our lives might have been
different
if you had only been here.
I wish you hadn’t been taken too early from us
so easly, we didn’t even meet…
I never knew the real you inside
just the figments of imagination and delusional theories
of a girl who grew too quickly and wished she hadn’t,
wished to not be left with only questions
and no answer whatsoever.

I wrote you
many angry letters and shouted countless frustrations.

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