Remember what’s really important

I can get really anxious. Super anxious. But no one sees it because I don’t allow it to be seen. I suffer the tremors inside, in my metaphorical heart. I have to distinguish that it is not my physical heart because… You know, all these “health” thingys that are happening to me.

My physical heart is like a machine, which is funny since both my parents have/had heart problems. My mum’s side, everyone has hypertension. Whereas on my dad’s side… I don’t know what it is, but there are some heart problems or something.

I’m not some sob story so I’m not after condolences. I’m not competitive so I’m not trying to “one-up” anything. I’m just trying to provide context. All this shit on here, what I put up on the internet? I don’t know what I’m doing. But… Ugh. Bear with me while I try to sort myself out. But for now… here is my heart.

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1999.

A really formative year. Super significant. Not only the last year of the millenium, but it was also my very first year of high school. I was 12 years old.

12 January – My dad died. Heart attack. He was in the Philippines. On his own. Because he wanted to go on a holiday. Only just right now I think he knew he was going to die, and he wanted to die in the land that he loved. He’s Finnish, and he loved the Philippines, which allowed him to meet and be with my mum.

September – My dad’s older brother died. I didn’t cry when I found out my dad died, but I cried when I found out about this one. Or I felt I had to cry. So I tried to, and I did. He was my favourite uncle and I like to think I was his favourite too. He loved animals and music and the land.

23 December – My dad’s younger brother died. While working on constructing disability ramps at my high school. He was with one of his sons when it happened. He was the father of the cousins I was closest to.

By the close of the year my paternal grandmother had lost all 3 of her remaining sons. She still had a daughter but still would cry that all her children were dead. I received criticism for not responding to all the death the way I was supposed to.

I turned 13 this year, officially becoming a “teenager.” Shed the delusions of childhood to enter into the real world. It was a year of “firsts” for me…

  • started talking to a counsellor
  • started self harming
  • started attention seeking behaviours
  • visited USA. learned the value of escapism
  • first “boyfriend” and first “kiss”
  • started thinking about death and the afterlife
  • started writing poetry
  • started believing in seeing signs and messages
  • first learned my inadvertent influence on others. “I wish I was like K… She’s always so happy.”

I guess with my dad’s death I took on his mantle. I had to keep everything together so other people could get their strength from my strength. My mum broke, absolutely shattered. And she took it out on me because I was a constant reminded of how little she actually showed her appreciation to him. He knew she loved him, I know that. But she felt guilt over how little she actually showed it.


I know I’m supposed to put myself on the public platform, but instead of wearing my cloak of confidence and veiled protection… I’m not revealing my face, that mask I choose to keep on for now. But I’m undressing. Here I am metaphorically naked on this imaginary stage. Here are all my scars. My body is a roadmap. My life is a roadmap. I know everything I know from just doing my thing.

I think maybe I’m supposed to “teach” my method? My process? But… it’s improvised. I don’t know! I make it up as I go along! It doesn’t mean anything except what it means to me..?

I really like symbols and stuff being set in an orderly manner because it helps me to sift through all my crap, my ideas…

This whole thing! This whole thing that I’m trying to do… IS to honor my forebearers. My ancestors, by influences, my family, my friends… All the people who I’ve learned from, and the people that I teach…. I’m just who I am because of the people around me. They helped to shape me into who I am. But I can’t forget that I still exist, I’m not just an empty piece of clay….

I want to honour those who shaped me. I want to share what I know, how I know what I know, and what we can all learn from self examination of our experiences.

 

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