I am not here to make friends.

Trigger warning-abuse rape general life bull shit.

I’ve decided to curl up in cupcake pajamas and stay inside today. Even though the mix of chill with knowing the sun is coming up smells amazing. I am not ready for the world today and it’s really not ready for me. It seems the longer I see this therapist the longer things take to heal. Before wounds would heal right over and be gone. My anger made for dynamic scabs. Now they stay open and I have to inspect them from every angle and stick my fingers right inside like it’s a warm delicious strawberry pie. This is grief and mourning for my childhood.
It’s not, though.  I pull out my mother, my father, people with scars from beatings, people that were raped constantly for being the prettiest, my grandmother who did everything to save me, my grandfather who showed everyone my Crayola 64 pack crayon set drawings and read a 1976 encyclopedia to me focusing mainly on bugs and reptiles, their little dog Scamp they had let me put stickers all over her and  she seemed to enjoy her decorations, the packed lunches with creme sodas to just get away, collecting things in my pocket (I kept them all in a Bazooka gum box and have never found it) to remember this moment (b/c in the very next moment I could have a bloody mouth and hear my mother screaming at me that I looked too much like my father and then she’d be gone for days in her own head), the green decay moss and leaf scent of my grandparents woods where I lost all time but hid and read The Bridge to Terabithia, The Eqypt Game and Lizard Music. Weird mushrooms on dead and fallen trees. I would just sit there in the mud and leaves and accept I was born for so much more than normal and usual. My grandmother always took me to the bookmobile if she could. That was safety and that was an extension of her taking care of me.  Books. Even though she would yell at my muddy clothes, because I didn’t have many, but she would wash them anyway with that horrible lye soap  in a wringer washer which now I smell lye and cry and miss them so much. I would wear one of her housedresses and weird silver/gold mules while she did this and drink iced tea from a cut glass tumbler. Hiding behind the couch with all my books and note books b/c even at 8 I kept diaries. No one told me to I just did. The apples slice and peanut butter I never feared eating bc it was a genuine gift my grandmother would pack for my roaming around desolate farm fields always looking for bones feathers and answers.  My grandmother knew I’d never understand this life I was born into.
I took a semester off from college b/c she was very sick and nothing was more important than her.  The last weekend I spent with her I made vegan meatballs and spaghetti.  She called me into her room to see what I was I was doing b/c even near death there is no fucking with with a Jewish woman’s kitchen unless she is there is to supervise.  I told her I made spaghetti. At this point she hadn’t been keeping been keeping anything down…even her pain medicine. She told me she wanted some and was starving.  So I got her up in her wheel chair and of course she promptly complains I smell like cigarette smoke. I replied be glad it wasn’t the the scent of gin and a truck driver.
I ate dinner with her and she had two huge plates of spaghetti not even complaining about the vegan meatballs. She sat up with me and we watched CMT together and she talked a lot about her mom.  I went back to school on Wednesday and she died in Thursday.
To say I miss my grandparents is an understatement. But I know they’re around.  How could they not be? They are a few good pieces of me left. I will die before the evil takes that away from me.