Wishing For Parents

Feeling the frigid, fierce force of the loss of control: my flat, my car, and just recently, my computer — all vanished, all gone. I stand silently still, summarizing and simulating the same old stories and thoughts, wondering why I am unable to wilfully wheedle out, through these wuthering heights, access to my true potential, even though I’ve shovelled so deep, and deeper down, into an already burrowed ground.

I’ve clothed myself with an existentially desensitized exterior, now suddenly, as I stand there, I question how it all came to this: this lack of encompassing any enquiring empathy , to value and acknowledge my loss. A guard has gradually grown, glued and gripped — mashed up, fucked up, into a glittering galena starched gown.

Out of nowhere, a bolt of blue, a colourful insight, a revelation too, rekindles my inner eyes. I recognized my regressed pain, concealed by its cleverly knitting and weaving into the rigid skin of my veneered indifference, an emotionless scar.

What stands on the other side of my heart feels supernaturally tangible, so close that I can hear its breath and its beating heart. The coagulated experience of my former years, the ugly pain of my father’s lack of love or care for me. I shudder as I remember with coldness, my iced-up tears I had silently cried over my mother’s madness, that swims inanely throughout her mind. Of all of her curses she spoke over me, and of all of the curses that occurred throughout my life.

Rickety rock, I deliberately crawled through vast space and time, embracing erratic emotions and its isolating darkness, the echoes of an emptiness that eventually erupted into emaciated heaps, as I sweep away the countless leaves of lack.

I refuse to remember the reminiscent ravages of this revolting reality, but the pressure is on for me to stick with staying strong. How much more can I take when every bone in my body carries a trauma, each cell houses broken shells of my past. Hidden tears smeared through the stars and galaxies of my being, and I push away the truth of my wounds from my loss.

I cannot recall the whys, but I know it was hideous and grim, basic, desolate, and bare, and that the love they weren’t able to give me gave me more pain than I could possibly bear.

*Sent from my iPhone ;)

© Chantal Weiss 2025. All Rights Reserved