A letter to hope

pain of unknown origin

I want to preface this by saying I’ve only really experienced humanity under strain. Most of the people who molded me were under one metaphorical foot or another. Whether it be misogyny, greed, grief, or any kind of pressure you can put on a person to make them believe that the world can only bring cruel lessons. It’s weird that I even begin a blog entry with a disclaimer, as if I don’t believe in my claim to pain. I’m writing this as an anchor, something to hold me up while I scramble to find my footing in this world. You will notice that this lacks any real structure. Lately I feel as though the ground has shifted from under me and my knees grow weaker by each passing day. I’m weak. I’m scared. And most importantly, I need a hug.

I’ve never had drive or ambition, just carefully crafted performances of it that brought pride in my sister’s eyes(the only one who ever truly saw me) and bragging rights to parents who saw their children as an extension of themselves. The older I got, I started to realize that the way my sister looked at me wasn’t with pride, more like something along the lines of pity but not as cruel. A premonition. That if someone didn’t see me, didn’t tie me down with their gaze, I’d float away. 

I’ve been revisiting the past recently. Taking in tales of wanderers traveling with nothing but curiosity and the clothes on their backs, confident that when shelter and food was needed someone would provide. Truthfully I dream of living in a home by a lake taking in the air as it was meant to and spending my days dreaming of smelling the air in a different place and getting up and going there. 

I want a world where optimism is not a sign of insanity but an expectation. It’s weird that in my time of crisis, I return to childlike wonder. To hope even if my heart screams otherwise. I write this to myself, the me in the future, to remind you that I was. To tell you that I hope you gave yourself a chance to become. I hope that the smell of wind still makes your heart race and your lungs full. I hope that sitting in a circle telling stories with strangers still fills your soul with joy.

I know you have a problem with memory when it comes to feelings so in case you are still hazy I wish to show you who you were. Right now, I’m hurting. The pain is so thick it chokes me whenever I allow myself to think too deeply. I want an apology, I don’t know for what really, I just want someone to hug me and tell me they’re sorry. I'm angry because I was brought here against my will and now I stay here for the same reasons.

My mother named me Agahozo. It’s a name that feels as heavy as those cartoon weights that used to fall onto animated cats, except I’m not indestructible. I was born to be a court jester. To stand as a shield in the face of insurmountable grief and betrayal. How can you pot a plant and feed it only shadows and expect it to bloom into sunflowers. I worry my pursuit of a career in therapy is my desperate attempt at pretending like I haven’t failed at doing the only thing I was brought into this world for. Lately I stuff my brain with logic, “you know not all your thoughts are true”, “you can do hard things” but they only sit heavy on a pile of concrete lies. There are no pores big enough for it to seep into. I’m at war with logic and pain mostly because I refuse to see the logic in my pain. I’m desperate really. 

Recently the thought that I wasn’t taught anything has plagued my mind. I wasn’t taught how to make friends or how to rely on those around me for support or how to give support that builds them up and holds them up as they climb. I was taught how to swallow the hate and spite that predated me and expected to walk into the world like I didn’t fear my own shadow. I was an angry child. I guess it is why, as I now attempt to confront my reality, I have regressed back to that anger. That helplessness. That desperation to be handled with care by the people who've lost all strength in their arms. I seem to go around in circles. I make enough progress to release the anger and then the sun sets and I begin to seeth. Fuck I was set up. But the goal, as I know it now, is to get to a point where these realizations lead to creating a better world but as of now I can't seem to give a shit about the future me (no offense). 

Lately I’m making a conscious effort to create ties, cementing memories of my being, as broken as it is, into the minds of those around me. I want to love and be loved so that I can live everyday knowing that my absence would be noticed, since my own pain no longer garners sympathy from me. I don’t know how long I will feel responsible for my mother. How long I can live so that she doesn’t have to lose another part of her, but I’m tired. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, my salvation only a collective effort away, but my legs are too tired to walk to it. God I hope you’ve figured this out.

My sister and all the other language blessed people tell me it's a privilege to feel so lost. I believe them. I don’t hunger and I don’t worry for my safety. Those are truths that I mustn't forget and I hope you haven’t either. I just hope that you allowed yourself the grace to feel your pain in its entirety. I hope you can cry like a baby and you don’t feel a need to do so alone and afraid that your pain is somehow unworthy of comfort. I hope you're soft. I hope you are loved wholeheartedly. I hope you speak without thinking. I hope the ones around you SEE you and that you see them. I hope you see yourself. I hope that you look into the mirror and see your body and your soul as one. I hope your feet touch the ground. I hope you die of old age with a dog that looks like Milo and a cat that kind of hates you, cooking your mother’s recipe for the neighborhood to enjoy. I hope you have so many people walking in and out of your home that it doesn’t recognise a single owner. I hope you learned to love and I hope you're being loved. I hope you are a burden in all the ways we should be.