(no subject)
The summer of 2004 looms in my memory mindprojection of the futurepast. In terms of trust and faith, I don't know that I made a conscious decision to present myself for backstabbing. Blind faith is what I had, that I would be protected. That he would protect me. He said he would while I was in school. Maybe I took that for granted. Regardless, he kicked me out.
Back at the farm negotiating the space between child and adult under my parent's roof. We had a deal, but it wasn't a concrete deal, and wrenches fell into the machinery. I didn't know how to work with a three year old at my knee. I knew he expected something of me. I didn't know what because he would never say. I didn't ask. Passive aggressive father figure. He wasn't there for me, not really. He said he'd support me and then pulled the rug out from under that without even saying he'd done it. Do my decisions seem rash enough to warrant a loss of faith in me? Am I a reckless person? I don't see it that way. Quiet equals you just don't know, I suppose. And maybe credit card debt equaled an irresponsibility (that and the unplanned pregnancy and the ambivalence about the future and I suppose the belief that I'd be taken care of comes across as taking for granted.)
I read books after books, devouring the young adult section of the library where I spent my high school afterschool days in years gone by. On the porch in the sun I read. At the playground with the son, I read. That's what stands out about the summer: reading, and crying, and pain. I didn't go to the fourth of july party because I couldn't compose myself. Because I knew I was failing to meet expectations. Because I was hiding in bed knowing I wasn't okay. Because I don't believe I can hold myself up. Still. Because I couldn't hold myself up then when wherever I turned there was no one looking for my interests. It doesn't make sense, and I chide myself for not making sense. For making it a big deal.
Back at the farm negotiating the space between child and adult under my parent's roof. We had a deal, but it wasn't a concrete deal, and wrenches fell into the machinery. I didn't know how to work with a three year old at my knee. I knew he expected something of me. I didn't know what because he would never say. I didn't ask. Passive aggressive father figure. He wasn't there for me, not really. He said he'd support me and then pulled the rug out from under that without even saying he'd done it. Do my decisions seem rash enough to warrant a loss of faith in me? Am I a reckless person? I don't see it that way. Quiet equals you just don't know, I suppose. And maybe credit card debt equaled an irresponsibility (that and the unplanned pregnancy and the ambivalence about the future and I suppose the belief that I'd be taken care of comes across as taking for granted.)
I read books after books, devouring the young adult section of the library where I spent my high school afterschool days in years gone by. On the porch in the sun I read. At the playground with the son, I read. That's what stands out about the summer: reading, and crying, and pain. I didn't go to the fourth of july party because I couldn't compose myself. Because I knew I was failing to meet expectations. Because I was hiding in bed knowing I wasn't okay. Because I don't believe I can hold myself up. Still. Because I couldn't hold myself up then when wherever I turned there was no one looking for my interests. It doesn't make sense, and I chide myself for not making sense. For making it a big deal.