DISCLAIMER: I did not write this free-verse poem to prompt immediate out-pouring of support or love via facebook comments, reposts, twitter likes, or anything like that. While I do greatly appreciate it, this free-verse, barely edited, written-right-now poem is a form of catharsis; it serve as an update and outpouring from my heart as to how I’m feeling right now.
Spring Closet Cleaning: Not Fair
This poem is not fair, but I guess if life isn’t fair, and really how can life be fair, then it makes sense that this poem is fair.
It is not fair that I will never be able to share how angry and frustrated I am at and with my mom, she is slightly doing better, she put on too much weight, has been moved to Boston, which makes those trips to her shorter, but that shorter distance has only equated to my shorter patience with her.
It is not fair that her decisions and actions brought on some type of dementia that put me in the position I was not ready for. I am not ready. How can any person be ready to be a parent?
It is not fair that my sister is carrying such a heavy burden that she is questioning herself, her existence, who she is, what she does, she is not doing so well right now, she has not been doing well right then.
If this was twitter I would type “mothers dementia + absentee family = sister’s depression #unbalancethisequation”
If this was a meme I would have a picture of a rabbit racing a turtle because we all want progress to be fast, but slow and steady wins the race, and no doctor, no pill, no PHD can physically get you to take each step towards the finish-line.
Mom, I am sorry that I can not see you as much as you want and that I sometimes use your short-term memory lose as my comforted excuse not to see you.
Sister, I am sorry that I get so frustrated and annoyed by consistently waiting for you, to go to school, to meet me somewhere, to get dress, to talk to me, to respond to me, to express what you want from me.
Self, I am sorry that you are struggling to be a parent who did not get the opportunity to perform mess-up-parenting for the prior 14 years before a 15 year old was placed in your care. You are so unaware of what tone, word, actions, supports, repeat, tone, word, actions, supports, repeat, tone, word, actions, supports are needed to raise a child in distress.
It is not fair that my closest friend is a co-worker who is leaving.
It is not fair that my closest friend is a co-worker instead of being someone whom I grew-up with in this city, this city of transplants who stay rooted in mobile flower beds, but my roots run deep.
It is not fair that instead of telling all this to my family face-to-face it has to happen upper-to-lower case.
It is not fair that you may need to read my previous blog entries to get the full story of why I might be writing this poem in the first place.
It is not fair that I haven’t told you when we were texting each other yesterday.
It is not fair that we are not checking-in with each other weekly.
How is your mom? Is you dad doing okay? Did you sibling figure out their life? Did you know such’a-such’a is getting married? Did you know such’a-such’a got divorced? Who had a kid!?… Did you stop cutting yourself? Is he no longer beating you? Are you still unemployed? I’m sorry for your lose.
It is not fair that I was the first to write all these words making you possibly feel guilty when you have just as much going on.
Fact is, the world is not fair, how could this world be fair, so of course this poem is not fair.