Good Days

When I was little I used to play this “prank” on my sister, and when she wasn’t looking I’d put a piece of my dinner in her milk. Sometimes I’d chose the food unwisely and it would float, but sometimes she wouldn’t notice until the end of the glass. I can still hear the unimpressed and annoyed younger sister tone she took my name in when she finally found it. I thought this was hilarious. I’d gut myself laughing every single time, boy did I think I was clever.

I always dreamed of putting an elastic around that little showerhead part of the kitchen sink too, but was a bit too chicken to try that one out.

We had a whole bunch of forts in our yard in the trees, and when it snowed we would build snow forts. Quite a few times this just included a large space where we put little mini snow walls a few inches high to mark where our rooms would be, and we would make a little house. Sometimes we’d decorate it, or include “furniture” out of the logs and twigs we found. On more than one occassion we also made a slide out of the snow on the deck stairs.

I remember so many times where the three of us would be laughing so hard, likely at something silly, that we would all be weazing and usually end in us racing to pee.

After my minor surgery my mom came over a lot, helped me with food, we did a puzzle, went for walks. We used to walk at Lemoine Pointe and go for breakfast and I loved every minute of it. I loved getting to know her and spend time with her. With both of them.

My grandmother was the most passionately fierce woman I ever met. She would stand up and protest for those who needed a voice, she would stand up for human rights, she wanted the world to be a better place. She used to do this impression of a witch that scared the living daylights out of us, but when she was looking at someone else it was the funniest damn thing.

My sister and I used to pretend to be ‘super spies’. We had our notebooks, had chosen our ‘cars’ and even imagined a tv communication device on our living room wall where we would talk to HQ. We would run around likely saving the world in some way, or taking notes on anyone in the house, though I bet you any money they knew we were there the whole time. Partly because our floors have a lot of places that squeak, and well, we were little kids who were probably always making more noise than we thought.

My sister is also fiercely passionate, crazy smart, and she is truly hilarious. When she was a kid she did hands down the best voice impressions I ever heard. I remember one was ‘I can still smell it’ but I cant remember what that was from, I just remember my mom found it so funny she’d ask my sister to say it all the time.

My mom is sensitive, intelligent, creative and beautiful. When company visits she always is thoughtful enough to give them snacks to get them through the drive home. She has an amazing taste in music, which she loves. She helped me out more than a few times with financial issues, medical scares, and hell even that time my cat ate ribbon and I was far too scared and weak stomached to handle it.

I love them both, and I have no doubt in my mind, nor have I ever doubted that they are going to do amazing things. They are going to achieve their dreams, make a difference, be creative and laugh a whole bunch at silly jokes while doing it. I want nothing but all of this for them.

All of this is true. All of it. But so are the other things I’ve said. These beautiful people were born into unfortunate circumstances. We have hurt over and over from the passing of loved ones, and from the wounds given to us by others. People are complicated, our histories are complicated.

All of what I just said is true, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t emotionally abused. It doesn’t change all of the other things I felt too. It doesn’t make them any less true.

I was lucky enough to have a warm house to live in, strong women around me, food to eat, financial support, I was physically safe, got to take lessons and own pets. I was also emotionally abused. And having those other safeties, and luxuries doesn’t make my experiences invalid, my experiences any less real. Nor does my mental health. And just because I was emotionally abused doesn’t mean I discount the good days, or hate them. Fuck, I love them so much it genuinely tears me apart that this is how it had to end, not being able to communicate and be heard, and needing to end the relationship.

Thanks for listening.