Dear You

Dear You,

I don’t know if you’re well or not because we’ve gotten into the habit of ignoring each others social medias. I was looking through mine to a year ago, only a year, and thinking about how much has changed. It happened just over a year ago. Around the orals, which were already horrible enough. A toxic relationship wasn’t needed. Yet, there it was. Not that it ever mattered to you if something didn’t suit me.

The thing we never got was closure. There was no final farewell. There was passive aggressive messages and others caught up in the middle. I never wanted them to pick sides. Just another difference between us.

There was so many things I never got to say, and so many things you said that I’ve heard from others. You could never handle confrontation. Yet you loved the drama. Warning bells about you should have rang in my head a long time ago.

It stung when you had your first family reunion without me being your plus one. After five years I bet you had to answer some awkward questions too. But I saw photos. And it did sting. Especially since I wasn’t meant to care.

I haven’t been meaning to care for a while. But here you are. A year later and still the full attention.

So much has changed and so much I’ve wanted to share with you. But every time a thought came into my head it was always you who I wanted to tell. Because that’s who it has been for the past five years.

I’ve tried to reach out to you so many times. To forgive and forget the nonsense that you have brainwashed yourself into thinking what was going on. A year later and I’m still reaching when I really shouldn’t be.

Last time I met you you were drunk. The next day your leg was broken. The next week you made their lives hell. The month after you had dropped out of school. And blamed me for each one.

Yet here I am. Three hours away thinking about the good times because we all know nostalgias a bitch. When looking back you only remember the good times because they cloud the bad ones. So I think about us in that field rather than that day in town, or the day in your attic rather than the day in my tent. And so on.

I’m ashamed of what you told your parents. I’m more ashamed they believed you.

So congratulations. You’re still the centre of attention. You’re still the drama attractor. You’re still the one with all the focus. You’re still the one with the loudest cry. You’re still the one who they all believe. You’re still the one they take pity on.

You’re still you.
And You has changed.

All my affection,
Me

Chapter Cousin

Over this Easter break I’ve spent a lot of time with family. Due to a recent loss in the family, we were all gathered for most of the past week. When bad things happen, I have a habit of clinging to my cousins, and it really got me thinking about how weird my relationships are with them. Good weird. They are people who I would be closer to than my own sister, and I could say the exact same for her. My mother has a large family, which means a divide in older vs younger cousins. Growing up I never saw the “older generation cousins”, which meant I grew close to about 5 or 6ish around my own age. Three in particular, but I’d be close to them all. And as I got older, I got to know the “oldies”, and they’re just as insane as us.

As the six of us gathered around the table at one of the “oldies” restaurant, we all had a little reflection. Which is deep for a group who will always be considered “the kiddies table”. We could all write a book with our own memories, which all have a different take. (Which means a lot of whose-side-is-right!). There’s about six years of an age gap between the six of us. But the last eighteen years of growing up with them has been unbelievable.

I had always shared everything with them. I never hesitated to ask for advice off any of them, because unlike asking a friend I could never feel like I annoy them. And they definitely return the feeling! I’ve talked through everything from friends fights, parents divorces, leaving cert stress and fashion advice with them. And they’ve heard far more about my life that any relative should know.

But since our first family funeral, I truly realised how much I depend on them. They’ll know much more than this blog will ever dream of. We’re the youngest of a large family. This means we know there will unfortunately be plenty of more gatherings like the recent few. We all acknowledge this, and it’s the painful truth. And every single time, the first people I will go to will be them. There’s no painful explanation of what is happening, there’s only comfort. And there will always be comfort.

This post is a bit of a mess really, but it’s a tribute to them… I guess.
I always imagined the six of us as book characters. But as I grew up and as they grew up, that idea faded as there’s been a lot of trials and tribulations. But the more I reflect on it, I guess the book isn’t finished yet. Each play a different role, but I’m just so overwhelmed with gratefulness I have for them.

When I grow up

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 When Im 18 I’ll be able to vote I can give blood And I’ll give back to the world I’ll be able to get tattoos and piercings without anyone else’s consent Drinking will not leave me with unwanted guilt I won’t be a hypocrite for doing these things already

When I’m 18 I’ll know how to drive a car I’ll be able to book a holiday I will know how to rent a house I’d be able to use an oven I can get to somewhere I want to go I will take studies seriously, if I take them at all

When I’m 18 I’ll feel confident I won’t be living a lie I won’t be scared to be judged by my age I won’t feel so insecure over not knowing enough I won’t feel like I have to constantly prove myself I’ll feel like I’ll become my own person I won’t be over sensitive

When I’m 18 I’ll walk with pride I won’t dismiss my opinions I will believe that my thoughts are valid I’ll be able to act my age I won’t have the excuse of my age I’ll think of myself as a capable person I won’t have any hesitations Because when I’m 18, I’ll know.

Staying Afloat

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I feel like I’m falling. Just deep down into a detrimental abyss as I try to keep the charade up of the life I’m living in. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not ready to be here and “here” is already half way through. I can’t use an stove, I’ve never ironed a day in my life and I can’t tell the different between a washing machine and an oven, despite never using either. I feel like I’m so false and pretending to be ok. When in reality I’m sinking pretty fast. Sure on the outside I’m happy and happy to go along with frivolous things but I could never trust myself to be myself. I’m scared. I get scared a lot. With every boost of confidence comes a “you’re still underage and you still don’t understand”. And I don’t understand. I don’t understand how people make it look so easy so quickly. We’re more finished than starting and that’s terrifying that I still am terrified. I don’t want to take the rubbish bins out on my own, I don’t know how to mop a floor and I don’t understand how to use a cheese grater. No one sits you down to explain these things and I just feel like I’ve been standing for too long. I feel like I shouldn’t be in control of my life. I don’t feel comfortable buying something or going somewhere unless someone tells me that’s ok because in my mind it’s not. I’m trying to stay afloat but in the process I’m a sinking ship. Everyone makes it look effortless. They walk with pride in their stride and a head held high. I’m scared of alcohol and the effect it has on people and I’m scared it might have that effect on me. Because it might. And no one is there to say no and no one is there to tell me to ring them at three am for a lift home to a safe house in my cosy room which I’m familiar with. I know I’m living a life that others dream for but it’s sad that it’s not my dream. But I don’t know my dream, which scares me more. It’s frightening to think that anything fun I do after here has to be done on paid holidays and after hours. When you don’t know what you want, people think that that is an invite for them to analyse and choose for you. I feel guilt when I reject their selection but I’m not going to dig a bigger hole. I’m scared of the possibilities, even though that’s what I should be exited for. I’m not passionate about the stage of my life I’m currently in. And that’s what scares me the most.

But then again, I could just be homesick.

Happy 2-Year-A-Versary

Two whole years and I finally stuck to something!
It’s that time of year where I become all sentimental about putting my whole life online.
From the very start, to one year, to now. . . it all seems so surreal.

I’ve always tried to keep a journal, but then I start a new one, or forget about it etc etc *insert excuse here*. But it’s amazing to type in a simple URL and BOOM. . . there’s my past two years. Two years complete with drama, stress, videos, leaving cert, friends, and poetry (surprisingly).

I’ve talked to some amazing people here, and got to connect with so many individuals that are all so talented. With a few blog awards up my sleeve also!

It seems like my little haven of procrastination has grown into something that I’ve developed into my little comfort space on the internet. Despite the fact it’s open to the public eye.

My blog has developed me, as a person. It helped me to realise how much I actually enjoy writing, and how I can pursue it without having to do a degree in it.

So maybe I’ll keep this as a hobby, or maybe I’ll take it a bit further. But all I know if the next two years are as successful as my last two, then I don’t think I could be happier!

Here’s to Him

Here’s to the man who could silence a room with just a wave of his hand.
Who was the kind of person who didn’t have to introduce himself.
But was always a humble, generous man.

Here’s to the man who could never get through the 6 o clock bell rings without a drink in his hand.
Who actually gave me my first drink, without even thinking.
But who never lost the love of it.

Here’s to the man who made fun of my grooming.
Who mocked me every year for packing an extra bag.
And who lost track of the days thanks to my outfit changes.

Here’s to the man who made the dinner noises.
Who never failed to entertain a crowd after a meal.
And who never wanted to visit a different restaurant.

Here’s to the man who didn’t tolerate silliness.
Who never humoured his grandkids.
But who was always humours to his teenage fan club.

Here’s to the man who was always right.
Who radiated wisdom and knowledge.
But who would always be easy to verbally understand.

Here’s to the man who could throw a tantrum.
Who won many cases and brawls.
And who never could get a moment of peace.

Here’s to the man who had a heart of gold.
Who had a scary reputation of being the best.
And who thrived off it.

Here’s to the man who would probably laugh at me writing this.
Because I could never recite poetry for him.
But that’s the thing about his complements.
When you get one, they actually mean something.

So here’s to the man with the weirdest family connection to mine.
Because it’s not every day you get such a complex character as your uncles ex-wives partner.
And it’s not every day he actually liked you, as insignificant as your role in his life seems.

Beauty -Lauren Moriarty

As a child I would sit cross legged
On my parents bed.
I would watch, fascinated,
As mum got ready for a night out
With dad.
She hummed softly to herself
As he showered.
I listened to the soundtrack
Of comfort and familiarity.
Mums make-up bag lay strewn
Across rumpled covers,
I would take out each product
And hold it in my small hand
Rub the soft brushes against my skin,
Trace the lipstick around my mouth,
Thinking to myself
This is what makes beauty

I placed make-up on
A pedestal.
In my opinion,
It was the only thing that could
Create beauty.
Growing older,
This belief only intensified.

As a teenager I would sit cross legged
In front of the mirror
Practicing the skill of creating
Beauty.
The music this time
Was composed of insecurities,
Another soundtrack that had become
Familiar.
I learned how to contour,
How to make my lips fuller,
My eyes pop.
But Yes, I liked wearing it,
It gave me more confidence
Turned down the music,
But I wasn’t beautiful.
something was wrong
I didn’t look, I didn’t feel
Beautiful.

Over time,
I learned that beauty
Doesn’t come wrapped in
Mac or L’Oreal.
It is an ideal
Of an individual mind.
It is an aspiration not
An achievement.

As an adult I sit cross legged
As I read and write poetry
I have learned that there is
Many types of beauty.
It can be found in words,
Rhythms and patterns.
Beauty is an art not a person,
Beauty is this poem,
Not me.

***
Hi Friends! So this was written by the lovely Lauren Moriarty and I begged her to let me post it here! Sadly, she has no blog of her own. . . yet. . .I’m still working on it ;) 
So I hope you all enjoy her art as much as I do!