I am recovering…

My mother died the day after I turned 17. She was 44.

My father is still living,

but he doesn’t have time for me. I am recovering.

                 Note: if reading on phone, use landscape

Bipolar disorder and other mental illnesses have crept their way

into my family genetic code

and stolen trust, unity, and hope. I am recovering.

 

Child neglect, child abuse, no love, no love,

No one loves me, I say

Why doesn’t anyone love me, I say

I am recovering.

 

What gives him the right to beat her

Take her money, drive her car, threaten to kill her

All the while, stealing, stealing

my faith in humanity

I am recovering.

 

As she lay there, somewhere suspended between this life and the next

He whispered, just loud enough so she could hear,

“You’ll never make it up out of this hospital, B—h”

And she didn’t.

I am recovering.

 

How could this man, who is not my father,

who should barely be considered a husband,

have the right to decide where and how she is

remembered, how her spirit is set free? Why not me?

I am recovering.

 

I have flashbacks, like today, when the air is humid

My head spinning, spinning

In circles, remembering the cage that was my room.

The literal, yet symbolic bars on my window.

The anger spewing between the walls of that forsaken home,

The blood on the door after another vicious fight.

The scared dog, I consoled.

The drama, the drama—no—the trauma.

It lingers.

I am recovering.

 

On this day, I am 23 years, 6 months, and 15 days old

I don’t plan on dying at 44. It might be sooner,

It could be later. Who knows?

Every day I tell myself that I have time to get better

To do better

Even though I am often never alone but lonely,

Paying for rent with the sensibilities of being home-lessrecovery

In love with others, with none left for myself

I am in recovery.

 

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