Dear Simone

Dear Simone,
My dad was paranoid.  The only way he thought it was safe for him to leave was to lock the door himself and test it. Even when he wanted us to lock the door, we had to jump up and do it, he was going to test it and yell if we weren’t fast enough or did it wrong

Imagine the sister that betrayed me and I don’t talk to, that called me a “damn bitch” found out how badly I was treated.

I randomly thought about how I always need to categorize things. Almost everything in my life had to be on a list or category.  Even the videos I save and my photos.  No more. There is too much clutter everywhere. I need to let things go.  I need to write more.  I need a hobby. Candle making or pottery. Why not both, right? I need to read more, too.

I can’t seem to get to a happy stage. There is always another stressor. Another task, another bill. When I was doing laundry this weekend, I thought about what my parents passed down to me. There’s no house or land or cars. No jewelry, no paintings….nothing of value. Definitely not money. Then, I start looking into values or skills or morals. I’m not sure if they taught me anything intentionally. I feel like a lot of the time has been me me learning because of them.

Things my mother taught me:

• To read, write, and speak Spanish

• Clean

• Patience

• To have confidence and not be a follower

• Interest in cooking/baking

• To be curious

• Stay dedicated

• To be resourceful

• Multiple jobs

• How to follow recipes

• Fractions

Things my father taught me:

• Hustle

• Work ethics

• Friends

• Never deny anyone food

My manager said something powerful to me today. You deserve to be chosen too. As she’s preparing me for my interview for ASM. I did it and couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t get it, by the way.

My parents don’t know how much they’ve hurt me. I didn’t understand the depth.

What if there is no why?

Learning to be vulnerable in an unwelcoming world.

My mother would iron my hair before I ever had a flat iron.

Dad complained we were taking his time away from her. Mad at us for needing her attention. Her children.

My mom would look at my hair. Grab it, sigh, toss it around, and say it’s too much. Too curly. Too poofy.

My hair was black, poofy, curly rebellious, different than my mother’s, different than my sister’s. A burden.

I liked mine wild and free. She called me a witch or a Broom or a lion. Never took the time to get to know my hair. Or to style it.

I’m afraid to cook until everyone is gone.

I was held not hugged.