Have you ever held something heavy, like a box or a bag, for so long that your muscles feel numb until the weight is moved, and the freedom from the weight, the movement in another direction, actually hurts more than when you were holding on? As you stretch out your arm, you can vividly feel each muscle pulling and straining in a way that makes you return your arm to the holding position, though there's nothing there to grasp.
I've been holding my fear for a long time.
My mom has been asking me what's wrong for a while. Each time, holding tighter to the fear knowing the pain to stretch out my heart, I offer fatigue or stress in excuse, hardly knowing my own truth anyhow.
Last night I went to the room I call "mine" where my parents live. Sitting in an oversized chair, curled up like I once sat to read in the summer, I ran my finger along outdated textbooks, journals, old music, and a framed picture of some high school friends. It was then I realized this room was no longer mine. It belongs to a girl with dreams, and pains, and a life I sometimes can't remember.
That night I talked to my mom. I started to let go. I told her how I felt about my room, how I didn't know what home was, but I didn't know why it made me act differently toward her. She hugged me, and as I timidly held on it was when I realized; it wasn't just that I didn't know what home meant to me anymore, it was that I didn't even know what "mom" meant anymore. Certaintly not what it meant just three years ago when I was still that girl in the picture frame.
"I guess I've grown up. When did that happen?"
She cried.
I let go.
My heart stretched out and rather than pain, I felt relief; the kind where now your arms feel more free than they ever have, like the might float off your body.
I let go, and the sun is a little brighter.
I'm still not sure what it means to be "grown up," and I still feel dumb for thinking it to be such a new big thing, but there it is.
My room is my room, but in a different way. My mom is my mom, but not quite the same. My decisions are my own, my future unkown, and the flowers ready to be picked.
Once, There Were Two Sisters
7 years ago
No comments:
Post a Comment