Growing Up To Me

In the beginning, things are simple.

Food, hold, change, sleep.

Development of the young mind growing curious,

an incubus of knowledge begging growth.

When socialization becomes a necessity,

the careless kaleidoscope of living shatters.

It began around five.

I began seeing things;

but at the time every aspect radiated normality.

Mornings of saturated vomit and evenings of drunken squabbles were reality.

Never-ending escapades at the crack of dusk,

surrounded by inebriated strangers,

high off life and forgotten responsibilities.

Growing up was never a gradual tumble,

but a graceless dive into an abyss that grew ceaseless.

Then there were two.

That was seven.

When your parent becomes the voice in the back of your head,

screaming your insignificance,

encouraging your pain.

When you become the parent in all ways except financial.

Taking care of three.

What happens then?

“I’m only nine, mom.”

The void opens but closes once empty.

At eleven my parents became a mere memory,

brought on by insolence.

Any shot at normality in this chaotic switch ceased.

Bouncing around strangers and thickening the skin.

Pushing those away that are only trying to guide you becomes a specialty.

Learning that the most important thing to do is pretend it didn’t happen.

“It was just a dream”.

Never letting your past bring you down,

but rather fuel your passion and help you forward is vital.

Swing with the punches,

and hit those fists harder.

Resilience, empathy, and passion.

Those are your motivators.

On the brink of a new life,

closing yet another chapter of blissful hurricanes.

Twisting thorns and producing roses.

That’s growing up.

 

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