Mátulain: Maybe Next Year I Won’t Need to Write About My Father
I’ve caught myself questioning my own emotions and asking myself if how I feel is in any way incorrect—as if there were somehow a standard, universally acknowledged manual for grieving.
Mátulain is not just a series focusing on my poetry—instead, it follows my continuing love story with the art.
When grief is new, I find it’s easier to be candid about it. People around you generally know what to expect and can adjust accordingly. You’re even encouraged to “let it all out” if you’re the quiet kind. After a few months, it’s not so easy to bring it up. Perhaps most of this is in my head, but I never want to be a Debbie Downer or someone who traps people in conversations they desperately want to end.
There’s also that nagging thought that maybe I should have gotten over all of this by now. Isn’t that ridiculous? I’ve caught myself questioning my own emotions and asking myself if how I feel is in any way incorrect—as if there were somehow a standard, universally acknowledged manual for grieving.
I posted this a few days ago:
Today, I find that it’s not enough. I don’t want to be known as that writer who only talks about her dead dad, but that’s all I’ve got to share right now. Below is something I’ve been working on for the past few weeks.
Also: If this subject is tiring or difficult for you, please know that I get it. You don’t have to read this to support me and my struggle to get more of myself out there. Thank you for subscribing in the first place. It means more than you know.
Learning How to Swim By Myself
Without you I’ve been drowning¹: Splashing around in water surrounding the wrinkled skin I’ve been wearing to pretend that I’m not an empty shell. You’re gone² and I am not, and remembering is no longer helping me stay above the surface. They say it’s easier to float in saltwater but the tears I can’t stop don’t seem to help at all. Why do I keep sinking³ when I carry nothing but the imaginary weight of your absence?
Figuratively, of course. Desert living has situated me far from coastlines for the time being. No need to send me a life preserver from beyond the grave! We are both water children, but trust me, you would have loved it here. I wish I could have shown you around my new neighborhood. Why don’t you visit?
It’s been 525 days—or a little less than a year and a half—since you left. You never came back. Why did you raise me to believe in ghosts if you weren’t going to haunt me from the Great Beyond? Does time progress differently for you now? Am I as gone to you as you are to me?
By this, I mean that I am stalling—not going much beyond self-examination in the shadow work I do. I know you don’t want this for me, but I can’t let you go. When it comes to pain caused by mistakes learned from you, I’m afraid healing will leave no scars: no record of generational trauma, no nuances to mark me as your daughter, no trace you were ever here. Why is it fear that occupies my heart?
Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash
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This touched me so much🥺 I see you, and I understand how you feel. Please keep writing💙