Just as I am sure there is beauty all around us if we just know where to look, I also know life is losing some of its magic. I try not to update when my emotions are getting the best of me, but I need the release of writing, the escape of words.
A few days ago, I saved a butterfly’s life. I was at a low point in my own life, yet this small action of releasing a butterfly onto a hibiscus, cautious not to touch its wings, gave me a sense of hope, an ideal of renewal. As she touched down on the blood orange petal, my friend murmured to me, “You saved her life. That should give you good luck, like, tenfold.”
Then yesterday, I was out in the garden and discovered a hummingbird that had died. I personally find hummingbirds magical, so when I saw that, I felt like my soul had been crushed into a tiny fist. Maybe I put too much significance into signs and wonders. Perhaps I interpret them too much. Maybe it’s from English teachers of my past reiterating a pearl is not simply a pearl. It’s a symbol. A metaphor. Maybe it’s from having a God-fearing mother who talked openly about signs and wonders. Ultimately, these signs, these symbols affect me too much.
Last week set me back a few paces, and I feel once more, life is a game of two steps forward, three steps backward. I got into a giant argument with my mother as I alluded to in previous entries, and if there is one person I haven’t cut out of my life who still knows how to push my buttons, it’d be my mother.
I came home, tears shining in my eyes and collapsed, sobbing. Really ugly-crying. All those words get put on rotation in my mind, constantly circulating. So much so, my managers at my day job have noticed.
I’ve changed. I’m hoping that soon, it will make me stronger, but right now, it’s an open wound exacerbated by any time she talks to me and acts as though nothing happened. She tells me of a lace dress she bought for me, and I start to remember this is a pattern.
When I was young, we would get into huge arguments about pretty much anything and everything. My mother would say hateful things; I’d retort awful things back, and eventually the dust would settle, my mom would act as though nothing happened and would move on without apology or acknowledgement of the fight. The next day or later that evening, I would find a new outfit on my bed.
That’s what this felt like.
And I am tired. I’m tired of signs and wonders. I’m tired of being the bigger person. I’m tired of the emotional rollercoaster. She took it out of me, and I’m still trying to recover.