Ink Stained Soul…

I have been deep in my journey of abandonment, searching the archives of my heart, I relive the aches. I was 10 years old when my grandfather got sick. His illness and death are still fresh in my head at 45. Maybe it was because he doted on me. I was, in fact, his princess. He told me my light was magnetic, I was an earth angel. He encouraged my free spirit and creativity. ‘The world needed more love and happiness,’ he would say. For a while, I imagined he never died; that he simply had amnesia and was lost. His death created a ripple effect in my life. My mother left less than a year after. She had been a constant presence in my life for 12 years, but one day after school, she wasn’t there. For a year, I think she would come and go. My brother and sister and I hardly had time in the same space after that. We were shuffled with family, split, broken. Friends and family grew tired of my presence in their lives. I was abandoned in every conceivable way. No one wanted me around, and no one stayed. I learned this while other kids learned to play sports. I go back and forth on which one cut the deepest: the loss of my grandfather, mother, brother and sister, family members that I now know I burdened, or friends that didn’t feel like friends any longer. I lost it all, and I still carry that pain into every relationship with other people.