Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Roses by Julia Johnson


I once had
a dream
that we were 
in a field 
of roses
the thorns
were nowhere in sight
it was just 
You and Me
and I remember
your green eyes 
sparkling in the sun
as they bore into
and I remember
feeling alive
and I think
You felt it too

White is the Absence of Color by Jillian Oliveira

White is the Absence of Color

     I can barely remember the events that took place ten years ago. I’m not sure if my brain has forced me to forget the past, or if was just too young to remember. As I pass through this large world, occasionally, there are sights, sounds, and smells that can reel in my memory. The memory was like a photographer developing images in a darkroom. At first the photos will be bright and vivid, they will stay for a while, but fade, and the image is gone. It was only up to the photographer to recreate a new photo, but the the world is the object who supplied her with her shot, the only thing that could fuel her photos. These memories impacted me greatly throughout my earlier years. I was always a happy child, one to never say what’s on her mind, to keep her grief inside of her. But this changed.

     A scene that I play in my head, over and over again, is the day my dad left my family. He was never a part of it in the first place, but I was the only one to visit him, being his child of course. On an early bright morning, my father came over with his parents. It seemed out of the ordinary for so many people to visit at one time. I never had much contact with my grandparents on my father’s side, which made it even more strange they came to visit. The mood they brought was very comforting, a feeling I had always craved. My whole family has never lived together, so I guess the lack of support was what I was missing. But they provided me with a comfort of lies. I was struck with the news that my father was leaving the country to travel back to his home. From my whole childhood, this is one of the few memories I remember. I cannot recall hearing voices or words, but seeing and observing the atmosphere. I never remember him saying he’d be back, but my little four-year old mind could only grasp the idea of a loss or departure. I only knew what he said from stories from my family. I believed him and them. But as time started to pass, my curiosity grew larger.

     During my middle school years I was a mess. I often had thoughts about contacting him, but I never did. In 7th grade I experienced depression for the first time.. Many of the causes were basic middle school conflicts, like finding yourself, but there was something very strong holding me back, my insecurities. I never thought I was worth anything, and this was taught to me from my father. It was incredibly hard to change this mindset. Throughout this struggle, my mom was very good at comforting and supporting me. I also took therapy for years. I learned ways of coping. And it worked, and only because I wanted to get better. I see people all the time that have had difficult past lives, they start to blossom, but it just takes them a second to go down. I’ve used my knowledge from observing my father to not be like these people. They do this because usually people stay with what they know. I’ve come across the saying, “You accept the love you think you deserve.” As cliched as it sounds, I find a very authentic and genuine meaning to this. If people do not acknowledge, they will go back to what they know, what feels comfortable, even if it is abuse. I believe I was under this spell for most of my life. I never noticed the bright colors of the flowers, or the things that made me happy. I never felt that I fit in. I never felt or noticed anything besides sadness. The photographer continued to process photographs, but this time their presence was not as overwhelming. I was able to appreciate the vibrant colors of the photographs. I never waited for them to disappear. Instead I decorated my room with them; they were apart of me. I was lucky, to be able to see the colors, instead of a large plain white canvas.