Jellyfish Laundromat

So since the time I first started my art blog, I’ve tried not to cannibalize it too heavily. I used to reblog like 75% of what I posted on it to here so people would get interested. Now, though, it stands on it’s own and my followers who want to follow it, too, already do.

This poem, though, is in reference to my previous post. I submitted this for my portfolio this semester, somewhat nervous about turning in something this personal. Anyway, when we go through something horrible, or at least when I do, there is a pervasive fear that people won’t believe that it happened to you, that you’re making whatever it is up. This poem is just a few in a slew of many, many memories of the earlier part of my life. The person who caused them brought them up today, only to say, essentially, “Nothing really happened.” 

Now I had a little bit of a meltdown earlier today, primarily because the truth of them was challenged by the person whom I am still, to this day, afraid to confront about them in any way. I was since validated, though. These and many more that were much worse are not false memories—I’m not the only one who remembers them—and if my brother wants to delude himself into thinking nothing ever happened rather than apologize (not that I need an apology; I’ve already spent a long time forgiving him), well then that’s just sad for him. 

I mean, really. If a warped perception of himself and his past helps him sleep at night, that’s his deal. I told him today when we were sort of arguing about it that if he didn’t realize he had violent tendencies then he simply lacked self-awareness, and in response he threatened to smack me if I didn’t stop making stuff up. Then we were interrupted by my mother. So that’s that and I’m at peace again.