Reflection of a former self

Society attempts to create constructs in order to guide its members in a systematic way that has determined its own will as for the good and advancement of mankind. While the inconsistencies of these constructs are often brought into light, its a mystery as to why many members of society fall victim to these enculturating rules… Attempting to fulfill the status quo in order to achieve success while in order to be successful you must stand out. Gaining interpersonal relationships with multitudes of people and selfishly require personal gain and attention in a search for self worth at the same the other person attempts to fill themself. It is no question then that such conflicting ideologies that influence everday life create clear paths to developing unhealthy pathologies. Unhealthy pathologies we desire to fix through outlets society has established as the answers. Although sometimes these outlets do hold a source of comfort, non of which is guaranteed to completely restore the incongruent feeling of holistic being that is divided by internal and external actuality. An incongruency that society and its members criticize for incongruency shows the inability within one to simply come to terms with themselves. A punishment which in relation to the origin of action is in and of inself confusing and hypocritical. A realization of all this, however, is basic comfort to the castrated members of society knowing they have come to truth and in truth peace within oneself. Therein lies the solution.

Almost 10 years ago I wrote this rambling piece. I can almost, with certainty, say that I may have been...under the influence. Alcohol or now acknowledge legal substances. Whatever the case may be. Yes, this is an incoherent rambling of a former self I once was 10 years ago. Although, I have to say...she had the vernacular and vocabulary of someone that I would be proud of today. I came across a lot of my writings from almost 10 years ago and I can't help but think...I was the academic in the making back then as I am today. Yes, I've grown. Yes, I have the same problems in a different context. Yes, I'm actually ok with saying I'm proud with 10 years ago me. 10 years ago I ago I was a seedling, so to say. That's putting it nicely. 10 years ago, I would not give myself credit for voicing the angst I seem to still have.

I came across a lot of entries I'm tempted to save. This one, no, it's not really worthy. The others...they really do encapsulate the same feelings I have in relation to the pain of dementia. 10 years ago, my lolo was still alive. 10 years ago, I had no idea how he would die, how I would live on, how I would continue to question the same questions I had 10 years ago.

10 years ago. I am very much the same person when it comes to wondering the great abyss of wondrous questions that still, to this day, my prestige, my strength, my growth, cannot attest to. 10 years ago, I still feel same the same girl yearning, pining, for the same answers. I'm tempted to say to myself, right now, you are an imposter. The questions you set out to answer 18 years ago, that plagued you 10 years ago, that plague today...still do so.

I could say that. I could cry. I could think, good god, 10 years ago I impress myself because I match myself today. 6 years ago, he died. Every year since then, I think of him. Around this time.

Around this time, I stood at his bedside in the ICU. Beep. Beep. Beep. Tubes. Chords. Machines. Electronic beating hearts. The bray of my heart trying it's hardest to match yours--anything to match your existence. What book did I bring to the ICU? What did I try to read to you? In vain...I knew you wouldn't care. That iPad. I scrolled through the pictures, also, in vain. As I read now...the struggle of living people trying to reach the living that are far away. You weren't far away. I saw you, felt you, breathed you, love you, hug you, feel you, touch you, sing to you, laugh with you, see you. I feel you. Then, Before, Now.

I reached you, I always did. I can feel it in your lingering words "That's my dada." The last linguistic clue that tied me to you. A pronoun, a possessive, a proper noun-me.

First goes your short-term memory. Your procedural, your inhibition, your emotion, your expression, your emotion, your language, your legs, your arms, your face, your ability to swallow, and your breath. "That's my dada." I know my memory left you, at some time in between.

But from beginning to the end. I physically never left you. I held on, I hold on. I'm holding onto you. I couldn't' save you. I couldn't answer the questions I had 6 years, 10 years, 18 years ago. I am as lost and confused, in the dark, with as many questions as I had when I stood at the doorway when I was 12 years old.

I'll close my eyes. I'll see you. You may have forgotten. But I...I know you.