Conversations with My Father

It’s not your fault that you told me to go on a diet when I was 7. It’s not your fault that you told me I looked 4 months pregnant after a holiday meal. It’s not your fault for yelling at my mom for eating 3 grapes after dinner. It’s not your fault that you look me up and down when I come home, checking to see that I am still skinny and within your standards.

It’s my fault for remembering.

Right?

You tell me to take myself less seriously.

/michal

An Open Letter to Myself

Dear Self,

Hello again. Sometimes I forget you exist. I know that a brief letter from out of the blue won’t make much of a difference, but it’s a start. Indeed, one letter can be the start – or a restart – of feeling understood and at home. I am writing to you to acknowledge my own absence. I have been away, busy with “external important busy things”… you wouldn’t understand. You’re always so caught up in words and music and being free. I feel like I have to support you all the time, but in doing so, I never get to see you. It’s like a marriage where one of the people is always working so that the other one could be living their dream. Is that what we want?

You always ask so many questions of me, of those around us, and of the world. Can’t you just sit quietly and let things be? I don’t have answers for you. I never did. And I don’t have time to consider them fully. I am working so that our future is logical, safe, and good. Sometimes I think we disagree. Sometimes I think that you would rather be spontaneous than smart, or free rather than grounded.

I try to “be myself.” What does that mean? Am I not you? Are you and I not the same? Can I ever not be “myself”? Here you (I?) go with the questions again.

Take care now,

Michal (me) (you) (us)

I Wrote A Book!

I published a book of poems and short stories which can be purchased on Amazon.

I am including the preface below:

The words in your hands are excerpts from my journal.

These words are, more than anything, a documentation of who I have been while becoming who I am. I’m not done doing that, yet.

These words are my thoughts from ages 17 to 19.

These words are shared with you as an act of acceptance.

Each piece of writing included in this book has a timestamp. I have come to value time as an essential definition of my present state. I find comfort in making note of the precise minute in which words come to me, as if that knowledge will somehow allow me to relive the words more authentically.

I am reminded of the precision of timestamps on birth and death certificates, and I have come to think of these words as birth and death certificates of past and future selves, tumultuously ever-changing. Writing the timestamp is my way of feeling in control during the fluid and rapid process of change that has become my definition of aliveness.

/michal

Tell Me A Story

I will tell you an unfinished story. (Aren’t all stories unfinished, if they are still being told?). The story is one that is common to us all. It is about the search for your true, genuine self, if such a thing even exists.

The search begins with realizing that you even need to search for yourself. It begins with trying to define yourself to yourself and to other people, and noticing a difficulty in finding the right words.

The next stage is understanding the value in having the freedom to define yourself, accompanied by a fear of tackling such a feat.

Then you need to commit to try.

After this, you continue living your life in search of yourself, always changing, always moving, always learning. Life is a continuous process of reevaluation of yourself and your ideas. Never are you complete. Never are you finished. This story is never finished as long as people have the courage to face their lack of knowledge of themselves. Learning to search for your inner self – rather than actually finding it – is the meaning of life, if there is one at all.

/michal