On this day ten years ago, Three Days Grace released what has become, for me, one of the most bittersweet requiems—and landslides—of all the “mother guilt” I’ve carried in the wake of not just my own shattered childhood, but even more so my children’s. And then there was that moment a couple of years ago when I found her college entrance essay buried in my desktop downloads. I wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry as I read it. I ended up doing both, because …
I’ve often wondered if my life is just a bunch of pages in a comic book. It seemed that since the beginning, I was thrown as many adversities as my author could think of so I could become a character just like my in dad’s dusty old comic books that I would flip through under the covers when I was supposed to be asleep.I was born in the middle of a nasty divorce, and my teenage brother took up caring for me since my parents would be too busy fighting to notice either of us. I wanted to make things easier for the people around me, so I learned how to be independent and resourceful, and I was instilled with a personal goal to strive for excellence. The rest of my life has been met with similar misfortunes. Bullying and social ostracization, poor choices of friends and boyfriends, and finally, the abrupt death of my stepfather, who had raised me and despite the lack of shared blood took up the yoke of being my dad for 11 years. In the end, I had no friends, a dead parent, and a list of diagnoses of disorders that reads like a master list. The last thing I want is pity. That’s not why I say this. The reason I say all of this is because despite the years of bitterness and pain I felt being in my “comic book”, and the many times I wanted to give up completely, I have grown to love everything that has happened to me. Why? Because I know that if it wasn’t for all I had to endure, I wouldn’t be a fraction of the woman I am today. Because throughout everything, I made the decision to make sure my backstory would make me like Batman, not Joker. Every cruel word and deed taught me that the people who are hurting the most can cause the most hurt, and that I needed to be kind and patient – take them with a grain of salt because the last thing they needed was cruelty back. My anxiety forced me to become sure of myself so I could meet my own expectations for myself, and to learn how to move outside my comfort zone to succeed and connect with others the way I want. My ADHD and OCD gave me an incredible love for challenges. Yes, it is more difficult for me than others to do basic things, but in the end, I learned that I could turn the things that hinder me into my superpowers. My ADHD allows me to devote myself completely to my passions and always remain excited and looking for the next thing I can do to improve and gives me this unquenchable thirst to learn more and do more. My OCD gave me the strength to always strive to do my absolute best, while also forcing me to learn how to be gracious with myself when I make mistakes, as mistakes are just lessons that teach me how to improve and do better. My PTSD made me both gentle and tough. I gained more empathy and became incredibly resilient. It gave me a fierce desire to protect and support those who had no one else to support them, because if I had to suffer so that others might not, then I’m happy to show my scars with a smile. It made me love harder and care more, about others and about myself. I’m in no way perfect. I have my kryptonite like everyone else. But I am a fighter. I know that I can face whatever comes my way, and I am proud to say that I have grown into my own superhero. I just hope that someday, my “comic book story” will give some kid just like me the hope to keep fighting and become their own superhero, too.
… and so, with that, to my beautiful battle-born phoenix of a risen angel daughter: Only God knows when you’ll finally begin digging into the entirety of this virtual love letter I’m writing to you, your brother, and all of yours. And though I’ve appreciated you reading the entries I’ve asked you to thus far, I know it’s not quite time for you to sit down with “all of it.”
For now, just know that I’m so beyond proud of you, and there aren’t enough words in my soul to atone for—or account for—the many apologies I owe you for everything I missed while I was physically “there” with you, yet often nowhere in sight. Late at night, I couldn’t hear you crying. I suppose I was too busy crying myself to sleep while all the love around us was dying. How did you stay so strong? How did you hide it all for so long? Why couldn’t I take the pain away? Oh, that’s right. I was too busy free-falling in the dark for my own protection, trying to convince myself I’d be okay. Still, I have so many questions.
That was then.
This is NOW!
Maybe the truth is this:
Sometimes we change because something finally opens our mind. Sometimes we change because something finally breaks our heart. And sometimes, it takes both.
~ The Real Cat Williamson
Daughter, I am here to tell you, your brother, and anyone else who ever reads this that I am doing my very best to change for both those reasons. For now, I’M HERE, baby girl. I “hear” you and I “see” you.I’ll be right beside you if you ever go through hell and back again, no matter how close or far away I may be. And you will never close your eyes and fall alone in the dark. I love you, RISEN angel.
“Is this the place that we called home to find what we’ve become? Walking along the path unknown … we’ve lived, we’ve loved, we’ve LIED! Deep in the dark … we didn’t think we “needed” The Light … or that the ghost inside us belonged to the other side.”
(Words adapted from Bad Omens’ “Specter”)
Looking back, it literally blows my FUCKING mind how many heaping piles of toxic, twisted, and dysfunctional behavior I was surrounded by—ironically, most often in the very places I was forced not just to believe, but to tell other people were “safe and loving homes.” I was expected to perpetuate those disgusting “FAUXrytales” because the powers that were my life demanded it under the threat of: “What would people think if they knew the truth?” For years, I choked on silence and secrets amid the ABUSE, CHAOS and VIOLENCE that wasmy childhood—and that still reaches into my adulthood—all to protect the image of the PERFECT family “behind the gates”!
And so, with that … YES! Yes, I AM the angry daughter … ever the work in progress … and I’ll STAY this angry until MY daughter has finally moved THROUGH all the anger she inherited from both me and the generations before. She’s wielding it like a torch through her own haunted spaces … just like her momma … so that someday HER daughter (who I carried within MY womb, by the way) won’t ever have to stay angry for longer than is necessary to keep the specter of herself at bay … unless, of course, like me, she decides to pull out its little diamond-studded leash and walk proudly with it like a wild and beautiful BEAST with MY fire in her eyes and resilience coursing through her veins!
With that, it seems only fitting that I tribute one of my muses, Franz Kafka, the anomalous writer from Prague whose words lit a fire in me that still burns a century later. Much like Zack, he left this world tragically unaware of how powerful his legacy would become, much less that he’d eventually be regarded as one of the most influential literary figures of the 20th century. He published only a handful of his work while alive because he didn’t believe it worthy. His dear friend and literary executor, Max Brod, disregarded Kafka’s directive that his unfinished works be destroyed and published them instead. Had Brod honored that final wish, the full trajectory and longevity of Kafka’s legacy might never have been realized.
To call something “Kafkaesque” is to describe the absurd and surreal – if not nightmarish and disorienting – words that in so many ways define my own existence. I could wax poetic about everything Kafka, but perhaps these words sum him up best:
Franz Kafka is regarded as one of the greatest literary figures in recent history. He is known for his uniquely dark, disorienting, and surreal writing style, a style and quality so particular to him, that anything that resembles it has come to be known and referred to as “Kafkaesque”.
No one will ever know what really happened in our home in the months before he swallowed that bullet. To say that demonic insanity besieged us wouldn’t give credence to the monster that overtook his mind and tried to devour my daughter during its reign of unholy terror. She ended up hitting a wall in the wake of her trauma two weeks before her sophomore year’s end, such that the school opted to early release and excuse her from final exams so we could tend to her fragile psyche. In lieu of finals, her literature teacher asked her to write a personal memoir without knowing fully why the school had negated her exams in the first place, but once she became aware that writing a memoir could be the worst possible thing for her under the circumstances, she had her write an essay about her favorite book instead.
I had no idea she’d read “The Metamorphosis” after his suicide. She knew Kafka was my favorite writer, and she knew it was the last book he’d listened to nineteen days before he left. While trying to make sense of both her parents, she then—also unbeknownst to me—wrote her essay about “the invisible monster”:
How Do YouFight An Invisible Enemy?
YOU GIVE IT A FACE!
(Written By Gia Embach)
Since the beginning of time or existence itself, for living things big or small, life is marked with a common anguish: To live is to suffer. Over time, however, as humanity has specifically thrust itself into problems of its own device, it’s tried desperately to put incomprehensible ideas or situations into a box so as to minimize the pain and anxiety that fester in the face of the unknown or difficult.
Anguish was arguably never more prevalent than throughout the duration of World War I. The largest, bloodiest, most destructive war the world had yet seen, with such horrors as to reduce the social order and beliefs to rubble in a similar manner to the physical world around people all over the world. During the uneasy postwar years, this society of confused and angry people confided in Czech-born writer Franz Kafka.
His stories almost always depict characters who are in eerie situations they can neither comprehend nor escape from. While this idea of using the imagination to comprehend the uncomfortable and incomprehensible world of emotions and psychology was precious to those living during the postwar years, his message still rings true today, as people still find the comprehension of the human mind to be incredibly difficult and laborious. Through allegorical works of literature and art, artists and writers allow others, and themselves, to understand feelings and situations that would otherwise be terrifying or unfathomable to bring comfort that stems from a shared discomfort.
The Metamorphosis begins with Gregor Samsa awaking in his bed only to find himself transformed into a large cockroach or other bug-like vermin. Gregor becomes increasingly dreary after looking out the window to all the rain and darkness and decides to give in to the pull of sleep calling to him. His new body, however, won’t let him lay comfortably, so he tries desperately to fling himself on his side to rest, only to fall on his armored back, forced to look at his grotesque abdomen and thin, scrambling legs. His mind then drifts to the dread he feels for his stressful job, the importance of sleep, so he begins focusing on the mundane issues in his life that still take precedence over his terrifying condition. His family worriedly knock on his door attempting to converse with him and wondering what the matter is, as Gregor has always been a dutiful worker and had never missed a day of work in his life. Gregor comes to find that he is unable to communicate with human speech and struggles to converse with his worried family on the other side of the wooden door which he soon finds he is unable to open, only doing so after great difficulty.
Emerging from his room, his family and the Chief Clerc are shocked by his appearance and he is soundly scolded by the Chief Clerk. Gregor retreats to his room, injuring himself in the process, and remains isolated inside. He comes to find that his little sister, Grete, attentively looks after him, bringing him fresh food that is unappealing to Gregor despite his hunger. The next morning, he is brought rotting food which he devours ravenously. From his room, Gregor overhears his family’s troubles. His guilt and shame only grow as he listens to his family try to figure out how they will make enough money to support each other, as Gregor is unable to provide for them now. Overwhelmed with sadness and guilt, he returns to his isolation for a few weeks, and Grete slowly but surely becomes less caring for Gregor, and increasingly upset and impatient at her brother’s need for care. When he finally gets enough courage to leave his room, his sister finds him in the kitchen, disturbed. A month later, his mother offers to take the furniture out of his room, so he can crawl more comfortably in his room, however Gregor wishes to hold on to the furniture, keeping himself connected to his humanity, to the familiarity of the Gregor before he woke up that fateful morning as a giant bug. Gregor eventually puts himself upside down on his ceiling, above a painting in his room, the sight of which causes his mother to faint, and his father returns home to find Gregor outside his room once again, only to pelt him with apples, seriously injuring him as he flees back to his room. Gregor takes another month to heal. His family has become exhausted from working and decide to house some loggers for extra income. Later, as Gregor is drawn out by the beautiful sound of a violin, the sight of him disgusts the loggers, causing them to leave without paying rent, so his once gentle and compassionate sister now states that the bug is not really Gregor and has ruined their lives. Returning to his room, he thinks fondly of his family before he dies. His body is found, and his family carries on happily without him as they discuss their plans for the future.
Although there are many interpretations of this eerie tale, I believe it is an allegory for depression and the damage it causes to not only the one who suffers from it, but also those around them. The first time I read it, I was immediately fond of Gregor. In him, I found that sense of comfort that I had mentioned before. Comparing his experience with depression to mine allowed me to feel less alone. Like me, even simple tasks for him such as getting out of bed or talking became excruciatingly difficult and it exhausted him to venture from the safety of the safe, cold comfort and isolation of his room Thinking that someone who was alive over 100 years ago had the same exact feelings that I’ve had made me feel less ashamed of my illness.
In another mirror of my mind, Gregor’s mind drifts to his worries and anxieties about the future and all the little things that could go wrong. Been there! Done that! No matter how long you have depression or how “well” you handle it, there are always things on your mind. They’re like an invisible bag of rocks dragging behind your feet that make your legs tire quickly and your entire body feel incredibly heavy. Each time Gregor tried to reach out and become himself again, he was treated with disgust, disdain, and impatience, reminding him time and again why he had hidden himself away in the first place. To those living in a world outside of a disease festering inside one’s brain, there are no rocks and no issues, there’s just laziness and distraction. “They’re not trying enough” or “They’re being dramatic”.
Grete, who at first gave Gregor aid with love, soon drifted away. When you suffer from depression, it can be hard for others to love and care for you, so when you are living as a creature you yourself can hardly look at without disgust, how COULD you accept any help? Depression tells you that you aren’t worth it and you don’t deserve it. If your symptoms themselves don’t push people away, you will. Giving yourself excuses to be alone, hoping that if you sabotage the good things enough, you might begin to feel like your feelings are valid, but that is a rare thing to come to believe. Then, just like Gregor, you soon find that reaching out only gets you hurt again, and you fully realize all that you no longer have. At this point, a person with depression will respond in a variety of ways. Some seethe with a burning anger, others protect themselves with an icy numbness, and others drown themselves in tears. In other cases, like Gregor, he simply allows himself to fade away. He felt ashamed, guilty, impossible to deal with. The harsh words of others twisting the steel blade he had dug into his chest deeper. He thinks of those who shunned him with love, understanding that nobody could love a monster. He thinks of them and dies, utterly and completely alone.
The Metamorphosis was the last thing my father read before he lost his battle with his own invisible enemy … his “bug”. While literature like Kafka’s does indeed offer comfort, nothing can cover the harsh and bitter reality of mental illness. Only the luckiest ones, and these warriors are far and few between, survive the battle against the hidden enemy. Many, like Gregor and my father, slowly fade away, isolating themselves until death to keep those they love from the harm they know they cause.
The truth of the matter is this: human beings are far from being able to comprehend the human mind in its best form and are further still from understanding a mind that is damaged. However, through people like Kafka, who cut these incredible issues into tiny, more manageable pieces, we can all come to understand it a little better. Those who suffer, can come to understand their suffering. Those who don’t share that same, complex kind of pain, come to understand it. When people understand something so horrible and terrifying, it slowly falls apart as it’s being chipped away like a block of marble until something beautiful and heroic remains.
In closing, I feel it is imperative to appreciate the gift that art can give to humanity: the ability to comprehend the incomprehensible, the ability to look at ourselves as works in progress rather than vermin, and the ability to unite people of all walks of life together in an often-forgotten fact. Once we strip away our flesh and everything of this Earth, each of us has a soul that is broken, and each of our souls, whether we acknowledge it or not, has a burning desire to be loved. That fact can only be nurtured and accepted through people like Kafka who aren’t afraid to brave the nightmares of existing, people who shine lights in darkness so others can see light.
Of all the things she could have written, what are the chances she’d pen something so poignant after having being excused from writing a personal memoir at all? Can you feel the absurdity? Can you fathom the surrealism? Can you appreciate this cosmic kick in the face of that demon bug that’s infested the minds of far too many Gregors to count? FUCK YOU, “popular monster”! You may have obliterated, disintegrated, and annihilated my husband and tried to take my daughter, but you will NOT feast upon another soul in my haloif it takes my last breath to keep you underfoot. I’ve FOUND my way out of your web, you fucking LIAR and miserable CHEATER.
I’ve fallen IN LOVE
with NOT falling apart!
HAPPY 500TH DIARY ENTRY TO ME! May you rest eternally, Zachariah and Franz—two of the very few mortal men who reached the depths of my soul. You may be gone, but you’ll never be forgotten, nor will the countless ways you both inspired my metamorphosis. And last, but never least, thank you from my bursting heart to my Mona Lisa, my angel of a daughter, for helping me finally find the words I’d been searching for to honor my favorite beetle.
If you or someone you love is battling an invisible monster, PLEASE reach out for help! The “SAMHSA National Helpline” is a FREE, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.
… whereas some moms might see a “tragedy in ink” down the road temporarily penned on their teenage daughters’ hands, I instead see the limitless potential and possibilities for the extremely talented young Phoenix I’m raising who knows exactly who she is, has a pretty good grasp on what she wants and where she wants to go, and isn’t afraid to express herself, be herself, and see things in herself that may look a bit dark on the surface but are, in reality, extraordinarily beautiful! Sometimes I literally pinch myself because I can NOT believe I made her. I’ve made TWO extraordinary human beings!
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:
No one will ever truly understand either the depth of each of their hearts’ bounds or the mountains of ashes they’ve both had to ascend from to teach themselves how to fly. I am such a lucky mom, and I just can’t say it enough! But this girl of mine? She’s one you’ll need to watch out for. As in, STAY OUT OF HER FLIGHT PATH unless you are willing to have your actual eyes burned out by her Light!Her Light makes my Lightlook like the 5-watt bulb from a nightlamp, even when it appears that she’s “going dark.” I’d be doing myself a grave disservice if I didn’t say that someday, when I’m grown up, I hope to be just like her! I’m so proud to be their mom! BOTH my kids are my heroes! With all that being said, and so far as the “ink” of it is concerned, all I have left is this:
Got a tattoo that said, “together through life”. Carved in your name with my pocketknife. And you wonder when you wake up, will it be alright? Oh oh. Oh oh. Feels like there’s something broken inside. All I know, all I know – is that I’m lost whenever you go. All I know is that I love you so. So much that it hurts. Got a tattoo and the pain’s alright. Just want a way of keeping you inside. Oh oh. Oh oh. All I know, all I know … is that I’m lost in your fire below. All I know is that I love you so. So much that it hurts. I see the road begin to climb. I see your stars begin to shine. I see your colors and I’m dying of thirst. All I know is that I love you so, so much that it hurts. {Adapted from “Ink” by Coldplay}
There’s a ball at the castle and she’s been invited, so they have to practice their dancing!
While Cinderella was brimming with excitement as she was preparing for the ball, I’m not gonna lie: this may have been one of the best nights of my life as well! Just as sure as the Sun will go down this evening and then rise again tomorrow, every girl knows that some of the best things she’ll ever own are her memories of “dancing with daddy.” Some girls also know that some of the most painful things they’ll ever own are their memories of not ever “dancing with daddy.”
This trip is almost over, and while I’ve made a strong push against The Dragon, part of me is still so sad. The tours have been long and the sights overwhelming, but I am at home in this country. Being here brings me a grounded sense of wholeness and peace that’s impossible to describe. Its history beckons me and calls to mind that although these last sixteen years have felt so treacherous, they’re merely a blip on the radar of my life.
As I’ve wandered here through each village in a perpetual state of eyes wired shut, I’ve imagined having been here in some other space and time walking these very same roads. What did it look like? How did it smell? How did it sound, taste, and feel? So many battles have been fought here and many of these sights have been desecrated and rebuilt, if only to emerge even more breathtakingly beautiful than before. Countless pools of human blood, sweat, and tears have soaked these fervent soils, yet still her flowers bloom.
So, what does France tell me? What does she scream to my soul? She says that humanity is but a history of sometimes less than optimal circumstances leading to either growth or death in endless cycles. Each sunset begs the opportunity for me to leave the past behind and awaken to a horizon that hands me infinite choices, beginnings, and endings. My history can really mean something if I let it, even if I never personally witness the outcome.
I analyze everything, I know what you mean. I answer by questioning all that I need. And I want you to surrender, I want you to see all the signs, all the faces inside of me. I see I’m not perfect, but that’s all I see. Lost in a portrait in a picture of me … this can’t be everything I see. Then my canvas is incomplete. Your color’s everything to me, and my canvas will set me free. My outline’s solid and made up of crying. And nothing’s that you say just burn my eyes. I want to surrender; I want you to find some comfort in the spaces between the lines.
