locked in my inbox.

if only the past were as easy to remove.


(probably scraps soon; for now, there's something absolutely eating at me.)

she doesn't bring joy and radiance to my life like she does others.
it's killing me.
i'm not enlivened, uplifted, entertained by her laughs and youthful spirit or innocence.
that crushes me.

but, no one understands this moment, and each day it's getting so much harder than the day before.

my memory is far too detailed, unforgiving, vivid and precise -- even going back eons to the past.
when i see her, not only six; i see me -- hear me -- feel me -- think me. i know my every thought, reaction, and terrorizing feeling.
i feel it again.
i know what my thoughts were, what i was processing, believing, taking in. i watch her eyes move and know what she's seeing, what her innocence perceives in different lights. i am instantly flooded with thoughts and cognitions -- parallel thoughts of my adult mind and my new explorative first grade mind.
i hear it in my ears.

i want to give the compassion, love, patience, care, understanding, fun, guidance, acceptance, tolerance that i wasn't given.
i'm only an aunt; my role there is easy to succeed in when i don't have to try to balance that with parental boundaries and authoritative control.
but i can't.
i freeze.
my find floods with sounds and thoughts, and paralyzing feelings of a time and sensation i wouldn't have normally standing here today at 20.

all parents go through recognizing themselves in their children, recalling their thoughts when they were that age, experiencing vicariously things they'd long forgotten.
this is different.
she was born when I was thirteen, and since she turned two, i've been slowly cracking as i become more and more familiar.

i want to erase the thoughts, erase the memories, put away the nightmares and get some sleep.
i want to remove what i hear crying in my head, afraid, sad, lost, unwanted.
i want to hit delete.
i don't mind having the memory; but the precision is killing me. it's too sharp, too exact, too detailed and all-encompassing.

i want to enjoy her presence, her youth, her spirit and hilarious wit and vitality. but, no one knows that some days i can barely look at her.

no one here would understand.
she's their world, the only light of their days, what keeps them young.
when i seem less than enthused, it's as though i'm a wretch of a human with a horrible heart.

it's not that.

i just.... i'm not like you.
this is so different for me.
so gravely different.

and it's ripping and pulling and tugging harder with each passing day.
but, i couldn't tell anyone that anymore than i could delete the memory from my brain.