12. #About
The stories of me. (The ones I promised in yesterday’s post)
Come on, mom…
Come on, dad…
Take a look one more look at each other
And then, if it’s all good, make me again.
It’s a Romanian song, translated literally. That’s why it sounds so quirky.
Mom’s story
Mom always wanted a girl. Very much. She envisioned being best friends with her daughter and doing all sorts of things together. She was eager to share life secrets, perhaps, and gossip. Scratch that last thing, mom never gossiped. I loved that #about her. Sometimes, I think she just didn’t want to feel alone anymore.
I don’t know why or how they decided to make me… I guess it just happened. But I always wondered whether they wanted me or “if it was time”… I tend to lean against the second.
They were never a good fit — my parents. Let alone raise a kid together.
But, the deed was done and mom was bearing me. I was #about to be born in a few months and I needed at least a name. She wanted the Universe for me. The Universe times 10, even. And for that, no known name was good enough.
So, one summer night, with a pale light and a great book, I imagine, she would listen to the radio. At that point, in ’87, they would broadcast plays at the radio. The predecessors of audio books and podcasts. And magic, coincidence, God, whatever you might call it, made it so that they would voice the story of Princess Deliana.
And that’s how I got my name. I was supposed to be a princess.
She birthed me in mid January. Hell freezing cold January. On a Saturday, at 11.20. You’d think people have better things to do on Saturdays, but hey?! Not life, nor death make appointments. “Snowflakes performed the most beautiful Happiness dance at my window” she wrote in her diary of that day.
She was happy.
Half of Deliana
I lived with that story most of my life. One of my dearest.
A few years ago in my early 20s, I decided I wanted to know the story. The story at the radio, my mom listened to. I Googled it, both the audio and the written formats. I only found an old audio on an obscure Romanian website.
Heart pounding, I pressed play. A perfect diction begun to voice my life. They called it a drama. Tell me #about it. The whole play, was supposed to be… dramatic?! It was #about a princess who kept waiting for her prince.
But in the midst of the play, the audio just stops. Just like that. Broken link, it says.
Wait. What?!
At first, I was mad. Then, I decided it was best I had only listened for half of the story. What if I were to be influenced by the rest? What if I am to wait for my Special Someone all my life?
Do you believe our names have such powers to write histories?
The other half of Deliana
And then, there’s me.
Beyond who people wanted me to be. Behind the stories told or envisioned #about who I was, am or ever will be. Despite gossip and how you see or label me. Whomever this you might shape. Without my thoughts and far from what I say or do.
The one writing you this. And a few other #100NakedWords.
The one who won’t quit. Life, at least.
The one who’s still fighting the shadows in her head, searching her soul and forgiving because John Mayer, Vonda Shepard and Darren Hayes told her to in their songs.
The one who unceasingly asks questions. Well, the WHYs, at least. And literally won’t rest until she finds the sense, the logic, the flow of things.
The one who cried when MJ asked Who am I to be blind, pretending not to see their needs? I weep every time. I stopped using Twitter a few hours after he died. I thought people aren’t supposed to find out #about this sort of tragedies from Social Media. That’s when I realized the world had changed. The best ones always die. The worst ones, too, but we’re not hurt by it, surprisingly.
The one who knows she’s losing herself little by little to fear. The one who knows she’s in the wrong life, but won’t change it for not having a viable alternative to put instead. Deliana, when will you learn, it’s not #about replacing, but building?
The one who finds herself on a hike, in the woods. Fresh air and light bundle spiking through pine branches.
The one who knows her only option is to free herself. But… still looks for the way to do that.
The one who knows when she’s ready. Or when the rain washes her clean.
The one who once told you you weren’t alone. And then started to doubt that herself. I could never decide on only one of the Gods humanity proposes. Why can you not follow and shape the best of all? Why does it only have to be 1 true God and the rest, only fakes or prophets, or whatever label?
The one who once wished she’d been a teacher… and now burdens writing with hopes and shady bids. Thirsting for labels a little too much.
The one who’ll roll her eyes at you instead of asking you to change. That’s still judgment. And I’ll scold myself right after I did it.
The one who’d better…
The one who’d let herself stirred up by ludicrous arguments, just like the sea gets agitated by storms. But just because she lives at the sea side.
The one who loves. And the one who wants to love, at the same time. Love as an act of will, not consequence.
The breath.
Thanks tons for reading this,
~ D.
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Other #100NakedWords I’ve written so far:
#Again|#Thoughts|#Breeze|#All|#Happy|#Island|#Still|#Like|#Tired|#Anchor|#Stand
Past #100NakedWords attempts:
#Loop|#Rhythm|#If someone took writing away from me
