I looked up your name to see what it means and baby names dot com was just as vague as everyone else is when I ask about you. “Little girl” that’s what your name means, but that tells me so little.
My dad says you liked horses, you were a tomboy and once he told me a story about you riding on the back of my grandpa’s motorcycle when he decided to race someone and he revved so hard the end of the bike came off the ground and you just stepped off of it nonchalantly without him having to say a word to you or cater to your femininity. Pardon my French, but I bet you were a bad ass chick.
I miss you, and I never met you.
I get told that I look like you sometimes but the only pictures I’ve seen of you are when you were no older than 12 or 13. That’s one other thing I know about you, you didn’t like getting your picture taken. Plus by the time you were 19 or so you were so swallowed up in drugs that no one wanted to take your picture anymore.
You were gone long before I was born. I have your homicidal boyfriend who doled out drugs to you, convinced you to leave my grandpa, and abused my dad, aunt, and uncle in ways I can’t even imagine to thank for that. I don’t think even my dad admits everything that happened; he sure as hell barely ever talks about it. My mom told me how you died when I was about 9 or 10 and wanted to know where my nice grandma was. In my mind you’ll always be that what if grandma. What if you had fought your addiction? What if you were alive? What if I had grown up with a grandma that wasn’t completely fucking insane and abusive? What if I followed your path, would I be left untalked about too? I always feel so alone and ignored by my family, I wonder if that’s because I’m so much like you… or if it’s just that the people who can’t repress are ignored by my dad’s side. On the other side… my mom’s side, emotions are a tool to control people with.
There’s a hole there in my life. Maybe it sounds silly because people talk about there being a hole when they never knew their mother or father. But my mother is usually swallowed in depression and never has the energy to go and do anything self destructive, she self destructs by inaction. My father doesn’t let himself feel emotions and he treats compassion and passion as weaknesses. I always felt like maybe there was something inside you that I could relate to. Maybe you are the one family member who could be on my level. But now I’ll never really know.
I’ve never told anyone this, and I’m not Christian but sometimes I feel you with me like some sort of guardian angel to remind me what path my mental illness can take me down, to remind me of what drugs and booze can do to me. Not only what they can do to me… but what they will to do me if I don’t fight the pain inside and the addiction every single second of every single day. I don’t know if you’re really there guiding me, or if this feeling is my own conscious forming a persona I trust more than myself; in the end it doesn’t matter which is true.
I love you even if no one really tells me who you were… there’s some sort of connection there. You’ll never be forgotten, at least as long as I’m around.