Beef tips have a special place in my heart. In a mostly forgetful childhood, I sometimes forget the good in my upbringing, brief splotches in the painting of my life, they were. I can smell the overpoweringly good scent of steam coming from the pot my dad stands over, religiously waiting for the perfect moment to turn off the heat. The warm lighting in the living room, being surrounded by my siblings, in a weird way, I miss it. I grab my plate and build a bottom layer of rice, followed by the beef tips and broth. I can’t wait to eat.
I haven’t had beef tips in a long time, and I don’t talk to the chef of that delicious meal. My mind can be a place to slightly alter memories, make them warmer than they were in reality. I don’t wish I could go back, knowing what I know, but oh how I wish I could see that seemingly happy family sit together, all as one. All the characters in this story have moved on to a new chapter. I hope the differences are as positive as can be, but a tiny bit of pain comes when I remember we will never sit around that table again; times up.
Why is life so harsh? It feels like days ago I was a tiny child, now I stand at the cusp of everything, so many possibilities. It is not that I lack the preparation for this next step in my life; it’s a wish for five more minutes surrounded by my people, people I didn’t choose, people that didn’t choose me, but brought together by a common understanding of survival, we always have each other. Maybe that understanding only fit in the mold of pre-adulthood out of necessity, after all, we were all we had, now, that isn’t so.
I don’t hold grudges against those who took different routes, made different choices, believed different things. We were just a bunch of kids brought together by poor parenting and separated through the same avenue. My removal from the constant barrage of pain brought about by my overlords has been met with many emotions, this is one of them, or a million. I can’t tell anymore. Bittersweet, that hints at the feelings that race through me, but it only scratches the surface. When I reminisce on the past, I cry, I laugh, I feel warm, I feel so bone-chillingly cold that I might freeze to death, but one thing I don’t feel much of anymore, is anger.
It’s almost as if all my time spent in anger was a mask for emotions I had not the idea, nor the ability to experience in their entirety, so blind rage covered it up. When I think about what made me what I am today, I pause. Were it not that everything may have had different effects on me than what I thought in the moment? That is to say, looking back, I am lucky to have suffered. Suffering has a beautiful way of showing a troubled mind perspective, even if it’s rejected in the moment by a hurt child, the man who follows has much knowledge to reap from these happenings. In that way, I could review every damage done to me, not as damage, but as a gold mine of knowledge, a place to gain understanding, a means to continue, to keep writing my story, for if all the pain and suffering I have experienced couldn’t break me, what can?
And so, with knowledge of how things are, how they turned out, I can’t say I wish it had never happened. The lessons my pain has taught me are better than any other lesson learned. Pain is a voice, in earnest to send you a message, a message best heeded, for when the pain subsides, so does the voice. Those who attempt to hurt others waste their time if the subject uses that pain to their betterment.
