The Poppy Theory

Coming away I

As I took one last long look at the room which was my tiny little home for the last three years, I try to control the flood of emotions more on the spectrum of loss, with hope. Punching and kicking my worldly belongings into two suitcases and cussing myself for owning an unnecessarily large number of possessions could be said to be the defining theme of the last couple of days. Between frenzied packing and discarding and basically trying to fit my life into suitcases, my heart kept skipping beats at the random realizations of exactly what I was leaving behind. The realization that I was leaving behind the person I love the most in this world, my mom, was like a trickling pain. It was slow, steady and piercing. Tears, however, did not flow as freely as anger did. I had learned to hold my tears back from my childhood and I am quite adept at reversing grief with anger. The kind of anger that portrays me as a bitch, to be blunt.