Roseknits

Because it is confusing. It would almost feel easier if there was no love there at all. But sometimes there was love. In the way they tried to protect you. In the sacrifices they made. In the ways they worried about you, cared for you, wanted a good life for you.

And at the same time, there were still things missing.

Maybe comfort did not come in the way you needed it to. Maybe your feelings were not always understood, or noticed, or handled gently. Maybe you learned to keep certain parts of yourself quiet because it felt easier than trying to explain them.

That kind of hurt is difficult because it does not always come from cruelty. Sometimes it comes from people who loved you deeply, but did not know how to emotionally connect in the ways you needed. People carrying their own wounds, limitations, fears, or ways of surviving.

And you are allowed to acknowledge both truths at once.

You are allowed to recognize their love and still grieve what you needed but did not receive. Those things do not cancel each other out.

Forgiveness, for a lot of people, is not pretending nothing hurt you. It is slowly accepting that someone can love you and still fall short of understanding you completely.

That does not make your pain dramatic. It does not make them monsters either. Sometimes it just means everyone was trying with the emotional tools they had, and some of those tools were not enough.

And I think many people quietly carry guilt for still feeling hurt by parents they know tried their best. But being loved imperfectly can still leave wounds. It makes sense that it affected you.

At the same time, you do not have to stay trapped only in anger forever either. Sometimes healing looks like understanding that your parents were human before they were parents. People shaped by their own experiences, their own upbringing, their own emotional gaps.

That understanding does not erase your feelings. It just softens the sharp edges around them a little.

You deserved emotional safety. You deserved gentleness. You deserved to feel understood, comforted, and emotionally close to the people raising you.

And if they could not fully give that to you, it is okay to mourn it.

But I hope you also know this: the love you needed is still something you can experience in your life. Through other people. Through chosen family. Through the way you learn to treat yourself now.

The story does not end at what you did or did not receive growing up.

see a therapist immediately

I actually used to hate it! Like, actually despise it! Yellow was too bright, too loud, discordant, unruly, and clashed with everything. Nothing like what I wanted in my life, nothing I wanted to be.

When I first moved away from home, everything I owned was black. Jet back. As black as I could get. Smooth, cool, sleek, discrete, calm, unassuming. Flexible, cohesive, agreeable black. Fashionable black.

I had a really, really bad time. Unrelated to the decor. It was my first year out of a toxic place I'd grown used to my whole life, my first year acknowledging a mental illness I'd believed to be normal, my first year fending for myself with very little money or sleep or companionship.

I'd grown up on instant white rice and unseasoned ground beef. One day I realized that everything I'd been raised on tasted like cardboard. While out on an assignment, I passed a tent with a woman selling spices, and bought myself some turmeric. I went home and tried making curry with it. It was so yellow.

Another time, my professor took us out to a modern art gallery. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but when we got there, the whole building had been painted bright sunshine yellow.

The artist's theme was "happiness".

What it is. How we make it. How to share it.

All bright, lovely yellow.

The house I grew up in was beige. The walls were white. The appliances were post 9/11 stainless steel. My job was to be quiet, compliant, presentable and agreeable.

Black goes with everything. Black is neutral. Black is quiet, reserved, elegant and mysterious.

Yellow is warm. Yellow does what it wants. Yellow tastes sweet and spicy and hot and cool, like a summer breeze, like sunflower petals, powdery like dust on a long dirt road and soothing like well-worn linen.

I still like the look of black. I like the look of most colors. But I like the way that Yellow makes me feel.

For me it’s cross stitch -> tatting (only mild success) -> weaving (rigid heddle -> inkle -> 4 shaft) -> spinning -> knitting.

I did technically also do sewing in middle/high school but I don’t count it because I didn’t enjoy it enough to stick with it.

Age 11-12: spinning, pin loom weaving. Made a bunch of yarn I didn't use, stopped after a few years.

Age 16: took up knitting more, but still not very seriously

Age 19: got my sewing machine and made a few things. Didn’t last very long

Age 22: started knitting a bit more seriously

Age 23 (2020): learned to crochet and dye yarn. The dyeing stuck more than the crochet did. I fell in love with dyeing, and thus fell in love with knitting with my own dyed yarn so the two hobbies fed each other. I also attempted to learn to spin with my first spindle but very quickly gave up

crochet (fail) -> knitting (fail) -> cross stitch -> pin loom weaving (potholders) -> sewing -> knitting (fail) -> crochet (made a couple blankets) -> frame loom weaving -> rigid heddle weaving -> multishaft weaving -> fleece preparation -> wheel spinning -> dyeing -> continuous strand weaving -> drop spindle spinning -> pick-up band weaving -> (future nalbinding)

The ones I still do are sewing, pin loom weaving, frame loom weaving, rh weaving, multishaft weaving, continuous strand weaving, pick-up band spinning, fleece prep, wheel spinning, drop spinning, and dyeing.

• hand sewing from at least 5 years old (patchwork, doll clothing, little bags. Increasingly unsupervised)

• knitting from when I was 8 years old (grandma finally deemed me old enough)

• crochet when I was like 13 (grandma tried to teach me, but I ended up learning from a book with good drawings)

• spindle spinning when I was like 24, a few years ago

• botanical bundle dyeing since last summer

• currently resisting the urge to get into weaving. I am hoping I can hold off on that for a few more years, I don't need another hobby :)

In addition to the above rabbit hole, I dabbled with machine sewing over the last few years, still doing that occasionally, but it is not my favorite. I use the sewing machine for the end result, not because I enjoy the process like with the other fiber arts.

Here's the cat burglar. She wears comfy clothes and has zero social skills. She has sex appeal but only if you're into a very specific type of woman, and crucially she has zero idea she has it. She probably doesn't know what an innuendo is.

Here's the hacker. He's a Black nerd, and also the most moral character of the bunch. He's a nerd but also not socially awkward; in fact, he's the second best at grifting, right after the person who's been doing it for decades.

Here's the muscle. In his heart of hearts, he is a chef. He is tough and manly but he uses that to look out for the working class and children and everyone else the system leaves behind. He's feared by politicians and he reminds his friend to tip the delivery person.

Here's the femme fatale. She's over forty years old, and she's the one seducing the mark. She's the heart of the team. Her calling is to be a director. She loves attending her own funeral.

Here's the mastermind. He's the only one who doesn't start out as a career criminal. He manipulates his own crew, kills two people after promising them he won't, and takes deals behind their back. He was in seminary school.