I am calling myself out.
Guilt. Worry. Shame. Fear. Super familiar feelings.
As a kid, they lived in my throat and in my gut.
And. My mama was super rad at giving me tools.
Worry dolls, breathing exercises, goodnight back rubs, words of affirmation. Even a stray calico cat from her ladies weekend in Cape Cod. I named her Ashley. Right around my union w Ash, she and my pops had separated.
Home had shifted. We had moved from our one home lifestyle in the Southside of town to two condos in the center of town. The dolls, exercises, rubs and affirmations weren't enough. So. My mama pulled out the big gun. Therapy. I got dressed in a white tank top, short homemade jorts and applied bright pink lipstick.
And. I learned. About anger. Cause it's a big deal.
And. It scares the shitake outta me.
And. I was so flippin' angry inside.
And. I had been chugging my anger cocktail since forever. And. All I wanted was to spit it out all over the floor and hug you. I just wanted to love.
And I was so flippin' angry.
I didn't want to go to bed at night. Cause it meant getting up and having to do a world and a life that I didn't want. School was not my thang, chicken wang. I wanted to be a wallflower. My parents had split. My best friend cousins aka bousins had moved to Mexico City. I was so scared. Homelessness, cancer, AIDS, growing up, not growing up, falling in love, not falling in love, getting to be a mom, not getting to be a mom.
I didn't want to go to bed at night. Cause it meant getting up and having to do a world and a life that I didn't want. And when I laid down. I would feel it all. And. Often it was dark. And. So lonely.
So I disconnected. My mind and my body. I escaped.
And then when I went home, I was flooded. Feelings. And. I am calling myself out.
Cause I am through that shitake.
This is my story. I am the author.
And if I'm angry, I'm ready to flippin' feel it.
And keep writing.
Why? Cause. This.
Writing is my (invisible-ish) superpower.
I write. I write. I write.
I write to love.
You and me, boo.