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Day 464 – Eleven Years Old (And Golden)

March 14, 2017

I’m woke up two hours later than I usually do. It’s been that way for at least four days. I’ve been sick – cold got me. And I haven’t been doing much productive. I’ve just been at home sleeping most of the day and feeling like shit.

But today I’m up. It’s 8:12am and I’m writing. I want to write about what happened to me, and I want to let it go. I’ve been struggling. Not just with my physical health. I notice that my physical health is deeply entwined with my emotional and mental health these days. It’s probably always been that way, but I’m just noticing it.

What happened to me is that I got into a small disagreement with someone close to me. But that small disagreement triggered the thought of larger disagreements and betrayals from said person, and I had a panic attack. I wrote about the situation without filter on this blog. I decided to keep a distance from said person for a while, as I had a lot of work to do and a lot of deadlines coming up, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do any work if I’m running around having panic attacks and being knocked out for a day or days. So I kept my distance, but it hurt me. But I got work done.

About a week later, I spoke with my mom and told her the situation. I was already feeling real threadbare fragile. I messed around and accidentally told my mom that I wrote about my disagreement online. Prior to that conversation, my mom had no idea that I have a blog online where I pour my guts out. My mom got upset. She didn’t want me to write about my personal business online. She didn’t want me to write about anyone else’s business online. She wanted to see what I had written. I didn’t send it to her. I didn’t want her to track down my writings and find this blog.

This blog is my therapy. This blog is the place where I feel almost completely free to express myself exactly how I want to and people will just read it and mostly not judge me and be ok with the fact that I’m growing and I have issues and not get their feelings hurt or try to guide me or change me if I think one way or the other about something. With the exception of one close friend, I really have a space like this blog anywhere in my life. And so I wasn’t willing to let her in. Because, if she doesn’t even approve of the fact that I share anything personal online, imagine what she will think when she finds out that I curse. Or that I hate almost everybody half the time. Or that I’m really not the religion she wants me to be… I didn’t tell her what my blog was, and she got mad.

When I spoke to her next, she spoke to me in her accusatory tone. “I just knew you didn’t want me to read what you wrote because you knew I wouldn’t approve of it. Why would you write something that I don’t approve of?” she asked. And I became 11 years old again. I became little. I became unsafe. I knew that if my mom really knew what I thought and felt about life and the world, then she wouldn’t like me. She would pray for me so that I don’t go to hell. She would be confused. She would look at me with disapproving eyes. I knew that I my mom wouldn’t really approve of me just the way I truly am. Not because she doesn’t love me. Not because she doesn’t want the best for me. Because she believes there is a good way to be. She wants me to be the good way that she sees. And if I’m not, then she worries that I’m going to suffer in life, be punished, etc.

This may sound small as I’m writing it, but it was huge to me at the time…

As I’m writing, I just received a phone call from one person, and a text message from another. Both men. Both had asked me to be their wife this past weekend. I know. I’ve known both for many years. At least ten. One is currently married and separated, and the last time I saw the other was a few months ago. I went to his house, sat on his couch, and got bitten by bedbugs, which I then brought home to my couch. And then I threw away my couch. I’m standing in my couch-less apartment as I write. But I digress. The devil is a thief and a liar…

To make a long story short, after the incident with my mom, I started to doubt. I doubted whether I should share things about my personal life online, or anywhere else for that matter. People would judge me. People may not like me. People might say, “Aha! Look! She’s crazy!” or “Aha! Look how many men she’s dated!” or “Aha! Her life is shit!” They may not want to hire me if they knew that I’ve struggled with depression for time or if they knew that I’ve had panic attacks. They may think I’m nuts if I talk about magic or spirits or intuition. They may find arrogant or self-righteous. They may not agree with my viewpoint. Or think I’m stupid. So all things went through my head, and then I couldn’t write.

Found myself editing my private journals right here in my apartment. Had poems flowing out of me and posted them online and then took them down immediately. Deleted the blog post that I had told mom about. Wondered why I would go into a profession where, no matter if you write fiction or autobiographical blogs, people are going to know your viewpoint. People are going to know your experiences. People are going to know where you come from. Wondered why anyone would want to have a career where essentially you say, “Here. This is all of me. Look at me. Judge me. Judge every sentence. Judge every rhyme. Take everything I am and if you don’t like it, if you think it’s crazy, then hey, I gave it to you for you to do as you please.”

I considered going into my shell, pressing stop, and changing the course of my life. I considered not being a writer anymore. I considered going back to the religion of my birth and just doing what my mom said so that she would love me, I mean like me. And I was eleven again. I considered just opening my door back up to people who obviously hurt me, just so I won’t be alone (that’s why these two ridiculous men are calling/texting me right now). “Cut after I cut all the assholes out of my life, there was no one left. And I was alone. And I don’t like being all alone.

So, what happened? I cried. Threw myself a huge pity party where I was the only one invited. I stopped doing the things that needed to be done for my progress. I got sick. I gave two different strange men my number, knowing that I would never ever want to marry them. I went to the park with my stupid married friend, who’s texting me right now, and I answered the phone when my non-married friend (who’s been wanting to be with me for years) called. And I told him the truth when he asked if I ever felt even any little thing for him ever. I should have just said no, so we could keep things like it is. But instead, I told the complex truth, knowing that he wouldn’t understand shit. And now he’s calling me thinking he has an opening. I didn’t do my daily prayers, readings or meditations that I have been doing for the past two months or so…

And after four days of being sick and wreaking havoc, I had a scary dream last night. And woke up with my hands trembling. Body still kind of has a subtle tremor in it, if I’m being honest.

I had to make a decision. I have to make a decision. I Love to write. Writing is not all there is to me. More than write, I love to Love. I Love to dance. I Love to connect with people. Can you believe that my shy ass loves connecting with people authentically more than anything else? But I don’t like fake stuff. I don’t like stuff that’s out of harmony. I like it when pure Love is expressed between two or more people and there is no distrust and no hold back and no jealousy or envy or ill-will. That’s really who I am. I found me. I write because it saves my life. And sometimes it helps other people, too.

I had to come to terms with my eleven-year-old self. I am coming to terms with her as I write. A lot of things happened when I was eleven. An older guy who lived with us kissed me. It was my first kiss. I told my brother, who has my closest friend at the time. He told me that I should tell mom, but I wouldn’t, so he told on me. And then he stopped talking to me – just wouldn’t say shit to me. Would pass me in the halls of our house and walk right by – for a month. My mom kicked the older guy out of our house, but before he left, I wasn’t allowed to be anywhere in the house alone with him… You have to understand, at eleven years old, I was an ugly, awkward girl. Nobody at school liked me. I was too tall, too pimply, too skinny. My hair was too short. My skin was the wrong tone. I was too awkward. Too smart. So this older guy in our house was my friend. He liked me. He was nice to me. He would call me pretty. He would buy me little candies from the store. He would talk to me… I wasn’t allowed to be alone with him after our kiss, but one day we ended up in the same place at the same time. He took the opportunity to tell me that the only reason that he kissed me is that I reminded him of someone else. I went to the bathroom, locked myself in there, threw up and cried. About a month later, my mom noticed that my brother wasn’t speaking to me. She had a meeting with us and asked him why. He said he didn’t want to talk to me because I was bad and I liked boys.

I guess you could say that that was the first trauma of my life. My brother and I fought about whether or not I was bad for more than 20 years until I finally had a heart to heart with him some time ago. He barely remembered the incident. And my mother? So many things happened between us over the years. She always treated me like I was up to something sneaky or bad, especially when it came to guys. She always treated me like liking guys or having guy friends was the worst thing in the world… And I always liked guys and had guy friends. I was tom boy sandwiched in between an older and a younger brother. How could I not like guys? I didn’t understand this theory that any guy who came close to you was trying to do something sexual with you, because, although I had had that traumatizing experience at eleven, I had also had very safe experiences with men throughout my life… I wonder if my mom told the guy who kissed me to tell me that he didn’t like me. I think I’ll ask her about it today. The guy eventually told me sorry…

It’s 9:30am and I’m meeting with my writing bud today. I have a writing bud. I said it in the blog post that I deleted. I absolutely Love her. She called me yesterday to find out why I had flaked on our writing meeting. I told her and she gave me encouraging words. I like the fact that she is naturally strong in the areas I am weak and vice versa. So I’m gonna get dressed in a minute so I can meet her on time and write my heart out and get back on track.

I want to say, though, the decision that I came to. About writing. About whether or not I’m bad. About my eleven-year-old self. About life and relationships. While my mom was trying to convince me not to share my business online, she said, “Maya Angelou doesn’t tell people her personal business” and I remembered reading or hearing somewhere that Maya Angelou had gotten raped as a child. It just so happened that someone on my social media posted a video of Maya Angelou talking about her rape, her first trauma, and how it molded her. I looked at her in a different light. You know, the people who know her know who it was who raped her. They know who the story is about. So why did she get in front of the world and share something so painful, something that could be perceived as so humiliating? People are going to judge her. They are going to think she’s dirty or diseased or bad or all manner of things. Why did she choose to share her pain with us?

I ask myself this question. Why did I choose to write and tell stories, and moreover, why did I feel it was necessary to share so many of my secrets with strangers? Truth is, there’s gonna come a day when I’m not gonna remember most of this. For now, I choose to write because I have to. It frees me. It’s really selfish. I’d like to say, “Oh, I want to heal the world and I want people to feel validated and know that they’re ok,” but that’s a byproduct. That’s a byproduct when people tell the truth. When people tell the truth, when people share in the ways they are inspired to share, when people choose to love and heal, it ripples out into the world. I choose to write because I want to live, and I want to be free…

And to my eleven-year-old self, I want to tell you, that you are good. I’m sorry so many sad things happened to you. It doesn’t mean that you are bad because you like boys. It doesn’t mean that you are bad because boys like you. And just because you and mom don’t agree on everything doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. She Loves you, ok? But even if she didn’t, let’s imagine that she doesn’t, even if she doesn’t, it’s no reflection on you. You, my beautiful, are Golden, understand? You are Golden. Understand. We are grown-ups now and I am with you. And I give you permission to Love innocently again. I give you permission to trust again. I will find the people and the places to keep your innocence safe. I am wise now, my baby. I give you permission to share your Golden light with the world. I will protect you. I will keep you buoyed up. The world is not against us. I will keep uprooting all the lies until we can walk in truth and purity. I promise you, my baby. I will make a good life for us. We will forgive everything, even mom, so our hearts can breathe, and oh, my baby, we will open hearts along the way. Do you know how lucky the world is to have you? You are lucky. They are lucky. We are lucky. My baby, you are Golden. Understand…

Day 464
Eleven Years Old (And Golden)

From → Freedom Songs

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