Day 609 – Eleven and Grown

She called me resilient. And then she said I bring joy out of her. And I believed her. Yesterday, someone at the community I live in said I dress like joy. Joy is the word as my teeth tremble.

I just finished an appointment with a new therapist. She gets it. Thank you, God. She gets me. She asked me if this was the last time I wanted to tell my story. The story of my initial compounded trauma. How we really got here before we knew we were coming here.

I’m in a study room and I don’t have time to tell the long version, but my therapist got straight to the point real quick. She found out about my family and my role in it. She found out about my childhood. She found out about why I reached out to her in the first place. Because I needed help. Because I needed someone in my life who I could tell the truth to and walk through life together without the consequence of judgement or demonizing or abandonment or jealousy or insecurity or abuse or belittling. Because I wanted to share joy with someone and share myself with someone who would “get it”.

This morning, some man who is supposed to love me or want to date me or whatever messaged me telling me that I seek constant validation from men. This is after me having told him how I had such a good day yesterday and how I was in my community flitting around like a butterfly and I was so happy to be spreading joy. Yuck.

My therapist asked me if this was the last time that I wanted to tell the story of my childhood wounding… A kiss. Eleven. Me. Thinking I was in love. A man. Twenty. I don’t know what he was thinking, but we kissed. And I told my best friend at the time, my brother. I hesitate on telling this story because I don’t know who reads this blog and I think maybe some family members read it and they don’t want their business in the world. But life is funny like that. Because their business is my business sometimes. And I do want my business in the world and it involves them. And sometimes I don’t want to speak in code because it misses the point. What I know is that many, many people are suffering like me. Not in abstract. They are suffering because of wounds. From family. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children. It’s specific. They are suffering because of lovers and friends and things that happen. It’s general, but it’s also specific. And the suffering ends when you name it. When you tell the truth and choose to end it. This I know.

So, my brother. I told my brother about my first kiss. He was my best friend at the time. I might have told this story before, and this, indeed, will be the last time I tell it from this place of woundedness. I told my brother I kissed this guy and my eleven-year-old brain thought he’d be excited for me. But he wasn’t. He was upset and said, “You’ve got to tell mom”. I wasn’t about to tell mom and said as much and so he said he’d tell her. And he did. He told on me. Mom accosted the guy. The guy used to live with us. She kicked the guy out and gave him a 30 day notice. Within the 30 days, me and said guy were not supposed to be in the same room alone together.

And so we abided. Just like that, I lost my potential first love. Then one day, I crossed his path as he was going downstairs and I was going up. He wanted to explain himself about the kiss. Told me he didn’t really like me. He had only kissed me because I reminded him of someone he REALLY liked. Someone I knew very well. I heard his words. I don’t remember my response. But I remember I walked downstairs and went down to the bathroom. I ran a bath for myself and got in it. And I cried and cried and cried. I couldn’t stop crying. And then I saw my body. It went up. Up, up, up into the air it went until it disappeared. And then I stopped. I stopped crying.

In the days following, I would see my brother in the house. I’d speak to him, but he wouldn’t speak back to me. I’d cross him on the stairs and call his name and he’d just keep going. People in the house started noticing and they’d ask me why my brother wasn’t talking to me, but I didn’t know why. Eventually, word got to my mom and my mom called a meeting. She asked my brother why he wouldn’t speak to me and he said, “Because she’s bad and she likes boys”.

And there went my heart. And my relationship with my best friend… And here I am so many years later crying about it and telling the story to a therapist who gets it. And she asked me if this is the last time I want to tell this story.

I recognize that the man messaging me and demonizing me for being a happy butterfly is the same old vibe. “She’s bad and she likes boys”. Jesus take the wheel… The boon of the beautiful, sexy empath. Funny thing is, I’m only now realizing how beautiful I am, and I’m not talking about my physicality.

My therapist called me resilient and she meant it. She seemed to be proud of me. I was not supposed to make it this far, still dreaming and stuff. Still bringing joy and stuff. I was not supposed to be alive. And yet here I am. Still liking boys. It’s about time I start liking men. At least they’re worth being bad for.

It’s 3:17 and I have thirteen minutes to pack up and get out of this study room. I have grown up now. It has taken a long time and much repeating of the same old story. But I’m not eleven anymore. And I never was bad. Passionate? Yes. Frisky? Yes. Adventurous. Yes. Heck, I even have a dark side, like everyone. I’m ok with it. Just wanted to share these thoughts out loud.

And guess what else I know? I finally understand this! I still deserve to be Loved. Have a Blessed day y’all

Day 609

Eleven and Grown