I could never right my wrongs unless I write ’em down for real…
“Why did you stop writing?”
“I didn’t stop writing”
“Oh. I haven’t seen any posts on your site in a while. I've been looking.”
“Oh yeah I haven’t published any in a while, but it's coming girl!”
“Cant wait!”
Boy… I lied straight to that girl's mother fucking face.
That was June of 2022. I had opened up my laptop plenty of times to write since January 6th 2022. My birthday. The birthday that I brought in on the beach of my homeland. The birthday that was so perfect, I convinced myself that 2022 was gonna be my year for sure.
What a dummy.
By the time that conversation happened in June, the emotions I never dealt with from the shithole that 2021 was for me came to a head, and life threw in some extra anxiety for some razzle dazzle. I felt the depression creeping back and I couldn't believe I fought for my life to climb out that dark hole to slip back in so quickly. I was ashamed. Ashamed at the space I was in. I was ashamed of my emotions. Ashamed of what I hadn’t accomplished. Ashamed at how easy it was to break. Ashamed I knew I have the gift of writing and I ignored it. Ashamed of myself, period.
“We cannot grow when we are in shame, and we can’t use shame to change ourselves or others.” - Brene Brown
My word for 2021 was “lonely”, and my word for 2022 was quickly becoming “shame”. It was supposed to be “deserving” and I let shame strip that away. I let it eat away at the best parts of me and fill those spaces with doubt. Everything I did felt wrong. Felt like it made no impact. Felt like I was stuck in cement. And the most prominent way it showed up was my writing, or lack thereof. My writing brings out the deepest part of me that oftentimes I didn't even know I was feeling. Sometimes I get in a writing groove and emotions I didn't even know exist spill out on the keyboard and then I reread it and be like “damn bitch, where did that come from?”. And that's exactly why I avoided it. Not a journal prompt. Not a 4 page letter to a nigga. Not even the love letters I promised I would write myself. Just jokes in the group chats. And texts to my favorite old nigga when the reposado was reposadoing.
I was feeling so many things already that if there was more, I wasn't mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and at some points - physically ready to address them. I had felt every emotion so strongly in the last year and a half, I was literally scared about what the writing would bring up. Even as I type this, my chest is getting tight, reminiscing about the darkest spaces I have been in. Although I was actively being more vulnerable and open, it was still hard to get through.
I knew it was getting bad, when I was in Colombia and got the news that my job had been bought. I was on a bachelorette trip for a good friend, someone I trust and have been open with, and one of my best friends who knows almost every skeleton in every closet I got…. We were doing a photoshoot and I was literally on the brink of passing out from the panic attack I was suppressing. After the last picture was taken, I told them the heat was getting to me, and went back to the room while they went to lunch. I went back to the room, got completely naked, turned on the AC and laid on the floor breathing. I don't remember if I told anyone that happened. The room was spinning. Yet, as soon as someone called me to talk about an issue they were having, I put on my cape and supported them, pretending nothing was wrong and finding relief at the distraction from my own issues.
After that, my cousin who was one of first friends, died from complications with drugs, the person I was dating and I broke up, I found out the person I thought I loved the most since my ex fiance (trauma bonding is a wild thing) had lied to me for two years, I had numerous medical issues with doctors unable to find the cause, and my job was a minefield and you didn't know what day the bomb was gonna go off.
Then here comes this heffa asking me about my writing.
The part of healing that people don't talk about is the rehab. Having to not ignore the pain, but work through it. Get strong to fully be capable again. I wasn't ready for that. That is, until my job laid me off. The thing I thought was my worst nightmare was my greatest gift. It gave me the space to heal. And in that space I learned that the vulnerability I was running from like a white man runs from accountability, was one of my greatest strengths once I accepted it and didn't make it turn me into a victim...
Let me pause this story right here because that line above was a key lesson.I had actually been vulnerable a lot in my life. Opening up to people (most times who didn't deserve or want it) hoping that this gift of the sacred part of me (to me) was the thing to automatically turn them into who I wanted them to be (for me). So, when it didn't, it felt like automatic betrayal. My misused vulnerability turned me into a victim, and everybody else into a villian.
“My writing brings out the deepest part of me that I didn't even know I felt. Sometimes I get in a writing groove and feelings I didnt even know exist spill out on the keyboard and then I reread it and be like “damn bitch, where did that come from?” - a stupid bitch who wrote this 10 minutes ago and is still shocked and staring at the above line like “damn bitch, where did that come from?”
That time to rest, recharge, reconnect with myself, my loved ones, and who I wanted to be reminded me that the life I wanted wouldn't come easy. There would be failure, embarrassment, the need for support, big ass emotions that I needed to feel instead of fight, admitting to myself and others where I had fucked up, believing that what was for me would never miss me, and being a little selfish (or a lot since I had some catching up to do). Reminding myself that I was deserving, but that doesn’t mean everything would… or should… be handed to me.
Someone I love deeply no matter what once told me “once you start being ok with saying no, you’ll stop taking no’s so personally”
That space brought you the person writing you this post. Someone who is going to fuck up again. Fumble again. Get it very wrong… again. But I’m okay with that. Ready for that. And won’t feel ashamed of that. Because playa’s fuck up too…
Plus, how else am I going to get material for this blog?
Welcome back everyone (myself included).
