Living my life as authentically as I can.

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I write about what I see, feel, live and you are welcome to share the experience as I share them.

Intermission

Intermission

Yesterday, I sat in my therapist’s office and cried for the me I want to be. Not the warrior. Not the hero. Not the monster. The sensitive, vulnerable, generous me that it never feels safe to reveal. The me that doesn’t constantly check her surroundings and mistrusts anyone walking up behind her. The me that goes out wearing headphones without keeping one ear exposed to hear any potential threats. The one that isn’t so guarded and wary of new people. The me who isn’t constantly monitoring her face, body, and words in a futile attempt to de-escalate conflicts that arise from her mere presence and her agency.

I cried for the me who never feels safe. Who never feels comfortable or protected. The me who never knows which looming threat will get her first.

This is no way to live.

I am trapped in the mourning of my ideals; mired in the sorrow of lost hope. The world is burning and I endlessly choke on the smoke and don’t die. I stay trapped in this horror show wondering how and why I’m still here pretending I’m ok. I’m not ok. Global ethnic cleansing has reached an all time high at the hands of violent, unethical despots unifying under the banner of white supremacy and my only comfort is that their ignorance and ineptitude will kill them but not before millions of people die at their hands. I watch the illusions of control and freedom constantly erode while immersed in this shit show and I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay. That things are fine. They aren’t. They’ve never been.

I don’t have enough words to excise this pain and fear from my mind, heart, body, and soul. There are no band-aids big enough to protect this wound that never closes because the cruelty of white supremacy is limitless and ceaseless. The wounds inflicted are too many and too deep. They fester, regardless of how often I clean and suture, clean and medicate, clean and cauterize. There are no protocols for global genocide that not only goes unacknowledged but intentionally ignored and hidden from view because its benefactors might feel guilty. We are repeatedly brutalized and there are no coping mechanisms for dealing with physical and emotional trauma dealt by unrepentant narcissistic societal cancers.

You fight. You cry. You prepare to die. But you don’t heal. You never heal because the atrocities never stop long enough for your wounds to mend. I am the walking sick. The functional dead. Hollowed out day after day, yet expected to perform, to give service, and to be thankful that I’m tolerated to live. A zombie to this pain and perpetually doomed to rot until there is literally nothing physically left to disintegrate. And even in death, my words may be used to shield whiteness from the horrors of itself as it rewrites my narrative to weaponize what’s left of me against its enemies…the other living traumas, walking sick, and functional dead.

This is no way to live. But this is how I live.

And this will be how I die.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming...

Falling Before You Fly

Falling Before You Fly

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