Awhile back I made a friend on social media who risked her freedom and privacy by opening up to me. What initially caught her attention was a photo I posted at a local pride event. So many of us effervescently don our rainbows and glitter as a statement of true liberation, but do we take the time to remember those left behind? This piece is not only an ode to bravery, and a reminder that the fight isn't over. " Coming out" is commonly painted as the main arc of queer stories, despite the fact that coming out is a privilege that everyone is not afforded. We will call my friend " M" and her lover " Dj". They both reside in Senegal Africa. The two were introduced by a friend, and falling in love was as easy as breathing. M was then faced with her first dilemma; deciding between staying with her current boyfriend, or honoring her true feelings. With this being M's first experience with a same sex relationship, the decision held a heavy weight. Senegal is known for having some of the harshest anti lgbt legislation in Africa. The social stigma of public displays of " homosexuality" could end in harrassment, jail-time, sexual violence, ostracization from one's family and even death for the individuals involved. Government officials often use anti gay rhetorics to fuel their campaigns, ensuring re-election, while maintaining and heightening intolerance among the public. The goal here is not to evolve toward acceptance of all people, but to weaponize hatred as a power play. M comes from a devout Muslim family, while Dj comes from a Christian one. Both of these factors would lead to their own unique challenges. Dj was more open with her expression of their love, while M was forced to be more modest. Despite this, it was almost instinctual for Dj to reach for her hand in public or want to snap a quick picture freezing their happiest moments . This often caused friction in their relationship. The balance between survival and bliss was not always easy to maintain. Dj ( who was out to her parents) couldn't fully grasp the burden of fear that M was constantly holding onto. When asked how M thought her own parents would respond, she mentions that her mother would probably murder her before killing herself with her father's reaction mimicking the first one. The conversation sang happier tune once I asked M to tell me about one of her favorite memories of the relationship. " My birthday". M's sister and friends helped Dj plan a surprise night for the both of them. Dj gifted M with a pretty dress to wear as they danced in a room filled with rose petals and candle paths. For one night nothing else mattered, time didn't exist, and they were able to lose themselves in each other. My final question was, " What dreams do the two of you have for the future?" M mentions getting married and possibly fleeing to a far town that is known for having less strict laws for lgbt people. This would require M leaving her entire family behind without the possibility of returning. America needs to realize people are watching us, wishing they could live the same lives we take for granted everyday. While interviewing M & crafting this piece, I was forced to look into my own past fishing through the painful parts, while being thankful for how far the relationship between me and my own mother has come. Below is an article that highlights Senegal specifically, and can give the reader a better sense of what everyday life entails for their LGBT+ people. https://www.reuters.com/article/senegal-lgbt-rights/feature-fighting-for-survival-senegals-gay-community-is-on-its-own-idUSL8N1W454T
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Anyone who knows me personally and is reading this headline is probably clutching their pearls right now. Before we get into this lets do a quick run down of the actual definition of " sex work". Sex work can be digital, or acted out in person. It covers stripping, camming, premium snapchats, porn, sugar baby"ing" and of course the most stigmatized of them all prostitution. I was very apprehensive to write this piece, but after reading a vice article speaking on the increased rates of suicide in the sex industry, I knew I had to speak up.
I stumbled into sex work unintentionally, but I was fortunate enough to have full control over my fate and even policing my boundaries along the way, many others unfortunately are not as lucky. I came home one night after a long binge of dancing and tequila shots. As I collapsed onto my bed I read a message from a not so local snapchat fuckboy propositioning me for late night nudes. My response? PAY ME. The following morning while still in my haze I got a cash app notification. I scrolled up through my messages to see that he had gave me $50.00 for two naked pictures. Honestly I was shook at how easy this concept was. It was like taking candy from a baby. Getting out of a marriage, being jobless for a few months, while moving across the country to California was not cheap. I took a few days to mull this concept over. I'd like to think of myself as a very free spirited person who is comfortable with displaying their sexuality, but was this a boundary I was willing to cross? Could I turn back from it? What if some psycho got a hold of my pictures and posted them online for the world to see? What if people from my hometown found out? Did i even give a fuck? Well I was about to find out. Over the next few months, I decided to let go of my insecurities and give this a shot. The worst that could happen was some wierdo would post me on a porn site or get angry and post them online. after 3 months my traditional job search was not going as smoothly as I hoped. At the end of the day I needed to survive, and although my friend was tremendously helpful in helping to get me acclimated I yearned for a way to help myself. After many pep talks from my friends, and even seeking some mentors online I decided to advertise openly. I moved thousands of miles away from home so people's opinions started to matter less. The money was good. I made over $300.00 in the span of a month. It was enough money to maintain gas in my car, buy groceries when I needed them, and cute change to turn up with on the weekends. I was basically getting an ego boost and making money from men who would never even have the opportunity to touch me. Why hadn't I thought of this before? It was almost TOO easy. My confidence was through the roof. People were literally PAYING ME just to see me naked. As time went on though I started to feel the darker side of my newfound " gig". The requests rolled in and men started to increase the intensity of what they wanted from me. For some pictures were not good enough. They wanted masturbation videos. Some wanted to fly me out for sex. Some asked me to expose new parts of my body that I did not normally show and insert whatever they could think of into it. Some even wanted me to do video chats while I pretended to fuck them. The pressure of men DEMANDING I " perform" for them was extremely demeaning in my mind especially after I always made it clear that I only sold pictures. My boundaries were not only being tested, but they were outright being ignored. I realized things were spiraling out of control when a man from my hometown told me that he would rape me if he saw me again bc I looked " so good". He thought that the fact that I had sold him nudes meant that he had the right to sexually violate me. Another issue I was not prepared for was the aspect of vulnerability. Exposing myself physically, made me feel like I was giving away pieces of myself to those that did not earn me. I was showing myself in my most open state, while they used it to serve themselves. I went from feeling extremely in control, confident, and sexy, to feeling anxious, depressed and exposed. I never thought about the emotional side of things. The increasing lack of respect for my boundaries also weighed heavily on my psyche. My inbox was flooding with people wondering why I would " degrade" myself in such a way. At first I brushed it off, but towards the end I started to internalize their judgments. My experience may have been on a smaller scale, but it is a small piece of a bigger issue. We demonize sex workers as being unclean and despicable. We lust for them, then turn around and treat them like trash. We send them hateful messages that they aren't worthy of happiness for living their lives on their own terms. We disrespect them on such deep personal levels while stripping them of their humanity. There is an increase in suicides for sex workers FOR A REASON. The stigma we help perpetuate and the hateful messages we send them on a daily basis are the reason. They are just as worthy of living their lives on their own terms as anyone else. The only person who owns your body IS YOU. Sex work is valid work. Sex workers deserve our protection and support regardless of if they fit our personal agendas. Note : Zak's preferred pronouns are still he/she.
I never knew how I would handle having someone close to me transition until I experienced it for myself. I have known my husband Zak for about a year now and we've experienced everything under the sun. The loss of a baby, a natural disaster, moving across the country on a whim, and now Zak announcing that he soon wants to transition into being a woman. My first emotion was honestly to feel a little betrayed. I always considered myself an open person, and I thought that I created a safe space for Zak to share anything with me, or even express himself in any way possible. I never expected Zak to be a certain way, Zak was Zak. Sadness has definitely been an unexpected emotion for me. I was very glad that Zak revealed this news to me, I was the first one to know actually, and even more glad that Zak had faith that I would be a supportive figure in his life. What I did not expect was the feeling that I was mourning who I fell in love with. This new person that Zak wants to become is one that is unfamiliar to me. I did not fall in love with this stranger, and I knew that all the things I loved about the Zak that I did grow to fall in love with would be swiftly gone. It felt as if I was losing my bestfriend. Zak would become a figment of my memory while this new woman that Zak will soon become will take over. I know the importance of being yourself, and I especially understand how sensitive this subject is. Regardless of anything I want Zak to be happy, happy with what looks back at them in the mirror, and happy in life. My own personal mourning of who Zak was is going to be something that I will eventually get over, but it is hard. But, watching Zak erase the person I have grown with is heartbreaking. The change has become gradual, yet real. I share my makeup tips with Zak, we glance at wigs together, and we talk about all the future girl activities we can enjoy together. Another thing that I did not expect to feel during this process was the loss of my place in the relationship. As an ultra feminine presenting person I like being the star. I'm used to my place as the sometimes submissive member. At times the line between lover and friend becomes blurry, or even influences my feelings to become more platonic. I still find myself having trouble deciphering the two. We had plans to have children now, and our focus has now shifted. Can I let go of that wish as well? I felt extremely hurt by receiving this news at first because I feel in an honest relationship, there are no secrets, did I not deserve the chance to process everything? If someone could keep a secret this huge from me, what else could be kept? Did I ever know them at all? After some deep discussion however, I realized that Zak was another person figuring out the truth, and sometimes that takes time. I think the most stressful part of this journey has been the constant state of anxiety I find myself in. I know the danger than trans women are in constantly and I am always on guard. If anything happened to Zak just because she appeared a certain way, and someone decided to harm her I wouldn’t be able to live. Period. I wouldn’t be able to live with knowing that. When you love someone you want them to be happy and safe even if it isn’t with you, or even the way you imagine them to be. Right now above my comfortability lies Zak's wellbeing. Zak deserves the chance to truly blossom into the person that she wants to become. Its my job as a person who loves Zak to be a supportive figure in this transition. I also feel that since all this is so new, Zak deserves the freedom to explore and figure things out with their own path. Our marriage served the purpose of helping zak realize his truth. Right now it’s all about figuring out what my best role in zaks life will be. This can be a very confusing time and I feel as though its necessary to remove myself romantically from the equation in order to be able to help Zak through this process in an unbiased manner. The person I loved may be gone, but a new person that I can get to know is emerging. This is not a blanket statement, but it is a cultural one.
Black children are not allowed to question things. For about 10 years I thought my name was " Because I said so, or stay in a child's place". Our parents most likely grew up the same way. Expressing our feelings can be met with the assumption that we are being disrespectful, or even get ignored altogether, so we condition ourselves not to do so. It's safe to say communication is not our strong suit. There is a deep unexplained shame that comes with admitting or even outwardly coping with a mental illness in the black community. As people who don't talk about their feelings, therapy is seen as a "cop out". Our great+ grandparents suffered slavery. Our great grandparents suffered the jim crow era. Our grandparents suffered the civil rights movement. Our parents were raised by generations of internalized trauma and disenfranchisement, yet we still have this belief that African Americans are "exempt" from mental illness? HOGWASH my guy. Growing up I did not really experience anything traumatic that was out of the ordinary. ( Low self esteem, shitty boyfriends who made me cry, social anxiety, questioning my sexuality, the death of my estranged father...etc) Standard stuff right? For years I thought my feelings were pretty normal. Some days I wouldn't get out of bed, I felt the world was better off without me, and I loathed my own existence. This was " normal" sad. I didn't want to be doped up on drugs or have a stranger judge me with their handy dandy ass notebook. Besides, therapy is for " white folks" right? I'm sure depression noticed my skin and decided to skip on over me. (*cue sarcasm) During my exit out of adolescence into adulthood, I buried myself in denial about needing help. After my suicidal ideations grew worse, I began self harming at age 23. When we think of people who cut we envision angsty bored teenagers on MySpace who listened to a little too much fall out boy. On top of that I was partying so heavily hoping to drown my mind that i was too hungover to even attend class and was missing tests. Failing college, leaving an abusive boyfriend, fighting with my family, and just the existential crisis of feeling useless and unworthy were all factors that piled onto my already deteriorating mental state. Cutting is not a black thing. Point blank period. My parent did not recognize or understand it. She could not grasp why I could not " pray", "meditate" or simply " let my feelings pass". She was blessed enough to be able to compartmentalize her emotions and feelings, so why couldn't the seed that came from her do the same? She did not understand suicidal ideations. She did not understand being so thrown off kilter by the slightest thing going wrong that you thought DEATH was the answer. She did not understand that although everything appears to be " going well" on the outside, your inside can be fighting a war that no one will ever see, but you will feel. It is okay not to understand something you have never personally experienced, but black parents can sometimes lack the empathy and patience we so desperately need. I had to learn on my own that I am not damaged goods. I am not difficult. I am not unworthy of understanding. I am not a burden. Being the only person in my family who openly accepts and deals with their illness definitely led me to feel isolated. If your child is brave enough to come to you for help, please take it seriously. Do not assume they are just wanting attention. The most hurtful thing I encountered with this was my parent accusing me of using my illness as a manipulation tool, when I was sharing how I was having a hard time. She did not realize that two days before I had relapsed with self harm and was trying to let her know that I was not okay. If we ever got into an argument and I became upset, she would use " take your fucking pills" as a tactic to embarrass me and invalidate my feelings, which led me to shut down altogether. My illness made me a punchline to my family rather than an actual person with valid emotions. Mental illnesses are not monolithic. They affect people differently in different ways. They are not imaginary. The epidemic of youth suicides in the black community has grown exponentially as our elders live under a blanket of ignorance. Ignorance and intolerance is killing our people. Check in with your kids. Do not write them off. Do not belittle them. Love them loudly, unapologetically, and teach them that you will always be a safe haven to house their fears into. Until this point in my 25 years of living I never saw myself as the “ maternal” type, I was more the fun aunt who smuggles wine everywhere and hands your adorable bundle of joy back as SOON as it starts exploding type. The idea of a baby honestly seemed like a burden towards my lackadaisical lifestyle. I cringed at the idea of spending my eye shadow money on diapers, trading in my tequila shots for 9 months of sobriety, or even the daunting task of finding a relationship that did not go to complete shit after 4 months. I was selfish, young and comfortable. I had no existential crisis brewing within me because I didn’t know what I was doing with my life, had the freedom to change my college major 12 times, date cute assholes who made me feel alive for a moment, travel at the drop of a hat, and base all my decisions on the fact that I am solely responsible for myself . The blissful insanity of my 20s was the addiction that kept my blood flowing.
One of my impulses eventually led me to move 6 hours away from home to a Florida beach then fall in love over the span of months. Mother Nature also picked this time to remind me who was really the boss when I took my first pregnancy test. SURPRISE, IT WAS POSITIVE. PARTY OVER. My first thought at the age of damn near 26 was, " oh shit my mom is gonna kill me", then I remembered I’m 25 not 14. My reaction was likely a reflex of me never having had an official pregnancy scare before. I cried for about 2 minutes then started hysterically laughing with my boyfriend while I processed what the hell just happened. ME. A MOM?! There was a part of me that did not allow myself to fully believe what was happening in my body even as the doctors confirmed my status after 4 additional tests were taken. I could not fathom the image of myself as a doting mother with a huge belly housing an infant. I could barely care for a tomagotchi keychain LET ALONE AN ENTIRE HUMAN BEING. As the days went by my mindset began to shift. What if i COULD do this?what if this is some sign that I have a reason to wake up in the morning? what if this IS a reason not to be suicidal? what if I was placed on this earth to spill love over a tiny human and keep them safe? I allowed myself to be happy, and for me that is always a catastrophic emotion. I pride myself on being a careful optimist. Expect the worst, but be thankful for the best if it comes. I had also decided against making an announcement to anyone except a few friends, or clogging facebook with my lackluster posts about craving pickles until the baby had an actual heartbeat. But, I fell into the baby trap, HARD. The little bean was only about 5 weeks old when my boyfriend and I had assumed it was a boy and gave him a name. ( By the way, the name was actually quite bad ass if I do say so myself. ) My phone soon became littered with apps telling me how big little bean was and would become, what eating habits I should be adapting, and what bomb was going to go off in my body as the time went on. I slowly accepted this idea that I could finally create the family I always wanted for myself and I was happy. Only one person still DID NOT KNOW.... MY MOM. After hours of contemplation I decided to mail my mother a pair of baby booties with a note attached that read, " Dear Grandma, Keep these Booties Safe, I'll Need Them Back In March". How could ANYONE be upset after receiving something that cute.. right? My mom never received that package. During a routine visit to the doctor to check my HCG levels I was informed that they had dropped drastically, which is a sign that the baby isn't growing hence a miscarriage. I don't think the human language possess a word yet for how I felt in that moment. The feelings I can articulate towards myself however was disgust. I knew not to allow myself to feel joy. I knew not to think that for a second I deserved good things. I knew that I was not worthy of the gift of another human being so why did I think that this would end well? In my mind this happened because I was a horrible person and would never be a good mom in the first place. Why did I think I deserved a happy ending? I called my mother later that day and told her the news, then later called my friends. The disturbing theme I kept receiving from people was that " this wasnt my time", " I wasnt ready", "I havent been with my bf long enough", or "I'm still young". For me this pregnancy was a sign that I deserved to be alive, because I now had a purpose and a meaning, when that final sign failed me i felt as if I had nothing left. I drank, I cut, I cried, I moped, then finally ACCEPTANCE. Miscarriage is literally common in 50% of first time pregnancies, but no one talks about it. But, this nightmare was FAR FROM OVER. At what would have been the 7 week mark my symptoms did not dissipate as the doctor had promised. I was hemorrhaging blood, and my stomach was hurting so badly on one side that I would be awaken out of my sleep for hours lying on the bathroom floor in pain. The symptoms would come and go, and after numerous sonograms and blood draws doctors assured me it was just symptoms of the miscarriage. Nothing could ever truly prepare me for my mental state at this point. I was manically depressed, stressed, angry, confused, and in physical turmoil. After a final visit to the 3rd hospital THAT DAY I was informed that not only was I still pregnant, but the pregnancy was ectopic.The baby had decreased in size then QUADRUPLED in a matter of days. So theoretically, the little bean faked his death, then came back alive to take us BOTH OUT. WAS I BIRTHING STEWIE GRIFFEN?! The pain I was feeling was the baby growing so big inside of my fallopian tube that it could have burst at any moment. I was rushed to surgery in an ambulance immediately. Every hospital i visited at every stage of this ordeal claimed to have checked for this. The one doctor who chose to take his time ended up saving my life. The main reason I decided to share this experience was not only to raise awareness about two common issues with pregnant women, but to remind people to always listen to your body. listen to your pain. Doctors are not God, and if something doesn't feel right, you make sure they find your answer. Constant negligence from doctors almost cost me my life. This experience however, did teach me that my life is something I am not ready to lose yet. As I was lying in that ambulance I was mentally fighting with myself about every reason why I thought I deserved to die, and in turn it made me realize how much i desired to live. I have never gotten a bee sting.
Whenever the yellow rocket flies near i flee in fear Afraid of a pain I've never felt. I imagine being pierced simply because my innocent body happened to coexist in the wrong place. What an injustice it is to live your life inhabiting pain when you mean no harm. I have never gotten a bee sting, Yet i picture the queen demanding her swarm to attack and destroy me for making myself vulnerable to her wrath. My skin aches at the thought of this phenomenon. Then as time went on I learned I was not exempt from this right of passage, in reality I had been stung many times before. Bees never visit me in their traditional garb, they'd rather adorn themselves in human skin, seduce me with love, and feed me honey'd words of affirmation, only to leave their stinger in my heart. So I appeared normal, unphased by the betrayl of this insect. Until the bees began traveling to my thoughts and disguised themselves as self hatred leaving their marks on my flesh after all. 1 in 3 women will be a victim of domestic violence in their lifetime. 70% of women worldwide will experience physical or sexul abuse in their lives, and black women experience intimate partner violence at a rate 35% higher than white women. For the majority of my life these statistics were merely floating words on a page because I was "above" such incidents. I never went after " the bad boys" from the wrong side of the tracks. I never chased danger and I always gave the "good guy" a chance. Then life taught me an extremely valuable lesson. An abusive person does not have a certain "look". He is not always drenched in tattoos and toting a glock in his pocket. He does not speak a certain way. He is not a certain race. He is not the obvious "bad guy" lurking in the shadows. Sometimes, he is the boy next door..
I've actually battled about discussing this topic for awhile now. Aside from the fact that this is a very touchy subject, I did not want to give away " too much" about the details of intimate moments in my life. Part of me was ashamed and embarrassed that I even let such a thing happen to me. But, the thing about life is that we are all connected by our experiences. Good. Bad. Ugly. We connect and find healing in learning that we are not alone in our trauma. I hope that by reading this you gain comfort or inspiration in your own journey of healing. It was Circa 2013 when I met *Davis . Davis was a church oriented wholesome country boy who was known for his sense of humor and devout loyalty to his friends. Charisma oozed from his pores which complimented his deceitful charm. Davis was one of the " good guys". He was extremely close to his mother, always helped little old ladies across the street, and was the number one draft pick on paper of who any parent would choose for their daughter to date, This also brings me to mistake number 1... I fell for his image before I truly learned his story. We all have incidents in our lives whether it be childhood trauma or strained relationships with our family members that mold and haunt us as adults. It is our job to recognize our issues, weaknesses, or even mental illnesses and get help for them in a healthy manner before we hurt other people. Months in I would soon learn that alcohol was Davis's therapy of choice. I did not think much of it at first. Davis always enjoyed being surrounded by people and was well known in his town, so I assumed he just enjoyed partying. As months went by I began to sense an intense shift in the way he treated me. Arguing is a normal phenomenon that can signal growth in a relationship. It means you are not afraid to disagree with your mate, but in a healthy relationship there is supposed to be a level of respect within the disagreement. You do not degrade your partner because you are angry. We were rapidly losing that filter. The fights were almost always avoidable, but they could be triggered by something as small as me disagreeing with Davis's religious or personal opinions. Davis could go from calling me babe to bitch in about 10 seconds. He also made many references towards me being " the devil" again, usually over something small. I would take the bait and argue back to no avail before Davis would fall into a drunken sleep and wake up as if nothing happened. He seemed so disgusted by my presence, yet he was enthralled with keeping me within his. Either by tears, apologies, or guilt he made sure I never walked away for too long. My mom allowed me to move in with Davis one school year as a "generous" act due to the fact we were engaged. In reality she was trying to show me how incompatible we were and Mamas always right. By this point Davis's drinking was becoming obsessive. I would come home stumbling over glass bottles and cans. Davis's favorite drunken activity seemed to be inciting a fight until I took the bait and screamed with him then promptly exchanging a verbal lashing reminding me of why i was worthless and why no one would ever want me. As our fighting intensified I started seeing the first warning signs that I should move on. He would pin me down by my wrists with all his weight on them, then laugh as I hyperventilated and sobbed as a result of my anxiety attacks. My pain was a game to him. The next day I would confront Davis and he would automatically accuse me of being dramatic and excuse his behavior. Most of the time he would black out and forget anything even happened. This became a pattern. We would get drunk, he would get angry and act out. He would also pin me down and pretend to hit me while screaming at me for " thinking he would actually do it." The people closest to me started to notice the shift in my personality. I went from being confident, bubbly, and witty, to being secretive, melancholic, and angry. It felt as if I was in this glass box secluded from the world. At any time I could have left, but I allowed Davis to make me feel as if leaving was a betrayal to him and the years we put in. My depression was worsened by the drinking and his mental abuse. I started self harming and dissociating to the point that I was picturing the different ways I could commit suicide often. I allowed the good memories we shared to cloud my vision of how I was mentally deteriorating before everyone's eyes. To the world we seemed perfect, which served as the bandage to cover my truth. The final point of escalation occurred after a night out with Davis and his friends. We returned to his parent's house trying not to scream loudly during yet another dispute. It was almost 4 am, I was exhausted and wanted to forget the whole thing. Out of nowhere Davis starts to weep as he drunkenly confesses that he had cheated on me. I'm flabbergasted because this same man demonized my every move. Automatically I decide to end it. I tell him I'm calling my mom to pick me up and have a nice life. Unfortunately, that was not the answer Davis was looking for. He wanted to speak his peace and convince me to stay.( I guess a man sticking his dick in someone else was the straw that broke the camel's back for me.) Davis snatched my phone and shifts between intense sorrow to rage in a matter of minutes. I'm a "bitch" but I'm the "bitch he cannot live without. He eventually grows so frustrated that I am about to leave his life that he strikes me across the face and punches my chest knocking me onto the bed. " Look what you made me do" "I've never done this before" "I'm sorry". By now I am hysterical his mother is woken up and my mother is called. I always told myself if a man ever tried to lay hands on me I would fuck him up. I replay this scene in my head even 2 years later and sometimes I think " what could I have done more" "why didn't I fight back". The truth is you never know WHAT you will do in a domestic violence situation until you are in one. My first thought was fear. Davis was 250+ pounds to my 115. I a 5'2 woman am not trying to fight an almost 6 foot tall man. I felt this intense burning sadness in my chest. I did not feel anger. I felt pure betrayal. Someone who has vowed to love you should never bring harm to you. Not fighting back does not make you weak. Your defining moment will be if you choose to stay or leave. I had that period of time where I questioned if Davis's action was merely an angry act of passion or an example of how polluted his love for me was. In reality there is no excuse for anyone to harm you especially your partner. Davis's clean image exonerated him of any judgement from the public. He is able to live his life with this mistake mingling with the dust of the past. He is able to restart without any new woman knowing the truth. I had this phase of months that went by where I demonized every man for Davis's actions. I internalized the idea that I was a damaged soul not worthy of pure love. I carried this in my spirit and my thoughts until the weight almost broke me. What changed me was the day I woke up after the 100th suicide plot and it clicked in my head that I am still here and breathing. I am not dead. I can live my life with this weight on me until it kills me or I can free myself. In my case counseling saved me. Self love saved me. The day I was truly free was the day I realized that in this world I am not defined by how people treat me. I am not perfect by any means but I know that I can plant seeds of love wherever my feet take me. It is so easy to go back to those who are familiar. Who we feel safe with despite the fact that they hurt us. True strength is healing yourself by removing the thorns from your life. Abuse in any form is not love, and love is not abuse. 741741 is a crisis text line to help you through any traumatic situation, feelings of depression or suicide. |
Author- A pro black queer feminist writer and poet from Alabama. I write to inform and to open the doors of people's minds. The fact is that I am a minority living in a state more red than Donald Trump's scalp under his bird nest toupee, and this fact helps me to give a different perspective than the status quo. Dive into the waters of my mind and don't forget a safety raft. Archives
June 2019
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