The world is not a safe place for vulnerable Black girls.
A few weeks ago, my therapist told me that vulnerability is something we should work on. She said I don’t trust people.
Well, duh. I know firsthand that the world is not a safe place for vulnerable Black girls.
After our session, I tried to think of when I first learned that lesson.
Was it sixth grade, when I wrote a note to my secret crush (a white boy) and he laughed while reading it aloud to the entire class?
Was it my 13th birthday, when I planned a big party, invited everyone I knew from school, and only two people showed up?
Was it the summer after my sophomore year in college, when the man I loved dumped me but still strung me along so he could have someone to clean his apartment and cook for him?
Was it when I was publicly shamed by a dentist for crying out in pain during a root canal?
Was it the multiple instances of racism, sexism, or the brutal combination of both known as misogynoir that I’ve experienced in my life?
I truly wish that I could open up and be myself with everyone. But lessons learned the hard way are ones not quickly forgotten.
This world is not a safe place for vulnerable Black girls.
The sky gray, flat.
As am I. Gray. Flat.
Missing Soleil–bright, warm, light. Each year I beg her to stay.
She says she’ll come visit sometimes, floats away on a gust of wind.
She doesn’t lie. She makes an occasional appearance, but always brings Monsieur Le Froid. He stays even after Soleil departs again.
Today, a pretty big change is happening in my life.
My boyfriend and I are combining households–today’s the day of the move!
I must admit, I’ve been looking forward to this day for quite some time. We’ve lived apart for the entirety of our three year relationship, and I’m so excited that we’re taking this step together to really become a team…a family.
However, this move hasn’t been without it’s share of challenges. I’ve had to purge a significant amount of, well, crap. It’s amazing how much stuff a person can collect! When I went back home to Kentucky this summer to visit my family, my mom sent me back with a lot of my stuff from my childhood: pictures, knickknacks, school yearbooks–even my American Girl doll, Addy. Add that to the house full of stuff I’ve collected since I’ve lived in Wisconsin and you end up with a ton of things you have to decide to keep or throw out.
I’m not the best at letting things go. Channeling my inner Marie Kondo was a struggle for me. How do I know if this thing “brings me joy”? Isn’t it wasteful to just throw this in the trash? If I don’t have this ticket stub/t-shirt/photograph, how will I know that I saw that movie/went to that concert/knew those people?
This process has helped me understand one thing: Those tokens aren’t the important thing. The memories of those experiences are what matter.
As you can tell, this blog has gone by the wayside for…a while.
Honestly, some days it’s been a struggle to get out of bed, much less come up with something to say.
If I’m being really truthful with myself, depression had me putting myself by the wayside. But, this is a new chapter.
I’m in therapy. I’m in a good place in my career and relationships. And I’m going to do everything I can to prioritize my happiness and well-being.
Here’s to new beginnings!