Try again

I started writing a post the other day. I wrote for what seemed like forever when I realized that I was doing it, again. I was revisiting an issue I've gone over a million times. Why must I do that? Why does it have to be marinating somewhere in my brain, that thing, that thing that won't die? Why can't I do the typical normal people thing? Most people have issues that recur, and it seems like they go away. This is not my way. Just like I always do, I show up, again in again. In my dreams, thoughts or in person, I often return to certain scenes. I think that maybe this time I will see something differently. Whatever this different thing is, I hope that it brings me understanding and closure. Empty, in fact, because it seems to take a lot more for me to come to terms with issues. It takes a lot more "visits" for me to put something to rest. Is this an aspect that many survivors deal with? I wonder, if I am an utter oddity.
I feel stuck, when I think about my book. Ten and a half chapters written now. Agonizing hours spent trying to make sure my words conveyed the truth, but also hope, faith and change. It seems that this feeling, this being in limbo, goes back to last June, when everything I thought was solid, turned out to be as stable as a castle made of sand.
And there it is again, the revisiting. I guess I will post that blog. I struggle with feeling like I'm making an issue all about me. Parallels usually draw me in. I find that these parallels touch on the compassion I have, the experiences I've had, that compel me to try to extend love and tenderness to the hurting. It's important to note, yes, I've had a hellish existence at times. I don't think my life is any worse or any better than anyone else. It's not a competition. It's important for me, as someone who spent a lot of time feeling very isolated, that I can touch another person and let them know they aren't as alone as it seems.
The embarassment that comes as a result of my awkwardness is one reason I hesitate. It's because after all this time, a small part of me, the part that never moved beyond abuse, worries that the person will lash out at me. I worry that the person will misread my intentions. Maybe they will think I'm trying to be an ambassador, a savior. I'm not. Kindness is becoming such a rare trait anymore, that people are suspicious of it. I don't blame them. Pure intentions, a pure heart..well, it's not always obvious. Then it creeps into my soul and settles over me..the voice, the voice that sounds like my abuser. He always took everything I did, and made it evil, self-serving, predatory, malevolent. See, he was the only dad I knew at the time. He'd convinced me he knew me better than I knew myself. I was always confused when he'd level these accusations against me. I knew I was trying to help or fix things. But I thought that someone who loved you wouldn't mislead you. After a while, when he'd correct me, I'd punish myself because I was so selfish and bad.
It took me 20 years to undo that shit.
Lots of therapy, writing, art, isolation..and all kinds of other stupid shit to get his voice to cease. For the most part, he's dead and buried in my head, even if he is currently dealing with cancer. He has been banished to the dark place in my head, where my mother's murder lives. It's where my abuse lives. It's where all the bad thoughts about life and myself exist. I don't erase those memories, because I'm afraid if I do, I will forget why it's important to be loving and kind. I worry if I forget those things, I'd become a monster. It's not a rational belief, but it's one that I haven't quite been able to part with.
There are moments, like when I'm afraid, or the PTSD has a stranglehold on my brain, or when I'm talking to strangers, or telling someone new about my advocacy..that his voice seeps up. It rises like steam off a searing hot asphaslt road. A haze settles over me. The voice tells me that I hate being white, I hate my race. I hate men. I hate police. I hate judges. I hate everybody. It tells me that the person is going to think I'm being condescending, or patronizing, or worse..they will think I'm making fun.
I swallow it. A huge lump of loathing is pushed back down. I know who I am. I know I am a good woman. I know my intentions are pure. I also know, that I'd rather take a chance and share a kind word, or reassurance, or lend support, than offer nothing. Nothing is what I got most of my life. Nothing actually has a taste. It's like salty fat tears that make my face burn, and creep into my mouth. It tastes like stale bread, and old iced tea, and smells like antiseptic.
Nothing is not an option anymore. So fuck that feeling of being not good enough.

My writing is suffering right now. I am inspired by so much. My life is in such a beautiful, peaceful place. My story..it needs to be told. It needs to be told because even if one person lives to see another day, they then eventually find the grace and strength to persevere through fields of knee high angst and bullshit to help someone else. Its really what matters in my life. Giving something back that means something real.
You don't escape from trauma the same person you were initially. You need to make peace with the fact that your life will never be the same. I guess the upside was for me, I could forge my own path. I wanted to write my own story, decide what legacy I wanted to leave. My life is now being lived like it was a living book that people could read. What is my next chapter going to be?
If I wasn't popular before, I'm ok with not being it now. I'm realizing that I am interested in the type of support I get. What is very obvious is that my lack of give a shit is annoying to some. Maybe it's because at my age, pretending is just fucking immature.
It's lying. Shit, I like to sleep at night. I answer to me. You either have integrity or you don't. What kind of person, who wants to be seen as credible, picks and chooses who is relevant? Whose life matters? Who doesn't?
I cannot imagine how exhausting it is to live as a puppet. You don't have a single authentic thought. You parrot what you hear, because you've never been able to think for yourself. You go with what's easiest to believe, you do what's easiest to do.
Fuck that.
Tell you what. How tight do you think you are with those you love?
Say something you know they won't agree with.
Do something they wouldn't do.
Go against what everyone goes with.
Swim upstream.
Say no.
Take an unpopular stand.

If your relationship hinges on you being a person who is completely in alignment with who they are..it's not solid. If they are in your corner until you speak up..nope. If they are more concerned with appearances than what is true, real, moral..you gotta wonder..who needs friends like that?
I'd rather be alone.
In all my years speaking up, speaking out..I've made enemies. I had friends who were in my life a season or two. Some are still around.
What's telling is that some of the people I counted as being the most loyal, turned out to be the biggest liars. The biggest opportunists. I can speak for years about injustice, disparity, inequality, corruption, racism.
For some reason, Mike Brown made at least one of them so uncomfortable that she pulled away. She had only said a few months before that she hated cops. I didn't trust them, but I wasn't a vehement one. She was.
And yet, suddenly, after Mike Brown, she was talking about how the cops were only doing their very dangerous jobs. And later, she came to be not so good at hiding how threatening she found the whole situation. For years, my truth made her sad. She agreed with me that shit is very twisted in the judicial system.
But Mike Brown....he inconveniently died, and people inconveniently had enough of the bs in STL, and they protested, and some rioted. A decent human sees why this happened. Why this blew up. They may not agree with the action of some, but most people can acknowledge the disparities.
Not her.
For years, I had been extra gentle with her, because I thought I knew her heart. I patiently spoke to her about her fears, asked her why she felt the way she did. I really tried to understand what this kid's death had to do with her being white, directly? Why did the experiences of black folks make her so uncomfortable?
Fourteen years of friendship...gone. The last few years, she went from being supportive and loyal, to jealous and judgemental. She projected so much of her emotional baggage on me, that I thought about taking a shower in holy water. Seriously, it was beginning to wear on me..trying to separate the true me, our true situation, from the bubble of delusion that she lived in.
It just got  to be too much. For an entire year, I'd been writing letters, calling, texting, visiting..I really tried to keep our friendship going. It was on life support when Mike died, and I pulled the plug in soon after, when it was clear that her passive aggressive jabs were in fact, about how stuck she felt in her life. She expected me to dig her out of it. She expected me to be ok with the emergence of her racist hatred. Her bitterness with life, her anger with the world, and..the fact that she had begun to hate me too..just wore me down. I felt so raw, it felt like my heart had been scrubbed with a steel wool pad. It felt like I was so jagged and exposed, because of all my pain and the fact that she hated me.....
It was too much.
I thought I'd miss her.
I really don't
What I do miss, well..I don't miss much. I miss my kid. I'll see her in a month or so. Sometimes I miss the life I thought I'd have. I miss my mama and baby sister, but not much else. Some friends? Yes.
What I don't miss is...
how stupid I was.
how gullible I was to those I loved.
how prone I was to giving second, third, 80th chances for redemption to my loved ones. The same ones who kept stabbing me in the back.

I can't wait to regain my focus. I've been free-writin for a while, simply because my mind is scattered lately. The next chapter is the worst one..and maybe I should stop procrastinating.
Goodnight.