Getting to Know Me

Pt. 2. 7.23.24

One of the unfortunate parts of overthinking is, you run through the whole situation, or in my case, the whole idea of what it is I want to write about so when it comes to actually sitting write it, you don’t have the slightest temperance of what it is you wanted to focus on. That is what i’m dealing with right now. After I wrote yesterday’s blog, I read a chapter of The Maid, turned off my light rolled over and began rubbing my feet together. The ideas of what I wanted to write about to day were flowing- I can’t really any of it. I even thought in my comfort, just reach over to the nightstand and jot the note down. I told myself, “No, just remember these 2 things and you’ll have it.”

So now, after a day of work, walking my Pepper, cooking, eating and watching The Real Housewives of Dubai, i’m not certain where I want to continue with this topic.

I think I wanted to start with the most evident. My writing.

I’ve always had a big imagination. I played with Barbies until I was 13, at least. I created worlds for them. I cut up socks and created fashions for them. I chopped this noodle-like hair off another doll to create spaghetti to eat for my barbies. I used my dresser as high rise condo for their living space. I’m sure everyone else had the same vivid imagination- but maybe not. I remember back in elementary school where in multiple grades we were given blank books and for a semester, we would spend out time writing and editing until the end of the year, we created our own hardback book. We even designed the cover (when I say designed, I mean colored pencils and crayons). It was really my best memories from elementary school.

For whatever reason though, this imagination or voice I found with writing, while I know it is a gift from God, it sometimes feels like an escape. That’s also not necessarily a bad thing. it a great thing mentally, but the part that I find hindering, is that in some ways I lost my voice.

In the book, Greatness Mindset, he speaks on healing your traumas. Reaching out to your younger you and figuring out where certain triggers come from, because they all stem from trauma, and healing them. He said a whole lot more, but that’s what I currently remember. Bear with me.

I was going to do the Manefesto, but i’m not feeling it right now, plus I need to look it up. So instead, im going to pause here and come back tomorrow and write a letter to my younger self.

I wrote it down this time so I won’t be lost tomorrow :P

Pt. 3 7.24.24

To jump right back in, more-so touching back on my initial post of feeling like a failure, I just ran some numbers and I can’t afford to move. Yet.

Yet. Just wait on it. It’s all going to work out. Don’t be discouraged. Don’t be discouraged.

ANYWAYS. Last year I went to therapy for the first time because I had a major upset with my parents and I felt as though they didn’t support me in a decision I wanted to make. I was trying to buy a house. The method in which my mother decided to go about handling the viewing and discouragement of me buying the house did not set well with me. So much so, that I sought therapy. In the sessions - mores after the sessions I had realizations that I needed therapy sooner that when I had assumed I needed it. To bring this back to the topic of my writing and me feeling as though I lost my voice, one of the earliest memories of me feeling embarrassed was was by my mother in front of all of my peers.

Even now, this is some twenty plus years later, I still feel the anxiety I felt back then.

It was some 30 plus kids in the old church. The church use to be a store- if I remember correctly. It was just getting its footing, so they took up where they could. We were in some back room. I remember there being some old torn carpet on the floor; the kind that if you snagged it, it would produce a long string and if you kept pulling, one day you might unravel the whole thing. We all sat in fold up chairs, in rows facing front where all the instruments were; the organ and the drums. My brother sat at the drums and my mother sat, leading us all from the organ.

I was at least 4 rows back from her, maybe not. You know how our perceptions is bigger when we were kids. I may or may not have been singing but at that age, in my family, what the parent said goes. it didn’t matter if I was having an off day and didn’t want to sing. What is an off day? After the altos finished singing their part, it got quiet as we all waited for or next instructions from our choir director.

“Chevie,” My eyes instantly went to my mom, “If you’re not going to sing, go sit in the back.”

To my astonishment, I was given an out. I didn’t actually have to participate today. I could go sit in the back and imagine my life away as I loved to do. So, given this once in a lifetime option, I stood up and shimmied my way past my four or five peers who sat next to me. I texted the row and made my way all the way to the back of the room. A church bench was there with its shift red cushion. I heard her began to play on the organ again looking for the next note. As soon as I found comfort on the seat, the music stopped.

“And get a whoopin’ when you get home.”

I was bamboozled.

I don’t think anyone laughed, but to be swindled by my own mother in front of everyone on top of a whooping threat, I was defeated. I stood right back up, walked back to the row, shimmied back to my seat and sat down. I did my best to keep the tears that rested on top of my eyes in place. I was embarrassed.

Chevie, until this day, those feelings that you felt are still here, but you don’t have to hold onto them anymore. Let them go. Let the hurt go. I’m proud of you for holding back those tears. You didn't let anyone see you be weak, but you’ve proven yourself time and time again that you are indeed not weak. I’m proud of you for walking proudly back to your seat, cause guess what? You had the sense that even though she gave you an option, then recant it, you made the choice to not choose the latter. I’m proud of you. You did your best. Even when this story was mentioned to her years on years later, and the response was to “get over it” we did our best, but in the moment, we can let go of trying to get a desired response from her or anyone else who did us wrong. We release the need for an apology or anyone trying to sympathize or empathize with how we felt and how such an act had affected me in possibly all areas of my life. We let this memory go. We let the feelings and the hurt go as well. We take back our power and voice. Can’t nobody whoop me now. Know that. Know that you found you’re voice in writing but you also know how and when to use it. You’re not a punk, and like I said, Can’t nobody whoop you now.