Kris T. Heywood: A couple of discrepancies--Zimmerman's not white, he's hispanic. And I thought Trayvon actually lived in that gated community with his family.
Jaha Zainabu: Kris, I read that he is white and Hispanic and that Trayvon was visiting his fathers fiancee. But whether Zimmerman was green and Trayvon lived on the sidewalk in front of the liquor store, our black boys keep getting shot and killed. Small details change but what is consistent is our children, our legacy carriers, keep getting killed and nothing happens.
Kris T. Heywood: Thanks for correcting me. I do think details are important, or else you wind up playing a print version of "Post Office." I'm glad to see this ground swell of outrage, and my heart aches for Trayvon's family.
Jaha Zainabu: My heart is aching as well, sister. My response was not a correction but a note on what I read. I wanted to show how flip floppy the details are in various reportings. We are hurting so much right now. All around. In addition to our boys, black mothers black fathers are in God help us pain right now as we kiss and hug our boys and send them to school, we just don't know.
Kris T. Heywood: Trayvon is not only a victim but he has become a martyr. His death shows us how much farther we as Americans have to go before we realize we are all human beings with the same inalienable rights--as well as demonstrating once again that guns are passed out too easily. How much different this outcome would have been if Zimmerman had not had access to a deadly weapon.
Jaha Zainabu: And we don't need another martyr. We have had our fill. And how much different if Tryavon were white. Your "we" in we as Americans have not even accepted that we are Americans. Or human really. We have work to do.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Me with Brooke Rose part 1
When I was in the eighth grade Brooke died and nobody told us what happened. Nobody. No. Fucking. Body. thought we were ready to know what happened. Just one day she didn't get on the bus. And Brooke is not her real name. I want to mention her real name but I won't. I am afraid. I am afraid of her ghost. Afraid her ghost will come to me when I am alone at home or while I am alone on a long drive and say "Hey Robin" because she knew me as Robin. "Hey Robin, leave me alone. Let me be dead. Why are you bothering me? Am I bothering you? No."
But I can't. I can't leave it alone and I don't want her to come to me. But I can't get things off of me unless I have a good cry about them or talk about them or write about them or paint a picture of them. The thing tells me how it wants to be released. Believe me or don't, it's true. This thing wants to be written about. Really in long hand in a dollar store notebook. The black and white composition books with the wide lines. Written about in cursive. In the language of my youth. But not now. Not now. Now I am watching some Russian movie with my...with my...I don't like the word fiance. My man sounds possessive. We are too old for him to be my boyfriend. With Love. I am watching a Russian movie with Love and the lights are off and he is on one couch and I am on another but we are together in the living room watching this movie. Not that I care about the movie. But it's nice to sit together in the same room you know.
I am caught in a bucket of wonderings. Wondering why I am even thinking about Brooke so much. I mean we knew each other. We sat next to each other on the bus. Shared stories and complimented each others courdaroys, but we weren't friends friends like that. You know. We didn't call each other on Saturdays or have sleep overs or anything like that. We were school friends. School friends. Bus buddies. We both thought Mrs. Mullen was a bitch. Mrs. Mullen is not her real name either. I am afraid to mention her real name for a different reason. Inside of all of us we are still eighth grade girls (even the boys) who live our lives like we might get in trouble if "Mrs. Mullen" finds out we called her a bitch. Even though she was. Fat bad breath racist bitch who think she cute.
Love leaves at five on weekday mornings. This morning when he left I was afraid of Brooke. I got up and went to my favorite couch in the living room and tried to go back to sleep but I couldn't. Brooke was there. I fucking scare myself. I fucking do. When I say fucking it makes me not so afraid so fucking stop judging me. I'm like the fucking ghost whisperer or something. Seriously, I remember when I was writing WOMEN IN THE VILLAGE the women kept coming to me like, tell my story next. Me next. Me. Then me. And I was all like, Fuck! But I did it and those were the best stories I have ever written. Now Brooke.
But how much of this is Brooke and how much of this is me just suddenly curious about what happened? How did she die? Why? Sidne was her friend. No, Sidne is not her real name either. Fuck it. No one mentioned will be mentioned by real name so I don't have to keep telling you that. As if it mattered anyway. Brooke and Sidne were always together. They played on Saturdays. They had sleep overs. Sidne got on the bus one Tuesday and sat down in her seat with her long shiny hair and barrettes and matching clothes and delivered the news. "Brooke dead. She dead and she not never comin' back."
We all wanted to ask. Some of us did but Sidne didn't answer. Just, "she just dead that's all. Why everybody gotta be nosy. Shit. Can't nobody just go to school and they bessfrien be dead? Damn." Then her eyes watered and that was enough to everyone to leave her alone. The next day Junior, Brooke's little brother got on the bus and no one asked. We just looked. He didn't talk. To anybody. He stared out of the window from his stop in Long Beach to Lakewood where we went to school.
Everyday when we got to Signal Hill there were these white boys who were always at the bus stop calling us "black monkeys", "African niggers", "cotton pickers", stuff like that. Till one day, a few days after Brooke was just dead and aint never comin' back no more, Sam our bus driver pulled the bus over and opened the door right in front of the white boys and said "Who want 'em?" Then Junior, Melvin and JohnJames got off and whooped those white boys asses! Junior went a little too far and Sam had to get off the bus and pull him off one white boy. We all understood. I mean, his only sister was dead and wasn't never comin' back no more. He had to take it out on someone. Did Junior know what happened? Did Sidne? Maybe she wasn't really dead. I mean, when people died then people knew why. People knew how.
Sis. Lanny at the church died and it was because she got too old to be livin' anymore. Bro. Wilkes died and it was because his heart had attacked him. That's what they told us at choir rehearsal. Bro. Johns died because his very own son shot him in the butt. It took him a whole week to die and that was because nobody called the police or nothin'. He was just in his house bleeding and crying that whole time. That was the saddest I ever heard of a way someone could die. But sad or not there was always a reason why somebody was dead. Not just, they dead and they aint never comin' back no more and mind yo own business before I kick yo butt. But that's how Brooke died. Till she or somebody tell me something else. That's how she died.
But I can't. I can't leave it alone and I don't want her to come to me. But I can't get things off of me unless I have a good cry about them or talk about them or write about them or paint a picture of them. The thing tells me how it wants to be released. Believe me or don't, it's true. This thing wants to be written about. Really in long hand in a dollar store notebook. The black and white composition books with the wide lines. Written about in cursive. In the language of my youth. But not now. Not now. Now I am watching some Russian movie with my...with my...I don't like the word fiance. My man sounds possessive. We are too old for him to be my boyfriend. With Love. I am watching a Russian movie with Love and the lights are off and he is on one couch and I am on another but we are together in the living room watching this movie. Not that I care about the movie. But it's nice to sit together in the same room you know.
I am caught in a bucket of wonderings. Wondering why I am even thinking about Brooke so much. I mean we knew each other. We sat next to each other on the bus. Shared stories and complimented each others courdaroys, but we weren't friends friends like that. You know. We didn't call each other on Saturdays or have sleep overs or anything like that. We were school friends. School friends. Bus buddies. We both thought Mrs. Mullen was a bitch. Mrs. Mullen is not her real name either. I am afraid to mention her real name for a different reason. Inside of all of us we are still eighth grade girls (even the boys) who live our lives like we might get in trouble if "Mrs. Mullen" finds out we called her a bitch. Even though she was. Fat bad breath racist bitch who think she cute.
Love leaves at five on weekday mornings. This morning when he left I was afraid of Brooke. I got up and went to my favorite couch in the living room and tried to go back to sleep but I couldn't. Brooke was there. I fucking scare myself. I fucking do. When I say fucking it makes me not so afraid so fucking stop judging me. I'm like the fucking ghost whisperer or something. Seriously, I remember when I was writing WOMEN IN THE VILLAGE the women kept coming to me like, tell my story next. Me next. Me. Then me. And I was all like, Fuck! But I did it and those were the best stories I have ever written. Now Brooke.
But how much of this is Brooke and how much of this is me just suddenly curious about what happened? How did she die? Why? Sidne was her friend. No, Sidne is not her real name either. Fuck it. No one mentioned will be mentioned by real name so I don't have to keep telling you that. As if it mattered anyway. Brooke and Sidne were always together. They played on Saturdays. They had sleep overs. Sidne got on the bus one Tuesday and sat down in her seat with her long shiny hair and barrettes and matching clothes and delivered the news. "Brooke dead. She dead and she not never comin' back."
We all wanted to ask. Some of us did but Sidne didn't answer. Just, "she just dead that's all. Why everybody gotta be nosy. Shit. Can't nobody just go to school and they bessfrien be dead? Damn." Then her eyes watered and that was enough to everyone to leave her alone. The next day Junior, Brooke's little brother got on the bus and no one asked. We just looked. He didn't talk. To anybody. He stared out of the window from his stop in Long Beach to Lakewood where we went to school.
Everyday when we got to Signal Hill there were these white boys who were always at the bus stop calling us "black monkeys", "African niggers", "cotton pickers", stuff like that. Till one day, a few days after Brooke was just dead and aint never comin' back no more, Sam our bus driver pulled the bus over and opened the door right in front of the white boys and said "Who want 'em?" Then Junior, Melvin and JohnJames got off and whooped those white boys asses! Junior went a little too far and Sam had to get off the bus and pull him off one white boy. We all understood. I mean, his only sister was dead and wasn't never comin' back no more. He had to take it out on someone. Did Junior know what happened? Did Sidne? Maybe she wasn't really dead. I mean, when people died then people knew why. People knew how.
Sis. Lanny at the church died and it was because she got too old to be livin' anymore. Bro. Wilkes died and it was because his heart had attacked him. That's what they told us at choir rehearsal. Bro. Johns died because his very own son shot him in the butt. It took him a whole week to die and that was because nobody called the police or nothin'. He was just in his house bleeding and crying that whole time. That was the saddest I ever heard of a way someone could die. But sad or not there was always a reason why somebody was dead. Not just, they dead and they aint never comin' back no more and mind yo own business before I kick yo butt. But that's how Brooke died. Till she or somebody tell me something else. That's how she died.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
For Dewayne Henry
I got a Facebook message from an old friend tonight. She said that a friend of hers has cancer and needs money so that the doctors will treat him. I called Mary, my friend to see what was up. There are so many stories about people walking around ill because they (we) don't have money of insurance to be treated. I've told you some of my hospital waiting room drama stories and the bills that came with them. And that was just for fibroids. Imagine cancer.
Mary: Anyone that knows me knows that I am the last person to ask for anything but I want to spread the word about this and you have 5,000 people on your Facebook page and I thought you could help get the word out.
Me: Sure.
Mary: I knew him maybe four years ago and I haven't spoken to him in a long time. Well, I just got a friend request from him and I accepted. Then I went to his page and I realized that he has cancer. He's been going through this for over a year. He was in this small town where you have to see whatever doctor comes on clinic day.
Me: Where is that?
Mary: Kaufman, Texas. But now he's in Houston hoping to be treated. They are waiting for money. This is unbelievable to me as a nurse. I was really upset. I just cried. He's been going through this for a year.
Me: How do you donate?
Mary: Let me see if I can pull it up. There is a way, oh here, www.giveforward.com/dewaynehenry. I'll send it to you. He has an account. I'm gonna go ahead and send something and that way he can see that money is going in to his account.
Our people are dying. Those are classic symptoms of cancer.
Me: What are the symptoms?
Mary: Losing weight, pelic pain, blood in his stool. Pain is a late symptom of cancer. He was told that he was fine back in February 2011 and that he just needed to get control of his blood pressure.
His wife insisted that he go to another doctor and so he went to a new doctor in Terrell, Texas which is a bigger town and there he finally had a CT scan. The other doctor just blew it off and said he was fine.
They said that twelve months of treatment could be $250,000. And that's just twelve months. Now he's waiting for an answer to see if they will start treating him without insurance.
Me: Wow. I'm on his page now and I see the notes he's been leaving about his journey. I'll do what I can to get the word out.
Mary: Thank you. Also I just wanted to say that he's a new Christian and he wasn't even a Christian four years ago. And now this. And, I mean, his daughters...Man.
Me: I know.
Please send prayers. Please send money. This world. This country. This life. And it doesn't have to be this way.
Later Facebook message from Mary:
Jaha, here is a little more detail about his story. I got this off the fundraiser site when I donated.
The Henry family is uniting to raise funds for Dwayne's treatment and surgery for Colon Rectal Cancer.
Dwayne was diagnosed with cancer in December 2011, after enduring the symptoms for almost a year, but that was not the worse news! His insurance was only a limited policy so it would only cover $1000 and that was used up in the test to determine what was wrong.
The cancer is to a point that his rectum is only as wide as a number 2 pencil. The doctor instructed him not to eat anything that was greater than the consistency of baby food so his wife has to puree anything he eats.
In January he had to take medical leave because of the pain medication and other symptoms will not let him stay on his feet for long periods of time and with Rectal Cancer he can't sit for long periods of time.
He applied to Kaufman County for help with his treatments but was denied because they dont have a cancer treatment program, He also applied to the world's best for cancer MD Anderson but they are not a charity hospital.
Dwayne has a stay at home wife and a set of twins that he need to take care of so he wants to get back to work as soon as he can. He does not qualify for disability now.
Dwayne loves his family and friends and would love to hear from you. Please send any get well wishes to Dwayne and Shevawn's home address.
If you want to send a check by mail please send checks to attention:
Shevawn Fletcher
15449 S 1st St
Scurry, TX 75158
All your generous contributions, thoughts and prayers are deeply appreciated!!
Thank you all SO Much!! - Dwayne and Shevawn, Henry and Fletcher Families.
Mary: Anyone that knows me knows that I am the last person to ask for anything but I want to spread the word about this and you have 5,000 people on your Facebook page and I thought you could help get the word out.
Me: Sure.
Mary: I knew him maybe four years ago and I haven't spoken to him in a long time. Well, I just got a friend request from him and I accepted. Then I went to his page and I realized that he has cancer. He's been going through this for over a year. He was in this small town where you have to see whatever doctor comes on clinic day.
Me: Where is that?
Mary: Kaufman, Texas. But now he's in Houston hoping to be treated. They are waiting for money. This is unbelievable to me as a nurse. I was really upset. I just cried. He's been going through this for a year.
Me: How do you donate?
Mary: Let me see if I can pull it up. There is a way, oh here, www.giveforward.com/dewaynehenry. I'll send it to you. He has an account. I'm gonna go ahead and send something and that way he can see that money is going in to his account.
Our people are dying. Those are classic symptoms of cancer.
Me: What are the symptoms?
Mary: Losing weight, pelic pain, blood in his stool. Pain is a late symptom of cancer. He was told that he was fine back in February 2011 and that he just needed to get control of his blood pressure.
His wife insisted that he go to another doctor and so he went to a new doctor in Terrell, Texas which is a bigger town and there he finally had a CT scan. The other doctor just blew it off and said he was fine.
They said that twelve months of treatment could be $250,000. And that's just twelve months. Now he's waiting for an answer to see if they will start treating him without insurance.
Me: Wow. I'm on his page now and I see the notes he's been leaving about his journey. I'll do what I can to get the word out.
Mary: Thank you. Also I just wanted to say that he's a new Christian and he wasn't even a Christian four years ago. And now this. And, I mean, his daughters...Man.
Me: I know.
Please send prayers. Please send money. This world. This country. This life. And it doesn't have to be this way.
Later Facebook message from Mary:
Jaha, here is a little more detail about his story. I got this off the fundraiser site when I donated.
The Henry family is uniting to raise funds for Dwayne's treatment and surgery for Colon Rectal Cancer.
Dwayne was diagnosed with cancer in December 2011, after enduring the symptoms for almost a year, but that was not the worse news! His insurance was only a limited policy so it would only cover $1000 and that was used up in the test to determine what was wrong.
The cancer is to a point that his rectum is only as wide as a number 2 pencil. The doctor instructed him not to eat anything that was greater than the consistency of baby food so his wife has to puree anything he eats.
In January he had to take medical leave because of the pain medication and other symptoms will not let him stay on his feet for long periods of time and with Rectal Cancer he can't sit for long periods of time.
He applied to Kaufman County for help with his treatments but was denied because they dont have a cancer treatment program, He also applied to the world's best for cancer MD Anderson but they are not a charity hospital.
Dwayne has a stay at home wife and a set of twins that he need to take care of so he wants to get back to work as soon as he can. He does not qualify for disability now.
Dwayne loves his family and friends and would love to hear from you. Please send any get well wishes to Dwayne and Shevawn's home address.
If you want to send a check by mail please send checks to attention:
Shevawn Fletcher
15449 S 1st St
Scurry, TX 75158
All your generous contributions, thoughts and prayers are deeply appreciated!!
Thank you all SO Much!! - Dwayne and Shevawn, Henry and Fletcher Families.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Me with me part 9 1-23-12
Me- Good morning
J- To you too. Although it’s 1:04. But it’s morning somewhere right.
Me- What’s up today?
J- At work right now. It’s peaceful today as usual. Work is pleasurable. It’s raining today. The kinda rain I like.
Me- So again, what’s up today?
J- Um, I have a deadline to submit an article for an online magazine.
Me- Article about what?
J- How I became a poet.
Me- Did you choose the topic?
J- Nope. But it’s cool. An exercise for me to put on paper the question folks have asked me for years.
Me- So how did you become a poet?
J- Um…
Me- And stop saying “um.”
J- Well, I guess answering why is probably easier than how.
Me- Ok, so why?
J- Pushy pushy. But anyway, poetry was and has been for a very long time the most powerful way for me to use my voice. I have used poetry to love and get it out and protect and defend. Used poetry to remember and remind, to build and tear down bridges.
Me- Give me some examples.
J- Of what?
Me- Of say bridges you’ve torn down and built. What did you need to remember? How did you use poetry to love and what were you holding inside that you got out through poetry? You know, be specific. Isn’t that what you’re always saying in workshops?
J- Good one. Let’s see if I can answer all of the questions.
Me- Well you brought it up, not me.
J- Ok then, one by one. How have I used poetry to love? I gathered up my passion and put it in a ball and took it apart and used words to put it back together. Used words like thread to weave meaning into what I’m saying when I say “I love you.” Used words and poetry to describe the feeling of falling out of hope with folks I have loved.
Me- Ok, and you said you used poetry to “get it out”?
J- Get out the noise in my head. Sometimes I do exercises called freewriting where I jot down the feelings I have inside without trying to make too much sense of them. I write and write and write and think later. Then I go back and look and see that the feelings and thoughts weren’t so jumbled after all. That they just needed to be outside of me so I could see them clearly. Sort of like when you go try on an outfit in the dressing room and you can’t get a good sense of how you look just looking down at yourself and so you step outside and check yourself out in the mirrors.
(We giggle.)
Me- And then you judge yourself for having too much here and not enough there.
J- Exactly.
Me- What have you used poetry to remember?
J- Well the remembering comes out in the freewriting. When I let myself flow things come up I didn’t know were there. Or at least didn’t want to acknowledge where there.
Me- Like what?
J- Stuff. For now just accept that. Gotta go for now. More later ok?
Me- K.
J- To you too. Although it’s 1:04. But it’s morning somewhere right.
Me- What’s up today?
J- At work right now. It’s peaceful today as usual. Work is pleasurable. It’s raining today. The kinda rain I like.
Me- So again, what’s up today?
J- Um, I have a deadline to submit an article for an online magazine.
Me- Article about what?
J- How I became a poet.
Me- Did you choose the topic?
J- Nope. But it’s cool. An exercise for me to put on paper the question folks have asked me for years.
Me- So how did you become a poet?
J- Um…
Me- And stop saying “um.”
J- Well, I guess answering why is probably easier than how.
Me- Ok, so why?
J- Pushy pushy. But anyway, poetry was and has been for a very long time the most powerful way for me to use my voice. I have used poetry to love and get it out and protect and defend. Used poetry to remember and remind, to build and tear down bridges.
Me- Give me some examples.
J- Of what?
Me- Of say bridges you’ve torn down and built. What did you need to remember? How did you use poetry to love and what were you holding inside that you got out through poetry? You know, be specific. Isn’t that what you’re always saying in workshops?
J- Good one. Let’s see if I can answer all of the questions.
Me- Well you brought it up, not me.
J- Ok then, one by one. How have I used poetry to love? I gathered up my passion and put it in a ball and took it apart and used words to put it back together. Used words like thread to weave meaning into what I’m saying when I say “I love you.” Used words and poetry to describe the feeling of falling out of hope with folks I have loved.
Me- Ok, and you said you used poetry to “get it out”?
J- Get out the noise in my head. Sometimes I do exercises called freewriting where I jot down the feelings I have inside without trying to make too much sense of them. I write and write and write and think later. Then I go back and look and see that the feelings and thoughts weren’t so jumbled after all. That they just needed to be outside of me so I could see them clearly. Sort of like when you go try on an outfit in the dressing room and you can’t get a good sense of how you look just looking down at yourself and so you step outside and check yourself out in the mirrors.
(We giggle.)
Me- And then you judge yourself for having too much here and not enough there.
J- Exactly.
Me- What have you used poetry to remember?
J- Well the remembering comes out in the freewriting. When I let myself flow things come up I didn’t know were there. Or at least didn’t want to acknowledge where there.
Me- Like what?
J- Stuff. For now just accept that. Gotta go for now. More later ok?
Me- K.
Me with Lynette 8-23-11
So how do I introduce Lynette to you? I guess this isn’t really an introduction because I mentioned her several times on this blog. We have known each other for about fifteen years. We met when I had a recording session with her producer boyfriend (now ex beau). After the session she cooked for the crew and she and I laughed and have been encouraging each other and making each other laugh since then. Our boys are also about the same age. Actually her twins would have been born the same month had they not come a month early.
Right now I am with Clara. For more information on Clara, read previous blog entries. Right now Clara is occupied putting her makeup on and things are pretty quiet around here so I thought I’d get as much of this interview (conversation) done as possible. I called Lynette about five minutes ago but she was busy with lunch and we agreed that her turkey burger need not be included in this session so let’s see if / when she calls back.
5:30p
L: (By text) Is this a good time?
J: (By text) I’m sleepy now.
Right now I am with Clara. For more information on Clara, read previous blog entries. Right now Clara is occupied putting her makeup on and things are pretty quiet around here so I thought I’d get as much of this interview (conversation) done as possible. I called Lynette about five minutes ago but she was busy with lunch and we agreed that her turkey burger need not be included in this session so let’s see if / when she calls back.
5:30p
L: (By text) Is this a good time?
J: (By text) I’m sleepy now.
Me with Val part 2 8-10-11
V: I've been reading your blog.
J: Yeah?
V: Sure.
J: Well, you know, in case they wanna tell my story at least they can get it right.
V: Pst. Please...they ain gon git it right anyway. The most you can hope for is that they tell it well.
We laugh.
J: Yeah?
V: Sure.
J: Well, you know, in case they wanna tell my story at least they can get it right.
V: Pst. Please...they ain gon git it right anyway. The most you can hope for is that they tell it well.
We laugh.
Me with me part 8 4-14-11
* Another Wednesday.
J* Yep.
* You ok?
J* Yeah, I love Wednesdays.
* Because...
J* Still seeing the therapist on Wednesdays. Sorting out stuff. Looking at my patterns. Laughing at myself. After that I go to the Stage for poetry. I'm open on Wednesdays.
* Open?
J* Feeling everything. One minute I'm laughing the very next I'm crying.
* Crying about what?
J* Pshssshh, who knows? Tonight Michael was reading a poem about the Palestinians and I wanted to just cry and not stop. I didn't, but inside, I did.
* Why? I mean I know things are bad over there but what exactly triggered the (inside) crying?
J* Ummm, I was feeling a little upset because I was supposed to be picking up a check tonight that I found out wasn't ready and I had to wait and when he was reading his piece I thought about how silly I was being. Well, maybe not silly because I do want my money, but I thought about how...light my having to wait another day for a check was compared to being afraid for your life every minute.
* Make sense but you can't compare everything to that because somebody somewhere is afraid for their life and whatever issue you have is still an important issue. You know? Just because it doesn't weigh much to life and death...You understand what I'm trying to say?
J* I do. Just, in the moment I took myself out of myself and got into someone else's world.
* Got it. So, what new opened up in therapy?
J* A breakthrough today.
* Really?
J* Yeah, I won't share everything on this page but I traced back to when I became such a caregiver. You know, everybody's feelings over mine. Me being a sucker for everybody's tears. Everybody's wounds. And not taking care of myself. Not taking care of myself to the point of feeling guilty the few moments I did take care of myself. I'm seeing myself transitioning though. Loving me more. It's one thing to say you love yourself and it's something else to act like it. I can tell I'm loving me now.
* How?
J* Valuing my space. Acknowledging the energy I can and cannot hold. I was always so afraid of being the bad guy. I was a good girl growing up. But I was only good because I was afraid of taking risks and expressing myself. Good girls did what they were told. And so I did. And that cost me.
*Cost what?
J* Cost me my self expression. Cost me my voice. Cost me intimacy in some cases.
* Say more about that. The intimacy.
J* I am such a creative spirit and always have been. I see things differently from a lot of folks. I know that. When I was with people I didn't feel comfortable expressing myself with I pulled back. Silently, but surely. I would listen and smile and be good girl, but I knew that there was only so much I was going to give.
* And now?
J* Still now in some ways. I'm much more vocal now and can express myself much better and am a little less concerned about being the bad guy as much as I'm concerned about happiness, safety, love, peace.
* You feel at peace?
J* For the most part. I get anxious about things I can't control but I keep reminding myself that God sees, knows and can handle everything.
* Does that help? Knowing that?
J* Ummm, it does. Staying connected to Source takes focus. Constant focus. Sometimes I lose it.
* And then?
J* And then I have to remember to remember.
* Get some rest.
J* Love you.
* Big hugs.
J* Yep.
* You ok?
J* Yeah, I love Wednesdays.
* Because...
J* Still seeing the therapist on Wednesdays. Sorting out stuff. Looking at my patterns. Laughing at myself. After that I go to the Stage for poetry. I'm open on Wednesdays.
* Open?
J* Feeling everything. One minute I'm laughing the very next I'm crying.
* Crying about what?
J* Pshssshh, who knows? Tonight Michael was reading a poem about the Palestinians and I wanted to just cry and not stop. I didn't, but inside, I did.
* Why? I mean I know things are bad over there but what exactly triggered the (inside) crying?
J* Ummm, I was feeling a little upset because I was supposed to be picking up a check tonight that I found out wasn't ready and I had to wait and when he was reading his piece I thought about how silly I was being. Well, maybe not silly because I do want my money, but I thought about how...light my having to wait another day for a check was compared to being afraid for your life every minute.
* Make sense but you can't compare everything to that because somebody somewhere is afraid for their life and whatever issue you have is still an important issue. You know? Just because it doesn't weigh much to life and death...You understand what I'm trying to say?
J* I do. Just, in the moment I took myself out of myself and got into someone else's world.
* Got it. So, what new opened up in therapy?
J* A breakthrough today.
* Really?
J* Yeah, I won't share everything on this page but I traced back to when I became such a caregiver. You know, everybody's feelings over mine. Me being a sucker for everybody's tears. Everybody's wounds. And not taking care of myself. Not taking care of myself to the point of feeling guilty the few moments I did take care of myself. I'm seeing myself transitioning though. Loving me more. It's one thing to say you love yourself and it's something else to act like it. I can tell I'm loving me now.
* How?
J* Valuing my space. Acknowledging the energy I can and cannot hold. I was always so afraid of being the bad guy. I was a good girl growing up. But I was only good because I was afraid of taking risks and expressing myself. Good girls did what they were told. And so I did. And that cost me.
*Cost what?
J* Cost me my self expression. Cost me my voice. Cost me intimacy in some cases.
* Say more about that. The intimacy.
J* I am such a creative spirit and always have been. I see things differently from a lot of folks. I know that. When I was with people I didn't feel comfortable expressing myself with I pulled back. Silently, but surely. I would listen and smile and be good girl, but I knew that there was only so much I was going to give.
* And now?
J* Still now in some ways. I'm much more vocal now and can express myself much better and am a little less concerned about being the bad guy as much as I'm concerned about happiness, safety, love, peace.
* You feel at peace?
J* For the most part. I get anxious about things I can't control but I keep reminding myself that God sees, knows and can handle everything.
* Does that help? Knowing that?
J* Ummm, it does. Staying connected to Source takes focus. Constant focus. Sometimes I lose it.
* And then?
J* And then I have to remember to remember.
* Get some rest.
J* Love you.
* Big hugs.
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