Updated: 24 minutes ago
The cognitive dissonance.
The splitting of the mind.
Started at youth.
It started at 5 when I was accused of witchcraft for teaching myself how to read and write when my caretakers refused to enroll me in public school.
The weight of my pen gained 5 pounds.
It started at 9 when I was told I was to blame for tearing the family apart when I expressed my truth in my own journal.
The weight of my pen gained 9 pounds.
It started at 10 when I was accused of being a homewrecker for writing my truth of abuse in my own journal.
A red music notebook Young Fola toted with her. Kept close to her chest. Everywhere she went meant for no one's eyes but her own.
The weight of my pen gained 10 more pounds.
It bludgeoned on at 19.
When my writings in a letter to join a sisterhood denoting pride in my full Nigerian name, culture and influence against all odds was ridiculed.
Only for it to be celebrated over a decade later.
Because Muva Beyonce said so.
The weight of my pen gained 19 pounds.
It continued at 27.
When I felt pressured to pen a speech and speak at the funeral of a Nice Guy who molested me.
The weight of my pen gained 27 more pounds.
It rolled on at 33 when my own blood criticized my lens of my positive story of triumph in traveling in spite of so much, only sharing the tip of my Iceberg narrative, because I supposedly perpetuated innocence on Travel Noire that didn't exist.
Taken as negative due to their rightful bitterness.
"Your parents weren't perfect. They were 'criminals'. Why don't you write the whole story?"
The weight of my pen gained 33 pounds.
It peaked at 34.
Reflecting on the same medium that gave me liberation being used again to maim me when I found notes of blackmail and cryptic placement of my own things in the apartment I resided in after summer vacation.
My journals I used as a relief to the weight of my experiences, the weight of my mistakes and the weight of the world…
Laced with threats.
My pen weaponized against me to protect illusions that don't matter in the long run. The perpetrators helping me figure out "who dunnit" as a loose life analogy to when the person who stole your things helps you look for them.
The weight of my pen gained 34 pounds.
Constant root chakra violations.
The foundation of the Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.
Cracked brick by brick.
Wondering where in this World can I feel safe?
The resolve I received later in life reading Audre Lorde's revelation that our silence will not protect us.
My moves seen as bravery stemming from the harsh realization that I have been violated at "home" and "abroad".
So, I gain the might in my "minuswhale" in moving how I want while I can because there is no such thing as a permanent safe space for BW ("Black Women") in this lifetime.
Not yet anyway.
Make no mistake.
This is not being shared to feign myself in the image of a victim.
Sharing the dark while living my imperfect truth is my personal power flex.
My past is not a residence.
It's a reflective reference point of resolve.
Keep your pity.
Keep your small violins.
Why is Vengeance not mine but the Lord's when I am the one who suffered through it?
I wanted retribution and I WANTED IT NOW.
Penned from a Black Woman to Black Women.
Under a Pisces Full Moon.
Black women who have played martyr and suffered in silence.
To save face.
To save family names.
To save finances.
To save homes.
To save tenure.
Read the following aloud and say it with your chest:
"FUCK THEIR LEGACY".
Point at the perpetrator ("without and/or within") with two fingers and recite The Color Purple Celie Curse out loud if you dare.
If you don't, I understand.
We toggle between wanting to let it all go while leaving the past in the past and live in the forest as a fairy who packs light...
And between going scorched earth and flipping every space and place that had a hand in our experiences of muted malice.
Choosing to speak and write in the light.
Pardon my Pen's inconsistency while repeatedly pushing up after a reoccurring rolling snowball of setbacks.
With the privacy of my private writings' rug pulled from under it SO many times.
Hiding my pen only for it to be exposed AGAIN AND AGAIN.
Why not shed all the weight of my pen?
My rage has a place and proper channel in this world.
Like King David penning his frustrations in The Book of Psalms.
While I embrace all of my Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine energy.
My rage has a place just like my peace.
My rage has a place.
David's cognitive dissonance of loving God while wanting to FUCK his enemies LEGACY to smithereens.
Maybe my truth will bypass The Algorithm, the Data Mining and the SEO.
A black woman's double heartbreak of when your overseers, slave drivers and abusers are not just melanin deprived, but are also of the same home, same hue, same tribe, same gender, same language and/or same dialect?
“The most disrespected person in [the World] is the black woman. The most unprotected person in [the World] is the black woman. The most neglected person in [the World] is the black woman.”
When I was at the peak of my traveling to and fro in the Eastern Hemisphere, in places where I was seemingly respected as a tourist, I wondered if they respected all of who I was or if they respected my capital and my passport.
The cognitive dissonance.
The splitting of the mind.
In having loyalty to a belief system.
Pride in one's culture.
Devotion to one's country,
Elevation of one's features and skin.
While suffering at the hands of those who believe the same.
Who culture the same.
Who look the same.
Who carry the same.
Is my mind unwell or is society's?
Unwell cultures, superstitions and traditions that constantly fumble the ball of young extraordinarily gifted children of a darker hue forced to make colors and shine out of a hard life of melanchonlic shades of grey.
Children...inner children…. who deserve(d) so much more.
I no longer ascribe to the "history" written by the pen of the savage victors who are propped up on pedestals of Family & Heroism throughout the Upside Down of Gaslit Academia & Family Tales.
I would rather align with the silenced.
The oppressed who keep growing through the concrete cracks toward the Sun.
As a Rose of Sharon.
Sharon (hebrew): a plain or a level place
I refuse to keep your Peace in silence at the expense of mine.
With a bloody lip, crooked smile and drooping eyes, I pick up the pen as a sWordsmith again.
Like a Dora, I will continue to explore.
Explore my Universe within and the Universe with out.
Today, I have a Devil May Care attitude.
Tomorrow, I might care.
Such is Life living in emotional freedom.
When you have so much light you push through many shadows.
Share your dark truth while standing in the light.
It's freer over here.
It's realer over here.