Your Turn

Photo by Lukáš Rychvalský.

It’s been a few weeks the last time I wrote.

I found myself hiding from the all the emotions that were coming to the surface, because — therapy.

While it’s an amazing thing, when you have the right therapist. Esp when you are a therapist and you know all the ins and outs and hows and why’s. It’s easy to jump all the hurdles and throw land mines into progress.

Talking about all the things and nothing at all. I found myself almost numb to the journey that has been my life for the past 4 years.

Recently, I started this thing. It’s a small thing, no big deal type of thing. An organization that creates space for people like me. For those who felt alone and just needed — somebody.

Not just anyone, but someone who understood, who understands, who can validate that what I went through, what I am going through is my truth and it’s real.

As this organization gets up, I have to continue to tell my story. But the abridged version as I’ve learned that when I tell with details it’s too much for people to bear and it often becomes a burden. As I am now working with a PR firm they did the research and came back to me and said it’s time.

It’s time to tell your story.

Immediately my heart started racing, my body had small twitches, my memories flooded me to the point where I struggled to speak. When I asked, which version?

They said, “the one you went through, don’t sugar coat it, it’s no longer yours to hold as a burden”

The question that lingers is, they came after me before wanting to kill me. Letting me know that no matter where I went they would follow, broadcast my whereabouts, what if they actually succeed in catching me?

Pacing the living room, the cats come closer every time I pass the kitchen. Probably in the hopes that maybe I’ll stop doing laps and give them treats, cause treats make the world go round.

An email comes through. Its a note from the PR firm.

The subject line reads: Your Story

Fuck this is really happening. I have been asking for years for people to hear the hell that I lived and went through. The damage it has done to me, my life, my career. To talk about the times when people threatened my life, pointed guns in my face, when dead animals were left as warnings, when I was told it was no big deal cause after all do Black Lives really matter?

My silence has not protected me.

My courage could possibly heal me.

My voice might actually be heard.

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