Gotta Start Somewhere, Sometime

These last couple of years have been rough. My mom died, I began a rough and continuous divorce and child custody battle and I was in no shape to fight the good fight any longer. I was a bull shitter. Someone who believed she was so much more than her work and effort warranted her to be and was living a life of falsehood to mask all her inadequacies. And then 25 hit me. June 20th, 2018. After about a year of not having my child due to my own transgressions and her spiteful father, I had to wake up. Take ownership and realize where I REALLY was in life, and not where I wanted to be or where I pretended I was. On that day, I realized. It was my fault. My fault that I didn’t have my child, my fault that I wasn’t all that I had intended, my fault that my mother passed and now all of the unspoken words would haunt me. I had remained addicted to any oral fixation that allowed the neglect of truly seeing the role I played in my life. The most addicting state of all was victimhood. The ability to remove fault and blame from oneself by relinquishing full responsibility to whatever negative thing that had happened to me. It was my fault I was not healed and resolved. I was carrying a lot of emotional baggage. So much that kept me detached from everyone and everything. In what I thought was protection for them, it was really a justification for me to continue to hold on and be resentful to all that has hurt me. Again, remaining a victim. On that day enough was enough. I never hated a birthday so much. I wished I didn’t make it another year. Yet here I was, still in this hellhole that was my life. Alone and in pain. I was in therapy but I wasn’t committed so I might as well have been throwing money down the drain. Still holding on to my trauma and bitterness. "This can’t be my life," I thought. There has to be more than pain and suffering. I would kill to find joy, even though very little joy can be found in death. When you reach that point where you get sick and tired of being sick and tired and you look around in the empty pit of despair you have dug yourself into, you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. The only way out is to dig. The only direction toward peace and joy is up. Which means lots of healing, crying and analyzing. Oh and ownership! Can't forget ownership. It’s what must remain as your right hand through this time to allow you to be accountable and remember what you are doing it for. It seems like when you start to better your self, old habits really do die hard. Like them bitches REFUSE to die. They be like, “remember us? We were here for you when no one else was.” That's when you have to tell yourself. They were there because that’s where YOU were. If I want to elevate and reach higher ground, they can't come. I started taking the therapy; that I was paying for out of pocket, more seriously. I had someone really close to me constantly checking my ass; until I could check myself. I cried, a shit ton, I began the grieving process honestly, and I started doing the work to be a better person for myself, my mother (who didn’t get the chance to) and my daughter, who deserves the best this world has to offer in every form. I'm nowhere near finished, but I sure am a hell of a lot farther than where I was. I don’t even recognize the person I am sometimes. I'm stronger, gentler, a teeny bit more patient (that's a work in progress) and full of gratitude. Oh and I wrote a book! It's called Inside a Whore's Mind available everywhere *shameless plug.* Somehow through this process, I was able to speak and release my truth unapologetically. As this year begins I have vowed to continue to learn and love myself. To let go of everything that isn’t serving me; without fear and regret. I told myself we are not going to allow our mental illness to succumb us to settlement. I am going to live loud and in color and full of gratitude. Always remaining grateful for this life that is meant for living.