Feast or Famine

I’m in the lull now. In the famine, it’s very quiet in my world. I don’t get a whole lot of attention. Stuff is really borderline depressing. I imagine my feast will be next week when I have sensory overload of people calling my name. It’ll be regional conference and I KNOW I’m going to be pulling my hair out. But it’s that much closer to actually being over and I’m excited about that. I have a slight rush of epinephrine in my system right now because I just checked a bunch of stuff that I’ve been “meaning to do” off my list. It’s nice that our bodies can react to such minuscule things with such euphoria.

In other news, since I wasn’t updating this too often… I heard from Cary the other day. And suffice to say that nothing about him seems to have changed. He made an in to talk to me, and when I responded, he basically shoo-ed me away to take care of other stuff. BUT… what’s different now is that I just plain don’t care or hurt at that anymore. I pressed on the scar and it was healed and well. Just a mark that’s there to remind me not to do those things to hurt myself anymore. Seems like he’s doing well.

My sweet baby leaves for Texas in the am. I miss him already. I’m so afraid to take risks these days. I don’t want to risk losing him. I’ve properly inherited my mom’s natural state of constant worry. Funny thing too… the other day, while she was sitting, worrying about my dad and his whereabouts… I caught her biting her thumbs. Funny that I never really noticed till now. But her fingers aren’t mutated because of it. So apparently, I am worrying more. I’ll get to a point one day when I stop driving myself crazy! I have to know that.

I’ve been listening peripherally to the Michael Jackson case… and I have to say that the more I listen, the less I can remain objective. I’ve never been an MJ nut. Like the kind that cries or passes out because he’s in the same state. But I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and there are just certain things that you hear that no matter how many years have passed, they still make you cringe. The whole… wine in a can and calling it “Jesus Juice” whether it’s true or not made my insides shrivel up on 2 fronts: one… on my staunchly catholic side and two… that he would incorporate God’s likeness or name in ANY way shape or form in the pursuit of what he was allegedly after. (Just as bad as Beenie man using a Christmas hymn as his mantra to rally folks to burn gay people) Of course all of these things are alleged… but the mere allegations are turning my stomach.

Unfortunately, the more women I talk to… specifically black women (whether African American or of Caribbean descent), the less rare this kind of occurrence is. It’s almost like… if you’re raised in a black family and you happen to be a female, you will cross this awkward, life altering threshold and not learn to fully deal with it till you’re grown out of sheer embarrassment thinking that you’re the anomaly. Needless to say, I’ve been more so inspired to write my abuse blog because of that unwillingness to discuss it aloud. I have nothing to be ashamed of… and I never did. I’m proud of how I’ve managed to deal with it. There is a bravery in how I handled the situation that I haven’t seen myself demonstrate in other areas in life. I was going to do it (write the blog) last year but too much was going on for me to even give it a thought. I’m having trouble thinking of a name for it. I thought I had one this morning, but it has escaped me. Maybe I’ll think of one soon.

But if I don’t lay down now… sleep is the next thing that will escape me…

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