Day 44: Outpour
Life. Life is hard. There is nothing compelling or unheard of in that statement but it’s just so undeniably true that for me it goes unacknowledged. I was raised to be resilient. My daddy and my daddy’s daddy and his before were blue collar. My granny worked in the plant for GM for 20 years. We pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, pray and keep on truckin. While I value the sentiment, the adaptation into my own life has worked to preserve me and divide me. I feel confident navigating life with a sense of invincibility because I understand that no matter what I won’t give up. However, rarely does that state of mind allow the space to just feel the weight of the world and then trail it with relief and confidence. Sometimes “it is what it is” but sometimes what it is, is hurtful, devastating, painful, difficult, suffocating and a myriad of other sensations. And thats okay.
Ancestrally, resilience had to be adapted—Had to. Even now you just won’t make it without being able to be strong. But is strength so limited that it has one definition? I’m embracing the strength of acknowledgment, the strength of vulnerability, the strength of transparency. Out of respect for the complexity of my very existence as human I will continue to grant myself the opportunity to feel— now, they don’t get to stay, all emotions come and go — if you let them. No matter the feeling its just passing through until next time. I have always felt bad for black men. To have so much value placed on your masculinity and then that be able to be compromised by the nature of your species, it must be hard. Who told you it wasn’t okay to cry? Let the healing water flow, they always dry up.
I hate when a man tells me to “stop crying”. Like no, fuck you. You’re not going to push that virulence on me. In recent times my father has told me to stop crying and it broke me even more because it only feels like assassination of my inner child. She’s the one who’s crying. I’m still her. I refuse to let her die. She’s my baby. If I kill her then who am I anymore? Thinking deeper about that I immediately can see how the reality of that mindset is a coping mechanism for having lost my mommy. I’m looking at her now— what parts of her remain. What parts could be scorched and returned to me in a little black box. Tonight I held that box and cried and cried and cried. I embraced it like she could feel the hug from beyond the realm. It was prompted out of stress and being overwhelmed. Which are usually the catalyst for my grief to resurface. Right now I am overwhelmed and worn out. My life is energy taxing. Having 60 kids to teach is exhausting. Not having a car is draining. Sleeping on an air mattress prevents my rest from being restorative. I am learning what and how to teach as I do it and the learning curve is steep. Shit skressful bruh. And it was all the perfect storm to release it all. The person that would have an answer for me rests in the confines of a box now. I’m sad at her for leaving me, although I understand the entire picture. Life is hard. It’s not a competition. No one goes without suffering, even the rich and white. How do I let the pain subside if I don’t let it release from my body? — Thank you D for stinng with em and giving me space to emote.
It’s grieving season for me. March 1st is 2 weeks aways. The day my granny said hello, and the day we all said goodbye. I miss her so much. But I trick myself into thinking I don’t, it’s how I stay afloat. Now is the time I sit in it, bask in the pain—knowing it can only cut me so deep now. I’ve built a callus of understanding. An understanding what what I do know and an understanding that that which I don’t I may never but I know who does. But the reality of not having a mommy still a gut-wrenching. Baby Morgan still cries out for her mommy. Adult Morgan still pours out for her mommy. We keep it pushin— but first, we cry.
