November 29, 2015
I have known many people. Their presences’ have entered and exited my life as vapors in wind; appearing with distinction and then disseminating in an instant. Some only ever but a shadow on the edge of my periphery. Some squeaky wheels. Some silent. Some scars. Some beauty marks. All real, all important— if only for a moment.
In this moment I have two pillars. And without them I would feel
They are my church. They are my home. Without them I would be alone.
Thank you Yinka and Merritt for hearing my voice and acknowledging my voice. Because of you both, I know that I matter.
“Give it to God. Pray about it. Have faith.”
These are the sentiments I repeat in my mind as I writhe in tears. My darkness and worthlessness emphasized by the fact that the only space in the world I can call my own is the unfinished basement of my father’s dream house. Styrofoam and cement. Insulation and wires. Cold and alone. An empty shell in an empty shell. No one should ever have to feel this way.
I fling about, wrangling my woes and attempting to confine them to the pandora’s box of my unconscious mind. Where they can’t hurt me anymore. And why should it ever be reopened?
family, church, savior — where are they now? Where are they when I need them? I just want someone to care. I just want someone to know. I just want an extra pair of arms to help me carry my secret. It’s too heavy for one person.
Headlights shown in the tiny window, followed by a rap at the door, then an entry. Lacey’s voice. My Family, My Church, My Savior — if only for a time. But never without my gratitude.
It has been a year since it all happened. And it’s time to tell my story.