Tears, Self- Forgiveness, and Acceptance
I vividly recall waking up and experiencing a tornado storming within my mind causing a thick condensation of foggy thoughts. I breathe deep and inhale into my diaphragm; as I exhale, I attempt to push away the sensation of the surrounding walls closing in on me. I didn’t sleep very well, if at all. Rooted deeply is the feeling of unappreciation interconnected with depreciation. In my current state of anxiousness and overwhelm, my body’s basal temperature shifts and rises to a heat that expands and swells, ready to implode into feelings of resentment and anger. Ugh, why am I still not over this yet? There’s much to be done and only one me, so I tell myself I don’t have time to be in my feels on this day. Snap out of it and pull it together, black woman; the world expects you to place it upon your shoulders and gracefully bear its weight.
No matter how much I want to ball up my feelings and stuff them down into file thirteen, the anger, resentment, and disappointment that riddles my body wins, rendering me paralyzed under my covers as the floodgates lift. An ocean of tears begins to flow in waves from my eyelids. I cry, and I let out a heavy-hearted wail as the agony of nostalgia sets in. At this moment, I allow myself to blame and curse those who disproportionately expected me to bear the burden of their dead weight. There was no asking permission. There was no consideration of what was in my best interest. There was no regard for how their actions or lack thereof would affect me for years and years and years of my life. For two whole decades, I suffered, living in the intense, tumultuous energy of survival mode. I think to myself, why didn’t they consider me? Why didn’t they ask me what I needed? Why didn’t they support me? Why didn’t they teach me? Why didn’t they see me, recognize my pain of being left alone to clean up a mess I didn’t create, and look beyond themselves to understand that I needed them to play their position?
From birth, tumbleweeds entangled with a multitude of challenges continuously intruded, blew through, and stampeded my life non-stop, overtaking me as I failed to outrun them. I whimper to myself; why me?
As I continue to grapple with my emotions, it’s as if a switch is flipped, and a lightbulb of enlightenment sparks within me. I turn my thoughts within; after all, resentment is merely anger turned inward. Like an escalator, my thoughts slowly but surely elevate toward accountability, and I silently admit to myself why the tears are flowing. I am angry at myself for not trusting my inner voice and vision. I am angry at myself for allowing others to push me to question my reality. I am angry at myself for allowing others to make me their mule. I am angry at myself for allowing others to manipulate and guilt me into prioritizing their needs to the detriment of my own. I cry as the anger and resentment release from my deflating body like a shrinking balloon. I am angry at myself; I am angry, I am! Sirens of anger blare within my mind, and internally I scream — I am not guilty! I am not a mule! I am not the proverbial strong black woman! I am not born to carry the world’s weight on my shoulders! I continue to wail and ride the escalator of my emotions toward acceptance. I wearily yet willingly accept the truth of who I am.
I am a black woman that deserves to live a peaceful uncomplicated life! I am deserving of support! I and my feelings are worthy of consideration! I am doing my best, and that’s more than enough! I am! I cry, and I accept. I rise from my wet pillow and wipe the residual tears from my face. I take back my power, I choose how I wish to continue to relate to the disappointments of my past, and I decide to change the narrative of my story. I choose a different ending where I am the heroine, I swoop in like a thief in the night, and I save myself. The tears are no longer flowing. The storm is over, and I am proud!
I have come out unscathed on the other side of life’s former challenges. I didn’t give up, I didn’t fold, and I didn’t give in. I allowed, I flowed, and I withstood. On September 16th, 2022, I cried. I cried for what was. I cried for what wasn’t. I cried for what is no longer and so much more. I don’t need to get over the past. The memories are still there, yet, I am filled with gratitude as I am the epitome of strength, gracefulness, and fortitude. To my past, I pay tribute with the words of the talented Kendrick Lamar, “I pull up, hop out, air out, and make it look sexy!”
