Impending Doom.

 Hey there beauties! Where was I?

I felt for a long time that I was in some sort of multiverse because ain't no way I am now apart of the motherless children group. I meannn, I was only 15 years old. How on earth was I going to live a motherless life? How would I manage? Because of this, I spent months (at first) thinking that this was a cruel prank and I was going to laugh at the end of it all. On a serious note, Neta (my mom) would never just die and leave me alone, that was not her style. 

My first collision with reality happened in April of 2019. I remember going home from school with some great news (that I cannot remember right now), that I was really excited to share with her. Let's back track a little: I always gave my mom a complete breakdown of my day, whether I went to school or to church. It really did not matter what happened during the day, we (my niece, my mom and I) would sit and share everything. Now that you understand that little detail, let's get back to the story. I was really excited to share this news so I hurried home from school to tell her all about it. When I got there, I was surprised that she wasn't there, but I blew it off and told myself that she would get home from work soon. I waited all evening and then I started getting irritated because where the hell was this woman? Night came and still no sign. At this point I was telling myself again and again: This is a joke, this is a joke....... this must be a joke.  When I was finally ready for bed, she was still not home and you know what I did? I cried. I bawled. This was my first cry after she died, almost 3 months after. I cried myself to sleep and I cried all night. That would have been the perfect, healthy start on my grief journey but I woke up the next day and just pretended like the previous day had not happened.

Now, years later, I sit with myself and look back at those years in regret. I wish I had cried. I wish I had screamed, shouted and tore off my clothes. I wish I had a reaction so scary that I had to get counselling or intervention. Crying after all these years feels a bit pointless cause what am I even crying about? 

That first pull back into the real world was not the first of many. Until recently, and I do mean very recently, I spent the past years just pretending that this was not my life; it could not be my life. As unhealthy as that sounds, it got me through the years. I'm not saying there weren't/ aren't days/ times that it wasn't painfully obvious that my mom was no longer here. Oh no, those were plenty: my birthday, her birthday, Christmas, Easter and anytime I have even one good thing going on in my life. On those days, I write. It balances out the pretense because my thoughts and feelings are real, but, after, it helps me get back into a mindset that life as I now know it isn't real. Over time, I began to realize that I could not write if I didn't feel and I started sharing exactly how I felt through poetry. Poetry became my safe space. 

And so my journey began: writing when I felt depressed and demotivated to live, dealing with suicidal thoughts and trying my best to keep going because my life depended on it, literally. 

Stay tuned for more.

And if you happen to read this, answer this question:

QOTD: Poetry is my safe space. What is yours?