Yo Girl’s Bloggin’

 . . . But I have a good excuse.

The neighbors moved and they took their Internet with them.

Actually, that’s kind of a lie. I got busy, tired, and then procrastinated.

My bad. I will fix it.  In fact, I will turn over a new leaf.  What exactly does that mean???

Whew.

So I did it. I was wondering when or what would be the catalyst. But  there wasn’t much to it.  I started craving fried chicken.  I actually walked in my cute Jessica Simpsons 5 blocks to the grocery store deli. (I was debating what restaurant had quality, non-drugged up chicken and the market seemed like the best alternative.)  The whole thing took over an hour. But alas, I finally got home and promptly put the bird pieces in the oven.   They didn’t look to crispy and, honestly, I was afraid  of potentially pink pieces so a little extra heat soothed my nerves.  As luck would have it, I snacked on the bread and potato salad that came with the meal and so I didn’t have the stomach space to enjoy the fried bird with Siracha and ketchup.

It didn’t matter.  It feels good to know that I’m just a little less afraid of chicken. (The grilled and Chinese variety is still not my friend.)

After sleep, awaken. After darness, light. After eons of dutiful production, the time to imagine has come. We stand at a precipice from which we break from the chains of history. Where we go is entirely up to us.

In my next breath, an enormous weight was lifted and the small whisper, “I’m more than a conqueror,” became a proclamation as I readied myself for the SFWAR’s 4th Annual Walk Against Rape.

You see just six hours before, I developed a headache that forced prostration and darkness. As I massaged my forehead, a pit of pressure developed in my chest that made it difficult to breathe and, like an anchor, pulled taut the muscles of my shoulders and yanked my spirit down, down, down and further down into a dark lonely place where only sobs dared to bubble forth. As the tears, headache and chest pain took charge over me, I heard myself wail, “I don’t want to go.”

It was true. After all of the pestering and begging, I did not want to go to the Walk Against Rape.

A few hours earlier I struggled to counter my hairdresser’s adamant position that I should “leave the marching to white girls because other people got jobs and things to do.” I struggled to stay positive about falling short of my fundraising goal. I struggled to feel excitement over my special “Walk Against Rape” sneakers. And I also struggled to disregard my friend’s sudden loss of memory regarding his commitment to walk with me. None of these those small struggles, however, could detract away from the thinly veiled terror of TELLING. To walk down the street in broad daylight as a participant was essentially telling the world I was raped.

As you read in the preceding paragraph the thought made me ill.

You see, my uncle never told me not to tell. I guess, he figured I knew the rules. And he was right, I did. But my friend’s brother? Well, he was different. In fact, I still remember his words: And don’t say I raped you.

I can’t really explain how the smallest act of telling contributes to this visceral liberation. However, silence is just as passionate. It’s strong. It’s oppressive. It‘s masochistic. And on Friday night, the desire to hold silence close had me hurting from the inside out.

(Sigh)

If you are reading this  please know that I wrote all of this to say, thank you. Thank you for donating and leaving notes of encouragement on my fundraising page. Thank you for responding with kindness to my early morning text. Thank you for the verbal affirmations. Thank you for being on my fundraising team. Thank you for telling others. Thank you for following up. Thank you for being a support system. Thank you for acknowledging my act of telling.

You are the reason I was able to get out of bed Saturday morning.

the [whoa]man
I persistently tried to be
became such a burden
that I cut [her] loose.