SuperAuntie Isn't So Super, After All.
Three little girls. Two little boys. They have a few things that correlate. They are cousins, born to 2nd generation Jamaican parents. The main correlation, they call me SuperAuntie. I wear my cape for them at all times. Even through the 18-hour work days, sickness, missed birthday parties, etc. They continue to believe I'm great. Thank God for the innocence of a child. I don't know what I would do if they knew the truth.
I stopped dealing with my anxiety.
I stopped dealing with my depression.
I stopped showing up to my therapy appointments,
I stopped take my medication.
I stopped believing good things can happen to me.
Their parents have no idea. My siblings, we aren't close. My parents, love them, but this isn't something that can be "prayed away." Mostly my fault, because I'm skilled in building a wall greater than the one in China. Letting people in is an anomaly. Anyone who gets through the wall ends up being destroyed. By a warrior who, in reality, is weaker than a torn ACL. My friends, they have some idea, but I don't bother telling them more than I need to. Who needs a black Debbie Downer? Why am I this way?
Maybe because my "dad" preferred to stay with his wife after cheating on her with my mother.
Maybe because I don't attend family functions knowing my attacker will be there sitting with everyone laughing, with them not knowing he ruined a 12 yr-old's life for three years.
Maybe it was my alcoholism.
Maybe it's the reoccurring dream of me driving into my neighborhood lake and no one around to save me.
Yes, this is heavy, but it's also my reality. My early 20s were a scene from Sing About Me...the death in question...my soul. Void of any feeling of remorse for anything I'd done.
I ruined relationships.
I ruined opportunities.
I burned every bridge possible.
I ruined good people.
I, in turn, continued to ruin myself.
I was broken.
"I should've kept the baby. But then who would protect her from the evil of the world? Who would ensure she would never be raped and abused like her mother was?"
A part of me still is.
Sitting in a room, Indian style on the floor, just you and the bottle. A set of keys. A phone with a note. The fifth is finished. The pill capsule is empty. Are you getting in the car? Is this the final ride? Is this how you end it all? The final selfish act, do you go through with it?
When Riv came to me with this idea to write about our journey, I instantly said yes. It's time. It's time to tell. It's time to reflect. It's time to recollect. It's time to rebuild. It's time to rejoice.
Breakthrough.
Someone is going to read this; because pieces of it will be her story too. It will resonate with her, and she will realize she isn't alone.
I pray whoever this reaches to, you CAN make it. You WILL make it. Because God never left, even in the darkest hour.
It's going to get better because I say so.
Come away with me, follow my struggles and help me celebrate in my triumphs.
We gon' be alright.
Peace,
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