When I was a pre-teen, my mom’s man at the time sat me down after my passive suicide attempt with some pills. I had gotten sick, but didn’t need a medical intervention. Still, I got in trouble for it. Of course. It was a terrifying time. He was like a father to me, having been my advocate many times over, standing up for me, buying me shit. He also proudly abused my mom and had enlisted me in their cycle at times. He had a mix of helpful and outlandish advice, but I was ready for his comfort and the wisdom because I was hurting bad. After all, moms had summoned him to help because she rarely did. By then I had been hospitalized for gastrointestinal problems, would run away and was engaging in risky behavior to be down. I was hurting.
This nigga told me, “Shameeka, there’s no point in doing this. Killing yourself. People will mourn you for a day, maybe even a week and then they’ll go back to their lives.” He said other shit, but I dissociated after that. By that point in my life I had learned I didn’t matter. So this was just reinforcement. Now, it wasn’t true that I didn’t matter, but that’s what people showed me who loved me, whether I acted “badly” or not. That’s what I knew people felt about my mother, my father, so why not me? I mattered to this man so long as he could control me. But I wasn’t a little girl to him anymore. I was becoming a woman and he hated us.
Today, I still struggle with people telling me I’m too much or not enough. Because they think that shit’s still cool to say. But I know that nigga was lying and everyone else who couldn’t hold this big little girl. Everyone today who can’t look themselves in a mirror, but wanna tell me about me. So whether through my rage or compassion, the gifts I share with the world, the gifts I receive from it, I know my fucking worth and live my life as much as I can in that truth. And like him, fuck the niggas who can’t or won’t let me be.
As above, so below.