Last weekend I finally got to see Moonlight!
Moonlight was the beautiful nail that pierced the last bubble of my God goggles.
I wept in the dark watching the little boy, whose life had been fucked by his absent father and meth-addicted mother.
And on Friday I wept, because I’m nearly thirty-one and feel like that there are some days where I cannot look after myself.
When I compare myself to others.
There is no God. How could there possibly be?
I’m emotionally unstable, incapable of processing.
Children are born into loveless marriages where women settle and men swing their clubs before slithering off into another dimension.
There is no God.
My mother worked, in fact she worked her arse off, but who was she doing it for?
As soon as I was old enough, she demanded more money from me than I could afford, to teach me life skills I’d already known since the day my father walked out on us when I was ten years old and I became the second parent… My younger sister escaped this fate.
What I needed were the skills to survive, to be strong enough, to look after myself both mentally and physically, regardless of my disability.
I’m nearly thirty-one, and I feel like I let so many people down by asking for the things I need, because everybody else has them and I don’t, and they don’t see it as their responsibility to give it to me. They become frustrated at me and see me as burdensome.
I’m at a crossroads now, because I look back and see the remnants of my lost faith, my squalid childhood, battered adolescence, so many wasted years of attempted “adulting”.
Nobody taught us how, did they Little?
I shared a post on Facebook just yesterday called: Ten Things You Learn from Being Raised By A Strong Mother.
I shared the post because I was indirectly calling my mother out for being a weak one.
She failed me big time.
Some of you reading this will judge me. What kind of daughter bashes her own mother like this?
This one does.
A girl having to learn to live from scratch.
There is hope however.
This morning I woke up to a text message from a friend, going out of his way to help me with my work situation. I call him my “Socialist Dad”, but in all honesty he’s like the dad I never had: like Juan in Moonlight he offers me a safe haven, he looks after me, he teaches me to stand up for myself. He then called me to further encourage me.
I mentioned before that I was a crossroads: last night as I looked ahead I couldn’t see a future in my career. I’m disabled, I’m black and I’m a woman. All I see are three obstacles, whereas my “Socialist Dad” perceives three step ladders to my destination.
I still have years of poison ivy to untangle from my thinking, in order to see the path in the same way he does.
Maybe I will.