In my last post, I talked about how I trapped the momma in me in a box, so she could never hurt anyone the way I was hurt.
What I didn’t tell you is that I wrapped that box in chains and buried it at the bottom of the sea.
Where no one would find her …
Where she couldn’t hurt anyone.
I never expected anyone to let her out.
But now that she’s free, I am forced to think about her.
And when I think about her, I think about my parents.
If Daddy had stayed, how might my life be different now?
If Momma hadn’t hurt me, how might my life be different now?
Now hear me—I don’t blame either of them, for anything.
They’ll never know the impact of their actions on my life. It’s not theirs to carry. That’s between me and God.
I know Momma didn’t mean to do the things she did to me. I know she wasn’t well. And when you know someone isn’t well, how can you possibly hold her to the same standard as someone who is?
Do you see what I’m saying?
It wouldn’t be fair. It would be like being mad at a kleptomaniac for stealing.
So I don’t begrudge Momma. I don’t begrudge her wounds. I don’t begrudge her walk. I don’t.
It’s taken me 30 years to understand her as a human being … as a woman … and as a mom.
Same goes for my father. I never met him. I don’t know him. I don’t know exactly why he left, but I don’t need to.
He stood for my life before I was born. So he loved me.
I feel like God gave me the mother and father He did to make me exactly who I am. So, I don’t hold it heavy with my parents.
I have compassion for my Momma, because I know that life turned her into who she is. She didn’t come out the womb the Momma she is. Life turned her into that, and she didn’t have a Nanna to save her.
Our parents didn’t have what we have, yet we want to hold them to some shit. They didn’t have Dr. Phil; they didn’t have Oprah. They didn’t have none of that. They didn’t have self-help, or YouTube, or Facebook, or inspirational quotes. They didn’t have none of that. They had whips and dogs and water hoses.
So I cut them some slack. Consciously.
I’ll never know how my life might be different, if my parents had been different. And that’s okay.
I’ll never know what it’s like to carry life in my body, either.
There’s a part of me now that just doesn’t care. About anything. Anymore.
I don’t know how to explain it. I’m not “upset,” really.
It’s more like despondence or apathy.
Maybe it’s because I come from hustlers—from the street. And we are not regular.
No, we are not regular.
All I know for sure in this moment is that I don’t want anything.
And because of that, there is nothing.
At least for now.