I believed most of my life that I lived a rather ideal life. I grew up in middle class suburbia but only 3 blocks from where it all fell apart. A relatively small quiet town better suited to be a remote island for retirees. Not that of a teenager or anyone enthused with the desire to experience life outside of synchronized mailbox greets and porches of glass milk. I often wonder why I never ran away! I always had this fire that burned inside of me knowing that I was meant to do more. That there was more to life than what laid at my feet.
My parental units. An average black married couple with dreams of wanting more than their parents were capable of providing for their children. Well, at least they appeared normal from the outside. But on the inside there were workings of suicidal thoughts, sexual immorality, unfulfilled dreams, broken hearts, and abusive behavior laced with disdain and contempt for the other ones ways. It almost brings me to tears to put these words on the canvas, but it’s my life and I just want to share a bit of reality with you. You know, a tablespoon of real-life outside of the perfectly composed squares and 140 characters thoughts. I will edit myself now and again because this is also a healing process for myself. I’m the kid who allows things to nest in the dark corners of my heart. Where for so long they festered into skin breaking wounds. So I’m trying to repair them before I fall into this place where not even light can reach and I seem to be nothing more than a shell of my former self.
It’s funny, for the longest time I thought. Why do people blog? What makes them believe that I or anyone else cares about what they have to say? Because we don’t. And as I’ve matured over time I’ve realized that I have something to say and maybe someone out there will understand how I feel, what I think and they’ll become engaged with more than words on a screen. I’m glad you’re here.