vulnerability

“At the time, the whispers to keep silent and appear normal were deafening. And so we did. There is no blame here. We were just trying to survive.” — Tarana Burke

Webster defines vulnerability as “capable of being physically or emotionally wounded”. However, I have a different take on the word. It’s when you are at your lowest and someone sees that with no shame. At first, I wasn’t always the biggest crier and I only cried if things affected me. If I did, I would close the door to my room and do it in secret. The women of my family were just like men, not the people to go when it comes to difficult moments. They will use those moments against you in an argument. They will throw your lowest moments in your face and no sympathy for those who battle illnesses. Depression didn’t start until the 8th Grade. A year before, an image I’ve repressed since I was 3 had popped up. I had to lie and tell my mama that I am okay. I was wondering why those last days at Phoenix, I had those random outbursts of anger and crying spells. The kids were trying to be nice, sort of, but I refused to fall for it as they were my worst enemies since the 2nd Grade. The more I told about how the kids insulted me, the less teachers and my mother wanted to hear me. I guess, it was their way of telling me my emotions were no longer valid. For a kid fighting tears, it became easier to stop being a “crybaby”. High school made it worse for a kid who was battling body issues and beauty standards. The times I stood up for myself, I was punished or I was painted to be the bad guy. After 11th Grade, I gave up on humans and only had three best friends. If I cried about something that affects me, I would hide it and turn to the journal. I could bare my soul without shame. The only thing with journaling is I had to hide it away or my mother would read it. She would mock me to family or her friends. I felt so ashamed for having the saddest emotions. The more I hid, the more angry I was because I barely had anyone I could talk to until college. I didn’t know there was a term for those random outbursts until later in life. The times I was wylin’, I didn’t understand why I was acting that way.  Sophomore year, I was heard but still called “attention seeking”. I received a diagnosis of anxiety and depression, but my mother only put me in the treatment center to keep me quiet. She didn’t care to hear me and she still doesn’t. I gave up trying with her and my education was no longer a passion. I had my friends, but I didn’t want to burden them with my issues. I almost pushed them away, but it took them to call me out to understand that even I have flaws. I thank them a lot for helping me see my flaws and that I don’t have to be perfect. However, I hated that my mother wasn’t the person to go to with difficult stuff. She was a provider, but emotionally, I couldn’t depend on her, my aunt and my grandmother. I went to my great grandparents because they loved me for who I was and they understood me more than my own parents. When my great grandfather passed, I realized that he was the one of two that knew me. He didn’t judge me for being sensitive and soft. The moment I knew I couldn’t trust my softness with my sperm donor was early 2021. I had a feeling that he hated when I cried, but I never thought that I would hear from my own mother that he thought of me as weak. If he thought of me that way, who knows how he truly felt about me as his daughter? It was that point, I could not trust anyone with the times that I felt awful. Because of those insults, I was in fear of my tears and shadow. Since I was a kid, I was told that I had no reason to be sad or angry.

Instead of talking to others, I went to a page in my journal. I just sat down and wrote the feelings that were heavy on my chest. My soul was bare through black or red ink. Instead of letting my parents hear me, I created poems and stories. I read authors who were like me and who used writing to heal the painful wounds. There were times I thought I could strip away the strength. Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way that not everyone has genuine intentions. Sometimes, those people would be your own family. They will never understand that being naked is something we should be ashamed of. They will never understand that I can be sad for no reason. Sometimes, I wake up with a heavy heart out of nowhere. Some people need to understand that I need space to feel. I need the space to recover from a day of intensity and feeling lonely in my head. After a while, a lesson hit me. If I do speak on how I feel, make sure the person is in the right headspace. Make sure the person is listening and hearing me. If I show my true self, I hope the person I show it to does not look at me with shame, pity or judgment. Instead, they let me talk and be there for me. They let me cope in the best way possible, but help bring me out of those moments. The person lets me feel, but doesn’t let me be stuck in those feelings. There are times where I would be in my head and my thoughts would be ugly. I hope the person is there to let me say what is on my head. Sometimes, I cry while I speak because I would feel guilty for burdening the person.  But, the person hears me and lets me cry. They would wipe my tears and let me continue with speaking.

You can read more from Miss Karrine on her Substack.