Memoirs of The Hurt She Loves (excerpt)
Updated: Mar 3
The smoke-filmed designer shades that adorn our tempestuous faces and placid demeanors, conceal the perpetuated subconscious wars that wage within us. Wars against our conceptions of paradise and favor and the actuality of our oblivion, disavowal, and cruelty.
We leave insubstantial impressions in the sands of our time, allowing the stark winds of reason and consequence to blow our weightless history away. Haughtily oppressing logic and spiraling in precarious escape plots to obliterate the aging agony that has begun to overshadow our sunrises. A mind with revolving nightfall is a misery I would much rather like to elude. Sadly, I already feel its gloom narrowing.
I was uncertain of how destructive this path was until I began to run, fully absorbing the elements in each glide. I stare in the mirror on my way out and I see the professional and efficacious brown barbie version of whom I want to believe I am. But upon sunset, when I sit alone and reflect on my tragedies and infuriating life decisions, I see the poor jaded, and cracked-face porcelain doll who wants to be loved but was tossed into the junk pile of broken toys. I always heard that a child missing a loving father can do real damage to the psyche, but what about the kids missing a loving mother or both parents? What happens to them? I imagine we all end up in the same junk pile of broken children.
Cogitation seethed like vengeance onset of war. The cessation of romanticizing and personalizing ancestral bad habits, which have manifested into personal religions, persisted in my head. It was time to part ways but divorcing your unhealthy self is hard to do, especially when you have deemed the ugly appropriate and essential for existing.
Today’s conversation with my grandmother has me seriously reassessing the lyrics in my pitiful song about love and the act of, or rather the professing of the word being meaningless…, “Love is a word used to meaninglessly trap and deceive....” Perhaps the only meaningless act of loving another, is the meaningless act of not trying to, in addition to the cowardly act of not loving yourself enough to know that that mentality is flawed beyond recognition.
The cryptic frailties caused by the latter and our past and acrimonious present push people to conceal their truth and remain silent when their heart wishes to tell. These frailties we would rather deny than liberate all for the sake of sparing an ego with no wings. As my grandmother stated, “pain breeds pain,” and even for the most righteous of us with the best intentions, this equation is unavoidable.
I said earlier that relationships are dispiriting, and I guess they are when there is no balance within the one you have with yourself. Pain and a lack of identity keep us disillusioned and persecuted by an entity we never knew by name or saw coming, yet a thing we felt arrived and deeply resonated. A thing that shares our bloodline. Whether it is dating, childhood maltreatment, adult woes, sex or drug addictions, family tribulations, or an acute victim mindset, brick by brick it builds its home in our demise while we sit compliantly and lie in wait- in total obedience to its will.
Many dejected souls will continue to melodically sway down a road to nowhere. Nowhere leading to somewhere, somewhere making you wish you would rather be anywhere else but there. Evading the obvious, suffocating and sightless, disconnected, and spiritually blindfolded with unconfessed immoralities, mayhem, mental demons, and self-doubt- all of which overflow the muddied rivers of our life. Habitually attributing our gaping sicknesses and anguishes to God, even though, with insolence, we disregard the open doors to the remedy and wholeness He provides.
And, we continue down this generational unpaved road of ‘stuck,’ sciolistic and uninspired, pretending to be Kings and Queens in cracked glasshouses. Abashed, bombastic, and whistling illusory wins to the crowds. Hoping to convince of credibility and sanity during daylight, all the while, the worrying truth and appearance of the hurt we love continue to reveal itself and knock at night.
To be continued…