Journey to the Sun…

I have started this blog over and over again: First, over-explaining the title; like sis, your grandmother’s name is Nelisa. We get it. Oh, it’s your middle name, too? Cute. Then, leading with my dead dad and my very much alive daddy issues. Don’t worry, I’ll save the real tearjerker posts for after the honeymoon. Or, confessing I’m trying to thug through a broken heart that has been ten years in the making. Spoiler – cowardly, selfish men grow up to be cowardly, selfish men. And 9 times out of 10, if he tells you he’s in therapy because Hov the GOAT (debate your mother) recommended it, he’s more interested in unlocking a billy than being your partner.

So when I logged onto The Pattern to a congratulatory message about emerging from a twenty-one month confusing, life altering period a bitch had had enough. Was there a damn warning?! Did anyone besides smart phone astrologers know this was about to happen? Apparently not. Would I have listened anyway? Nope. I was apparently destined to embark on my own personal hell, experiencing a strip-you-down-to-the-white-meat kind of pain, where my awareness that a path was being cleared would only make the pain more acute because I couldn’t rush to the end. I still can’t. Being aware that you’re being planted not buried, doesn’t help you escape the feeling of suffocating, nor does it reveal what gorgeous blossom you are destined to become. Womp, fucking womp.

With all that being said, I know none of us are even a small fraction of the people we were before 2020, but nevertheless I keep coming back to this blog with only, my truth… I am surrounded by grief on what feels like all sides. And so, if I’m going to carry out this seed metaphor, then I better start taking root. Real roots. The ugly, aerial kind that you try and guide back into the soil to hide. My truth, my roots, are the fact that I’ve played it small. And worse than that, I’ve had the gall to be insulted, irate even, when I was rewarded with disappointment or loss. Um, don’t you know who I am?! Yea sis, do you?

But that’s over now.

So here we are, that’s the inventory you need if you’re going to ride shotgun on this journey. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way here’s the deal. I have very little answers and mostly questions, but I will use this platform to share as a healing space for me and you. I’m not playing small ball anymore (hi, Jillian). This year won’t catch me slipping, and if any of ya’ll do, I expect to be reminded. Some white man said something about grief being love with nowhere to go, but I’m over that. I will pour all my love into you. Hello 2022!