It’s dark, I’m at the bottom of my well. I can feel the sludge between my next clear thought and the anguish I’m ready to let go of. After scraping against the rough red sands of controlled chaos, I climbed into a dark place. I finally feel the softer parts of my soil that were dampened by my tears.

 Externally, I tilled and plowed my dirt ferociously, upset that I had to burn the crops and rebuild my land. 

Trauma is a different type of baptism. 

The dust hasn’t settled yet, but I will share in cryptic form what is known among Black women. Hyper-sexualism of being seen as an “exotic” animal. Being seen as something that needs to be saved but never having a safe place. Being seen as a threat because we speak with no fear of compromise or consequence. 

Being seen as less than while also being too much. 

All while not being seen at all. A farsighted world shows their contempt for my presence. with distain and disgust in their eyes, looking into my soul, searching for class and modesty. Meanwhile, I practice my hymns from my throat chakra. My truth. My authenticity creates friction that rubs on them and erects anger; provocative by nature. 

I never mean to cause harm, and yet I fumble the delicate dance of interaction. I step on so many toes. I’m better off in a book somewhere.  Being left alone, on the right side of my brain. Off the external grid, lost in the depths of my soul. Hidden under a sweet smile and sad eyes. 

There is something about a strong-willed soul, that creates a level of fear and uncertainty. There’s something about an untamed mind, that bothers the artificial unity—that plays into the western social agreements. 

Even solitude is a lie, those to claim to be alone, share that loneliness with others that bare the same song. Misery always has company and everyone there— likes to be alone. 

Depression has evolved. The complexities of exhaustion of trying to be what you see in the mirror is more than depression, it’s wasted energy that wasn’t available in the first place. And you gave it your all, only to be in the same place you were with no effort. Only to think, “what will this next project bring?” 

Rage is the first step across the hot coals, its uncomfortable to be yourself. To feel embarrassed. To feel exiled and pushed toward the hills, while having the desire to be in the valley, among the village. 

Because the strength of my internal lens, I reflect a variety of depths into self, and some aren’t ready to see their truth. No martyr ever bares good news.

Realizing: I am the body of water for the Narcissus I have come to see in everyone with my third eye. They fall in love with themselves through me. 

And I’m happy to be touched, and ripple what you see in yourself, but it’s often forgotten: that underneath it all, I am earth, that needs watering. 

The simmer comes from accepting the next season of hearing the bird’s chirp again. The trees whisper to the wind. To sit with myself and examine what possessed me in the last season of rebirth. 

Being ok with who I allowed inside my head and inside my body. 

The soot is from the ashes of my last traumatizing experience, that sits in a pile, in a corner of my mind. It anoints me for the next harvest. I mark my forehead and let it sit under my fingernails. I mark my doors to my soul, so when the spirit passes me again, I know it will not harm me. 

I have been down this path before. And I made sure to burn every last bit of that crop that grew from that seed. It no longer lives inside me. But I will always be familiar with the smell of that spirit. 

Trauma is a different type of baptism.