When the soul cannot write, it must heal

I haven’t updated the blog in a few months. It isn’t that I’m not writing, but sometimes words written meant for others to see are too sharp and shattering to share. Some of those words too close to the heart, too bare and swollen with grief, despair, wonder, and a relentless fire. I admit, I have been itching to share my thoughts, as I have grown accustomed to. But I hold my hand.

The past few months have been filled with so much. A continued rage and sorrow from the destruction of the lives of Black men and women, Trans people, and people of color in my country has crippled me in ways I cannot explain. Some victories, with their issues, like the SCOTUS decision to make all marriage (gay marriage) legal across my country, have given me some breathe. But wars across the world, the continued pursuit of a neocolonial control over my ancestral lands, and the smaller cuts of thinner knives puncture at my strength. As I have come to know, there is always too much. There is too much to ever breathe without wondering if the next breath will be filled with a choking smoke.

Writing is in many ways therapeutic. It allows me to work through my emotions, my feelings, my opinions. But it is also an engulfing thing, one that sometimes loses its healing attributes and turns on me to open wounds I thought had healed. So I stopped writing. Because I needed to. I took a break from having thoughts on the continued murder of Black Lives. I did not write about the several SCOTUS decisions. I did not write about race, about gender, about colonialism, about anything. I wrote, but I stayed away from writing about what I usually write about, because of how tired I was, how afraid I was of my own words, of the conclusions I would come to, of the darkness that could swallow me into despair. This shit is real. And I do not need to justify it. I don’t need to provide you with evidence as to how overwhelming this all is. You should simply believe me, and by extension, those of us who do write, who do speak up, who do fight, and sometimes retreat to regroup.

I took care of myself. I stopped writing. I always feel compelled to write, to help others understand, to understand myself, but there is a point where we need to remember that we are better at these things when we aren’t crushed beneath the weight of it all. I have not been silent on these issues, but I have not shared much here or on social media, because it just wasn’t healthy. And I think many of us forget to do this. We forget to step back and learn how to breathe again. We forget to take care of our bodies and our mind and our soul. We forget that if we want to be warriors in this fight for justice, we must stop to heal the gaping wounds we get on the battlefields.

Life is a mess. Day in and day out, we must confront the personal and interpersonal. We face death as a collective and as independent people. And it is okay, it is necessary, to look away, to look at something that makes you smile and have joy and remind yourself that life is worth living.

When you are whole, or as whole as can be, for some of us can never be whole in this lifetime, come back. Take your time, however long it takes, because today, not only is it a radical act to resist, it is radical to love oneself as fully as one can.

I’m back. I’m writing. And I have a shitload to say.


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