A Scream, Translated (November 6, 2024)

Feet on the floor.

Coffee in hand.

C’mon. Take my other hand. 

We go on, together. We must go on.

Circle up around the kids, especially the teenagers, those fragile babies who are somehow readying to burst onto adulthood. 

Teach them the ways. 

Our rights, our families, our persons are in danger.

My rights. My family. My person is in danger. 

My child. 

Do you think any of us will stand idly by?

Do you think I will?

Do you think you have defeated us?

I have lost more battles than this. 

I have given more ashes back to the Earth than you can measure.

I have given birth to a child who was not breathing, and never would.

This will not destroy me.

My brain fights me, actively, for months at a time, telling me to quit. 

This will not make me give in. 

Do you see this face? Do you see the fire in those eyes? She’s still right here, smoldering.

How about this one?

(Tell me this child isn’t gonna fuck some shit up, one day)

It’s my friends grip on my heart that has me feeling any strength this morning. 

It’s the palpable love of my forged family for me and my kid that has kept me upright.

It’s time to grieve. It’s time to mourn. 

It’s okay to close in, to draw your family and your community close. 

Recenter yourself. Recharge. Take care. 

And, when you can, give care. 

Because if I’ve learned one thing in my journey through the labyrinths of loss and mental health struggles, it’s that the reciprocity has been – for me – the most healing.

When people I have given my love, my time, my effort, to – 

They’ve showed up in my hours of need.

They’ve scraped me off the floor, and let me gather myself back into an amorphous shape until I could find my feet again. 

For me, for many of us – the people pleasers, the givers, the fixers and the doers – 

This is even more of a mindfuck. 

There’s no quick action. 

There’s no march to join today, there’s no campaign to write for.

There’s nothing to DO

Except

Feel.

Grieve.

Exist.

Go on.

Go to work, go to school.

Return to “normal.”

The laughter will come back.

It might hurt at first, the walls of your chest, loosening from the tension you’ve carried. 

Your face might feel weird as it stretches into a smile that isn’t faked.

The heaviness will ease – 

And it will be time to go to work.

This will not destroy us.

This will not make us give in.

We are not finished.