In The Arms Of My Angel

I don’t care what anybody ever tells you. it is the human touch that heals the soul it is the yearning and craving of touch that causes us to seek a crutch I don’t know about you but honestly I have those days when no matter the waves of sunshine brought by compliments of others it is still for me and always will be the arms of someone who loves me willing to hold until my tears bring relief as I struggle to be whole I’m not there yet and I can’t afford to give away my goodness before I know if you are the one that will hold me as I repair my soul please my sweet angel come hold me so my soul can fly higher 9.24.13 mozayik “the souls’ poet” Healing is a process and I have stopped forcing the memories back into my subconscious.  I am optimistic about my healing, but the truth of it is. 

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A letter to survivors (originally posted 4/2014)

If you had told me that I would I be living this free two years ago, I would not have believed you. Two years ago, events happened that triggered my healing. I have post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD is a result of surviving childhood sexual abuse, abandonment, neglect, and rape before the age of five. Five is the age of the first rape memory at the hands of my mothers’ boyfriend. Writing saved my life. Words were my saviors. This is why I am compelled to tell my story. I do not tell it to gain pity or fame. I tell it because I was born to tell it. So I tell. Everywhere I go I tell. I want to tell my story of PTSD because most of us do not know what that looks like on an African American girl or woman. The number is many but until we start talking about it, most will suffer in silence, and ignorance.

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I am Happy

Most of childhood was hidden from me in the recesses of my mind, waiting on my soul’s readiness to heal from rape.  Only now as I stay committed to therapy by any means necessary are the good memories starting to surface after excavating through the dirty images my mind knew I was not ready to see. It is not coincidental that my mind, body, and soul have chosen this time for my healing.  School has always been my hiding place.  My sanctuary is my mind.  As a child at eight, I remember walking alone to the library to check out books because I could hide in them.  By the time I was nine I had read the entire Child-craft Collection of 24 books cover to cover. Safety was found in the worlds I could transcend to with my book.  Words were my toys.  I could use them to create whatever reality I chose. I am finding solace in my schoolbooks

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