Blogging is like…

Blogging is like mind birthing. As you begin its all kind of messy. Like sex and getting to know someone. Nothing makes sense except the feelings that have us in their grip, that draws us to another. Blogging is messy at first. When you begin. It’s all emotional and erratic. It’s sensual as you write what’s been forbidden by intuitive abstinence of a truth folks want to forget. By you don’t. And so you blog. Or, I blog. Blog to alleviate the pressure built up from words trapped for no where to go.

Not even my own Mama wanted to hear it. It hurt her ears and soul to realize what her child had gone through, being, adopted. And so, maybe Mamas not the one I speak to? Maybe she’s just my muse. Maybe she’s the lighthouse that guides me to blog. Because maybe? Just maybe? This is a societal thing. And maybe society need to take a look at what was done to us three? And extended family. Because we are all touched by this. Not one is left without a mark.

We may try to hide the scratch in our table. But it’s there underneath the salad bowl that hides it, as in the Help. My blood stains the table. And can not be removed. And should be displayed. For a life face that blood stain for her Mamas. Yeah. Squashed like a bug I stained that damn table. And no salad can hide it. So, the question is why? Why does my Mama try to squash me? And my truth?

My Mama did what was available to do? And Mama Jean did what she could do? Why did I feel so squashed? Hmmm? Why have I felt pushed and pulled this way and that as though I am some kind of Jesus who saved them both? Why? I wonder ho long my family will leave me here on this cross called adopted. Forever exiled from family? To be a slave to an ideal? Oh. How long does it take two woman to wake up? And see?

I am no savor. I am a woman. A daughter. A citizen of this planet. And I deserve better than to be a slave to an old ideal that has never fit me. I am and have always been the child with two Mamas and Daddy’s and cousins and uncles. That’s what Mama did. She gave me away. I slaved me to another. But I am not owned by anyone.

I wonder? Does Mama just want to go on without me? It would seem she’s having trouble switching her gears? Mama Jean too. They raised me to share? And struggle to do so themselves with me? When shall I have a turn at this game they play? Or are they so used to the rules they made up that makes them win all day and me loose? What is the gain of this loss?

Mama can do what Mama wants. True. But will she be satisfied at the end of this game? Will she be happy when I am gone? Forever cut off? As I am cutting the old ties? Will she grab for the new? Or just go on lying to herself? Will she live on in her dilution? Or will she wake up and see that things have changed?

My coming home is not like everyone else. And I don’t copy. I am unique. And my home coming is worth the wait. I come home all the way. Not half way. Not just home in word, but in deed as well. If you can’t even show at Mama house unannounced? Well what the hell? What child must announce going to their Mamas? What daughter gets told she is unwelcome when she goes to see her Mama on her own daughters birthday? Me. Yes. Me.

And if that’s not stupid and wrong? Well. Then this worlds crazier than I thought. And blogging helps me. At least I can get it out. And at least some people give a shit to read about it. And that does help validate my journey. Even if Mama can’t seem to see how to. Maybe this blog shows her how it done when no one wants to see it. Give it to the world. Show them.

Thanks for diving deep with me.

God bless.

Happy holiday season.

I don’t imagine I’ll get an invite to see Mama this year. And that’s just bullshit.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s