Always A Woman, Never A Daughter.

Trigger warning: read at your own discretion


I'm angry. I wanted someone to love me, and I settled for an abuser. He beat me, he drew his knife and took it to my legs, arms, stomach, and she asked me "why did you let him hit you?"


He only had critism and never told me he was proud when, as a child, is all I wanted to hear.

I was always punished for any mistake, offered a lesson in fear instead of growth. He seemed to always be angry or annoyed with us. Why have kids? I didn’t ask to be here.


I'm angry. I wanted a father figure, she wanted a husband. She settled for a spiraling addict. He got drunk, burst into the room I was staying in, cussed me, and crawled into the bed I was on. I had to leave. They're still married.


He gets into an accident, paralyzing only himself. I'm that castaway. They're still married.


I'm angry. I have these notions in my head that I am not good enough. I've been molded into an exhausting image of what a black superwoman might be, but never quite filling those shoes. I've always had to be a woman, not a daughter. I've always had to take care of a situation, be the glue to hold people together, carry the secrets of others far heavier than my own. I've had to live on the defense, always alert, subconsciously preparing mentally and physically for impact. I am always prepared for the worst to happen because it feels like the worst always happens.


I'm angry. People always tell me how efficient I am, how smart I am, how positive I am. But they don't know that those are all learned habits. Habits built out of fear. Habits build from having to always be a woman, never a daughter.


I'm angry because I push. I push people away, sometimes burning bridges as a deterrent to keep myself from going back. If I allow people to get too close, if I rely on them, allow myself to be truly joyful, and let myself go...I'm afraid it'll hurt worse than any physical pain, than any kept secret that wasn't mine to tell. The happiness and giddiness of a daughter, of a hopeful child, was never mine. And now, as a woman, not a daughter, I shy away from those feelings even though I deeply want them. I’ve been gifted with the duty of solving this problem, for my own sake.


I'm angry...because I always blame myself, as a woman often does. I wish I didn't have to reparent myself to allow myself to believe my worth and my value. Sometimes I feel like a plastic Christmas tree, painted in positive and self-loving silvers and reds, instead of a naturally grown, strong, happy, wild pine whose roots were saturated with love and tolerance and embrace life with extended branches.


I want so badly to be hateful, as I tearfully write this blog. I want to kick and scream and throw a tantrum like the ones I was never allowed to have...for the sake of holding it together. I want to find a place I haven't been to and go, run, there. I want to continuously try to start over, forget my past and everyone in it, over and over and over again.


I'm not even sure that I am angry. Just deeply sad and tired. I want to be mad, tell myself to get a grip, and stop being a baby.