My father, sitting two feet from his glass of water, calls for his wife, hands cooking in the kitchen, to bring it to him — this is what class does to the human mind.
His expecting privilege ended at 12. The ripe age of adolescence. From multiple properties, maids, cooks and upper class to sleeping in a coat closet on Laguna St in San Francisco.
Here he was a flip with an accent, starting public high school. The fights, fears and cultural appropriation changed his happy go lucky childhood. No longer the adored youngest son now a man with a chip on his shoulder, looking behind himself, prepared for the next attack.
I was dyslexic. No one knew but my father. He feared me into hiding it, from everyone, even myself.
The childhood violence didn't end until I pushed his foot off my face and kicked the broom handle out of my ribs, got up and pushed back, I was 17.
I found my voice. It was loud, punk rock gansta rap and I didn't give a fuck.
Hold on for this interruption by my 5yo who just triggered me into a state of PTSD by hitting me very hard, in the elbow, with her plastic tambourine because she wanted her way...as most 5yo do.
For me deep in the crevices of shocking pain lives the recesses of trauma. I don't want to be hiding away from her. I don't want to avoid her. I didn't want to feel this anymore. It's like an echo that reverberates. And I've done so much work around this. It's always so shocking when it touches my grown up moments.
I cried in the closet, trying to push everything out even my lover who doesn't know what to do with his hands, when I get like this. In frustration he slams the closet door. My trauma shatters further, in me I fall deeper as tho climbing up canyons softened by weather after my recent rain. It's muddy and tho I'm gripping up I slip; the sound triggers me, or maybe it's more nuanced— it's vibration.
I feel everything in waves of textured color. I reach further reading patterns and feeling thru the walls. Familiar colors in my memory distort my now, where am I? It's blurry looking thru walls, then thru memories at the same time like a double exposure. So similar in sensation tho contrastly different. It's hard to focus on the one, the one that is now because then was so terribly loud.
Who am I in this moment? Where'd I go? What do I do? I sat up, blew my nose, took my potion; skullcap rose cleavers and lemon balm. It's deeper than immediate tension. I reach for my best RSO, because I have a collection I have become a connoisseur. To fuzzy my memory and thought receptor sites, I know this will help.
Daring, for me in this state, I leave the house; grab a bag of potato chips and copper nail polish and auto pilot in very old soothing patterns. Light ones, nothing too bad because this isn't the first time I've touched this trigger and had to climb out.
Damn it. Noise still touching too deep, I can hear everything. I can hear someone else crying. It's jarring. I want to help. But where are they and what do they need? The crying stops. Was it me in my memories or did I listen to something, just now, real?
I became a healer because it's what I needed most. Folx get triggered by calling themselves healers, saying it's x, y, or z, that heals. For me I healed myself. I had many allies but it is a constant inside Job. I choose wellness. I choose toward healing. I choose to spiral out, climb up and stand into my present moment by design.
This writing is helping me re-member myself into being. The torrential downpour of my unstoppable rain helps. I release the valve and the lingering shock of pain, touching beyond the shallows, flows out and my inner ocean rises— Now it's like a tide, rolling in, rolling out softening further the jagged memories of my canyons deep.
Here she is again,
my 5yo here to interrupt this current broadcasting… Opening to the now moment which is the only real state we will ever own.
—Tatiana Florentina Craft Almendral
Written on my Pixel XL 2, by a swiping right handed pointer & the occasional talk to text because I seriously can't spell some words.
2:33pm Saturn hour, Saturday 5/2/2020 ☀️♉ 🌓♍ distant train howling thru the skylight of my family's Bliss Shire, edge of the poets corner, Berkeley California.