The Door Girl, Part 41

Did I miss her? God, yes. She could’ve slain millions of people with her bare hands and I would have loved her still. But she never came back to me to love. And that was her choice.

As an adult, I had to learn to accept that. Everyone has many doors they can walk through. And sometimes the darkest doors overgrown with weeds are exactly the door we need to walk through to gain our humanity.

We are human. We want things to be pretty.  But life is dirty and messy. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we become what we were created to be, and that is authentic, powerful warriors.

I will tell you a little story, however, that I keep in my back pocket when I am feeling low on my love supply.

I was 9-years old and we were living with Tommy the child molester. I walked through the back alley to the corner store where they sold chick-o-sticks in giant plastic containers for only five cents a piece. I bought two and a coke. Back in those days, coke came in glass bottles. As I was walking out of the door, I tripped over the brick holding it open. My mouth was bleeding. Oh my God, my teeth were covered in blood. The store owner ran out and carried me in his arms to my mother.

Tommy ran to take me and I kicked him as hard as I could. I can remember it like it happened yesterday. She said something to the effect of, “No. She only wants me.”

And that summed it up. I only wanted her. In that moment, she showed me love and I have kept it with me all of my life.

That door I tripped through, the threshold, the brick…in a back alley of Detroit. It was ugly. But it was my beautiful. Because in that moment, I knew I was loved.

And so, I guess if I had anything to say to you, dear reader, it would be, “Don’t be afraid of the ugly doors and the broken places. Don’t be afraid to die in order to be brought back to life.” Life is there on the other side of that door.

The Door Girl, Part 40

As a child, I had to act in survival mode, and I recognize that I often still operate out of this place of fear. It’s a place of mistrust because it is the belief that the Universe/God won’t provide and She always does.

I felt abandoned. Alone. And I was alone.

Am I asking you to feel sorry for me? Hell no.

Because my dis-ease is what makes me glow.

This madness, these demons, they make me restless until my hands shake and I know I have to wring the words  from them.

It’s time. The craze will make you insane or make you raw and genuine.

Am I looking for a shoulder to cry on?

No. I have worked hard to wear my big girl pants.

So, is it wanting you to feel sorry for me I tell you my own story? No.

But. There is a single reason why I write.  

Because I am a survivor. I’m an overcomer.

The Door Girl, Part 39

I would always let her back in, my mother. No matter what she did or who she did it with, she was my mother.

It was late one night and we were living in Detroit. On Florida street, if my memory serves me well. It was dark and all I could see was the glow of the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement. I sat in the backseat like a pet. I was my mother’s pet. 

I tried not to touch her too much because I had seen the ways that cats got under their masters' feet and then began to annoy them. They wished they’d never shown the cat any damn attention in the first place. I would not make that mistake. 

I was well-educated on the behaviors that suited my mother. Stay out of her fucking way. And if she touched you, stay as still as possible because a miracle is currently taking place and you don’t want to screw it up. I never wanted to surprise her when she stroked my hair, so I sat like her toy and let her do whatever she wanted to me. I didn’t care if I was like a bag she threw in the backseat as she drove down the back alley. 

I just cared that I was her toy.