Thank you for reading therapy made me worse. Nothing warms my heart more than sharing my work with all of you. If you connect with anything I write, please tell others about our little corner of the internet.
My parents, unprompted, bought and sent me a book of poetry - “an anthology of contemporary black poets.” It was surprisingly emotional for me. We don’t talk much about my writing. Mostly a boundary I created as what I discuss is so personal and it’s much easier to tell strangers on the internet my inner thoughts, pain, hurt, happiness, joy than to pick up the phone to my parents and say the truths of my heart.
The first poem I opened to was called The Painter by Opal Palmer Adisa, about a man who desired naught but to paint. Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of adding Writer to my description of self. I’m becoming more and more in touch with the dreams and goals I used to have….the one weighing heavy on me is writing a memoir. Along with having a name that means something to someone outside of my family and friends which I believe I made abundantly clear in My name is (what?). It’s helping others. It’s writing to free myself and maybe someone else along the way?