A stranger came up to me when I was writing in my notebook; a bit stranger when he asked to borrow a piece of paper and a pen — and oddly enough he came back to return both.
“It’s a note, read it.”
I’ve been handed a few notes, more often than not I find them on the hood of my car reading, “you park like an absolute asshole.”
And I did; I still do.
Beyond that, I find that mostly cis-white men find me ohso attractive that they write their numbers on random objects simply to tell me how to contact them next.
Like the time I worked at Burger King and I got passed some dudes number on a condom.
“Call me, you are hot!” He said as he drove away. Although, he may have used that line with all his potential lovers — I am that bitch.
I gave it to the local biker chick that I worked with; a local alcoholic. She passed his number down at the pub.
She said, “He eventually changed his number.”
It seemed that he couldn’t seem to block all her friends with so much time to spare.
This man who passed me this note in the coffee shop had love in his eyes; easily differentiated from lust. I wasn’t sure what it was to say. I wasn’t sure what the note said — so, I decided to leave and open it in the car.
I packed up my journals into an oversized vegan purse from free people; I bought it on sale for completing my first semester of grad school. The same program I dropped out of to start my new life over.
I am an artist not a doctor-to-be any longer.
I opened up the letter to witness god speaking through his drug addict servants dropping in to have a morning joe.
If you are a new reader — hi, welcome to my trauma dump page of a public journal. If you an old reader; welcome the fuck back. Long story short: I felt betrayed by my parents for sending me to the troubled teen industry thirteen years later. And the ripples of their “tough” love echos in my life and my mind. I process that very vocally in my art.
Writing is a process of healing — of forgiveness.
I believe that when I tell the truth, I am liberating a part of myself from the grip I felt was inescapable. I am angry at my father and mother — and that anger served me. It provided an anchor of mental memories for me to travel upon to find aspect of myself I once believed to have lost, forever.
The note touched an aspect of my core self when it read, “and go write your book.” What’s left after forgiveness? I cannot forget, so I write it down. Perhaps, part of me is masochistic — wanting to remember the pain, because the beauty of those days doesn’t seems too far away from there.
I was born to write.
How do I know?
Because when I write,
I become a child — again.
And the man at the coffee shop who handed me this note became less of a stranger — and now another human in my story who channeled the lord our god.
They have spoken.
That’s modern day spirituality.
No need for a Bible.
Jesus said to enter the kingdom of heaven, one has to become as a child.
Luckily, I am still one — inside.
