Nah, I’m Good
You can keep your, “Hero’s Journey”
your, “badge of honor,”
your, “female version of a hustler,”
your, “Black girl magic,”
your, “upgrade.”
Wait…let me slow down…
Take a breath in…let a breath out…
Take a breathe in…let a breath out…
I was so young the 1st time someone called me, “perfect,” I don’t even remember it. But I wasn’t even in high school the first time someone said to me, “we can’t all be perfect like you,” as an insulting retort. I’ve never claimed to be perfect. I’ve never wanted that label, but I’ve suffocated under the weight of it for as long as I can remember.
I don’t want to be anyone’s, “goals, or “guiding light.”
I don’t want to be loved for what I do,because then what happens when I can’t anymore?
There’s nothing wrong with being someone people admire, but only if that admiration doesn’t cost me the ability to breathe.
Growing up the 96th percentile wasn’t enough if “my best” was the 98th. Being called “brilliant” at 8 years old is not a compliment.
What I wouldn’t give to just “be.” Yes, I’m a leader. I DO want to be heard, seen, & felt. But not at the expense of my ability to ever acceptably be “average.” To need to rest…to need food…to need space…to need time…to need community…to need to cry & scream & pout & be completely irrational. To be mean & angry & frustrated & irritable.
I don’t want to be the “strongest person” anyone knows. I don’t want to be punished anymore. And that’s exactly what it feels like—my punishment for being “excellent” is that a 90% is an insufficient & an 8 out of 10 is a failure. “Anything less than your best, “they said, “isn’t good enough.” “Be twice as good to be given half the respect,” they chant in every leadership circle. How does nobody see the problem with saying that to a 12 year old?! At this point, I have enough complexes to be a freshly gentrified city center. In every room, community, & space being either too much or never enough.
Inhale…in
Exhale…and out
Inhale…in
Exhale…and out
I wonder if I make sure everyone is happy, will my “extra” suddenly become acceptable? If all their needs are met, will they be willing to help me get what I need? If I can just make sure they’re all comfortable, will I still be a burden? Or will I finally be someone worth making room for? Then when they count the cost, will they keep me around, even if it’s at a loss?
Rest isn’t just of the body?
Safety isn’t just a feeling?
Being born doesn’t give you a family?
Survival doesn’t mean we are living?
What makes a breath worth breathing?
What makes a view worth seeing?
Must it be the strongest & brightest?
Or can its value lie just in its being?
“Contribute,” they say.
“Stand up,” they say.
“Don’t quit,” they say.
“March on,” they say.
But if I can’t, how long will they carry me before I just become dead weight?
If their expectations create my reason for being, how much of that does my resting negate?
So I’m supposed to discern fiction from fact? Why does the bridge have to be called my back?
When searching for answers free of all lies…questions of truth are all that I find.