we remember things when we were a child.

somethings, I wish I could forget. often, I convinced myself that I did. I have been on a healing journey since the loss of my child. unpacking + unearthing things, with labor and an intense amount of love. I started with addressing the trauma of losing a child that I was not prepared for to have. Then I addressed the mourning of being dumped by my X Fiance + the abuse I experienced with him. From there my journey took me to the pattern I have of sacrificing and minimizing myself for others, then it was my ever edacious need for attention and validation and affirmation from people.

my therapist would ask me where did this all start? I would respond since childhood. the first time I was introduced to suicidal ideation I was in elementary school and flirted with a knife to my wrist in the kitchen. no one saw or knew. I grabbed the knife out of compulsive behavior to emulate the emotional pain I was having to something physical. the second time was a belt around my neck in the hallway of my older sister’s room. of course, I wanted her to see. my mom found a therapist and psychiatrist for me that next day.

I am eternally grateful for my family for always advocating seeking professional help.

however, I feel that emotions are often perceived inconvenient. the “get over it” or “it’s not that bad” is an atmosphere that I know too well. for the past 19 years, I have refused to acknowledge the pain that I was experiencing. I denied myself the space to talk about something because I did not want to call it pain, I did not have the time to address it or even the proper steps to confirm what happened to me when I was in first grade until I was in 8th grade.

I was sexually abused as a child for 7 years. the first person that I ever told was my close, even now, an elementary school friend. I asked her if I was gay because I had sex with a woman. my childlike questioning did not stop there. in my relationships with men, the child in me would appear as well. “does my vagina look okay?” ” is this how I am supposed to do it?” ” did you like it?”. because of the abuse I experienced I never knew my body or even wanted to learn my body. my abuser was the one that taught me that I had 3 holes. a clit. discharge. & even spots that would arouse me. I felt that everyone knew my body before I even had a chance to learn it myself. also, I thought that so much darkness and sin had been smeared over this body that there was no way that this body could contain a God, let alone be beautiful. ( hence, when I lost my son, why I immediately hated my body moreso). the abuse I experienced questioned my sexuality for a long time. I figured that I had to be queer if I was aroused by my childhood sexual experience. I would ask my close friends, queer friends, and sister if I was queer. I would ask so many people things about myself because I truly did not know. but honestly, because I did not want to try to know and unearth what happened to me as a child.  I told a boyfriend of mine in college finally after I told him why I do not enjoy head. he told me that I was responding out of trauma and abuse. words that I have heard before from therapists. but I just did not want to accept it. as I continued to date I noticed my innate ability to have casual sex with men to convince them to stay with me. masking ‘physical touch’ as my love language when it truly was a language of trauma. I would let men have their way with me thinking that my worth was equated to it ; only because when I was younger that is how I was introduced to love. to sex. for me, the horrible part about childhood trauma, is that it happened as a child. I was taught to say no, I was taught love, honesty, and all of these things that became confusing when I was sexually abused. words did not mean the same thing anymore. home was not safe. love was manipulation.

to me, the abuse that I experienced as a child is something that I blamed on myself and excused my abuser. I would tell myself that she was not hurting me. even as an adult, I have made excuses for her countless and numerous times in my therapy sessions.

however, the behavioral pattern ends here.

I am tired of not standing up for the child in me that has affected the woman I am today. I see her when I have sex. I see when I shrink jus to make someone else happy. I see where I continue to sacrifice and offer my body, time, for someone else. I am continuing this journey of self-discovery, affirmation and acceptance. I accept the many painful chapters in my story and how I have survived them. to be honest, it seems a bit unreal to stand knowing how many times I have fallen. God has continued to be the one that has stood by my side and I firmly believe that my story, now due to these intentional steps, is getting started.

to Kwyn, I see you. I believe you. I love you. I am so sorry that I did not affirm what happened with you out of the inconvenience of being honest with myself. you deserve to be loved, in the purest way. your body is yours, it is STILL yours. your body is beautiful, it is STILL beautiful. God is within you, STILL within you. I love you so much, thank you for not giving up. thank you for still being here. I will continue to say your name + honor you.

The post lesson 143 : for the child in me that affects the adult I am today. appeared first on Kwynology.

i imagine there would be racecars, or Paw Patrol cupcakes ( tbh I probably wouldn’t even feed him anything sugary ) and a whole bunch of family kissing his cheeks. the smell of buttercreme, stepping music, or my mom singing and laughter would fill the air.

instead, I am awake after performing 3 times in a day. throat feeling a lil choked up. in a silent house. there is no cake. no music. my sons ashes sitting in the corner of my window next to the flowers a guy I really love got him for his birthday.

” to David Kwynton, may your spirit rest easy among the stars”.

it has been two years since I gave birth to my stillborn son. this year, I am feeling more angry,embarassed, sad and lonely. really lonely.

when I first found out that I was pregnant, I thought about getting an abortion. honestly, because I did not think I could live with the shame of my mother having a grandchild out of wedlock + I knew a pregnancy wasn’t something my X wanted ( even tho all of his pillow talk consisted of him telling me how bad he wanted me to have his kids * eye roll* ) being pregnant just didn’t seem like the right time. i just started grad school, just started this relationship…but I wanted to give God a try. I thought that God did not make any mistakes so this baby is meant to be here.

throughout the entire pregnancy, I was stressed. there was so much turmoil. fighting with my X during the time, thinking about $$$ because I was unemployed, without insurance and had no car, and I was trying to mend a relationship between my X andhis family with my family. it was a lot. I just kept telling myself that when the baby gets here, things will get better. David( my X) wouldn’t cheat on me anymore + find me attractive, both of our families will be able to work things out and I will find a job.

but there was this thought, ever looming thought, that a baby did not fit. I remember I was selecting a stroller for my Daddy to buy and I kept thinking where was the stroller and a bed gonna fit in my mom’s apartment? was I gonna stay in my mom’s apartment? how is this about to work?

worry.worry.worry. stress. stress. stress.

two years later, I am still mourning my son. however, a part of me is relieved that I do not have to deal with my abusive X, his family/friends any more.

there is a part of me that knows that God is the best father to my son.

there is a part of me that knows that Heaven is where any mother would want their son to be + for that I am grateful.

I have a full time job, working in CPS as a resource coordinator. my main responsibilities include after school programming, parent engagment and summer programming. Literally working with kids all the time at a elementary school has helped me so much. I see the cuteness of kids as well as the not so cute.

I have also taken the time to love my body again. I did some nude modeling for Depaul University, tried differnt hairstyles and started going on solo dates.

of course I am still triggered by my X, Chicago is a small city and I see a white sedan or CSU or his friends all the time. but I also have been surrounded by so much love. i have performed on Windy City Live, officially own a LLC, and saving up for my car.

I am still unsure as to why God did what God did. idk either to teach me a lesson, or maybe to help someone else out…but all I do know is that I love my son David Kwynton. & 3/1/2018 will always and forever be a date that has changed my life.

The post lesson 2: 2 years later… appeared first on Kwynology.

I was 38 weeks.

Before every NST, I always get an ultrasound to check my Sun’s BPP’s ( biophysics). I thought I was gonna take the bus, but my brother offered to drive me instead.

I get to the hospital, check in and wait for my name to be called for the ultrasound, my BPP’s.

I go the back and the technician tells me to lie down. I am used to this by now, the cold room, the radio playing Stevie Wonder in the background ( ‘As’ by Stevie Wonder was playing in the background), and the cold jelly smeared on my belly. I lie down at ease. She begins her scan with her tool and like a paintbrush, capturing the image of my Sun. She asks me how did my baby shower go.

Was there a lot of blue?  She asks because I am having a boy.

No, not in terms of decorations but gifts yes, I respond happily.

I start to doze off, the bed is too comfortable and tempting not to. When I open my eyes, she begins to click off the machine. Are we all good? I asked.  I asked this question at every appointment I ever had, and I was always reassured with a yes , everything is all good.

The technician responds they can tell you upstairs, I am just a technician. Can you hold on Ms. Townsend?

At this point, I am sitting up, ½ crunch position, and a little confused…but not worried. Everything has been good. I just went to the doctor last friday.

The chief radiologist comes in and reapplies the jelly and paints with my belly again. Anxiety is creeping in my chest, like water it spills through my eyes. Is everything okay? I ask, voice breaking.

He turns the screen around. Ms Townsend, your son’s heart is not beating. You are having a miscarriage, or in this case, a stillborn.

My brain instantly recalled every little thing that I did wrong, like an itemized receipt I read it back to myself.

I didn’t eat breakfast that morning. I went to sleep on my back. I was stressed during my pregnancy, a lot. I cried a lot. I yelled a lot. I cried too much. I reached up for the light. I bent over once. I didn’t eat enough smoothies. I didn’t work out enough. I didn’t read enough.

I don’t remember much after that.  My fiancee David was there as my Mom. my brother Kham. my sister Kori. my grandparents. My Aunties. My cousin Melissa. My pastor, Pastor Moss, came. David’s parents came as well…to the hospital.

I was there from Tuesday to Saturday.

My baby died inside of me. I don’t know when. I know he was alive, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday morning he kicked me goodnight.

I don’t know how. But at this point, the how and the why wouldn’t change what. Happened.

I was induced into labor, vaginally. There are no words to describe the pain. To say it hurt, was an understatement. I was excited for this moment, ever since September. I remember when I met with my doula Angel and she asked what is your level of pain tolerance? I thought mine was at a 5 or a 6.

but i was wrong. I can actually handle a lot more than i thought.

I was in labor for 3 days. The morning of I remember thinking if I could do this, push out my purpose…the one that was keeping me swollen with joy for the past 8 months.  The one that knew me so well. The one that made me feel as if my body can produce something so perfect. Every time something bad happened, as it is life, i could always look down…and remember that I had something to look forward to coming March 10th. I just kept thinking, why didn’t God take me instead and give my Sun a chance to live, love and laugh?

The “what if’s” are a lot more painful than the “what was”. I never saw my Sun laugh, breathe, hiccup, smile, cry, talk….

My body telling me to push out my Sun when all I wanted was to hold onto him a little bit longer. I wanted to breathe life into him, i wanted him.

I had some tearing when it was finished. There was blood, which is normal.

March 1. 4:42 AM. 6 pounds. 13 ounces. David Kwynton Flynn was born.

Beautiful, perfect, so so so perfect.

My fiance cut the umbilical cord.

The next day I held him in my arms. Hair as fine and soft. Cheeks so round. I never knew love like this. An engulfing, calming, filling sort of love. I will do anything sort of love. The I never wanna see you in pain sort of love. The love that drives you to defeat any sort of odds because you have a beautiful, brilliant boy watching you.

But there was also a pain. And embarrassment and shame. And anger. And confusion. And insecurity.

I felt betrayed by my God and my body. I was ashamed to tell family and friends that my baby died knowing that everyone would have questions. I was embarrassed because the baby shower was not that long ago.

Everyone told me there was nothing i could do. The doctors, the nurses, my family, my man, the Pastor…

But I was HIS home. HIS mother. It is MY responsibility to have kept him alive, to know when there was something wrong.  In my head I knew I wasn’t the one to blame, but my uterus told me otherwise.

This past weekend we had a visitation for my Sun, family was able to offer words of encouragement. We ended the ceremony with a beautiful balloon release and dinner with family. It was intimate and warm. i knew what i was made out of..during this time. 

During this time i have accepted three things. 1) there was nothing that I could have done to prevent this from happening. 2)  everyone grieves differently. 3) my baby was still, born.

1. there was nothing that I could have done to prevent this from happening

According to an article, in Fit Pregnancy, “African American women are twice as likely to suffer a late-pregnancy loss as white women, says a study published in the American Journal of Obstetrics & Gynecology.

Among black women, 22 out of every 1,000 pregnancies ended in stillbirth, compared with 10 per 1,000 among whites and 10.5 per 1,000 among Hispanics, U.S. National Institutes of Health researchers found. The death of a fetus after the 20th week of pregnancy is considered stillbirth (though this varies by state).

Health concerns (such as high blood pressure and diabetes) and labor-related conditions (like placenta or umbilical cord problems) were cited for the larger share of black women’s stillbirth risk compared with white and Hispanic women.

Among the most common causes for stillbirth are birth defects, poor fetal growth, and problems with the placenta. However, absent these factors, the reasons behind some stillbirths will always remain a mystery.”

I attended every prenatal visit. My blood sugars were regularly monitored and great. I took my vitamins. I did all that I could and more.

2. everyone grieves differently

Everyone loved my Sun. my mother was delicately grieving around me, my fiance never broke down in front of me at the hospital, my brother prayed a divine prayer while crying, some family members kept asking what happened and when will we get the autopsy?  There were even some family members that said that God took my baby away to show that David, my fiancee, and I are not meant to be with each other.

Grief is more than a loss, more than wounds you have to let time heal…it is anger. It is distraction through hyperproductivity. It is shutting off your phone. It is throwing baby clothes. It is muting the TV when baby commercials come on. It is taking a break from your loved ones or significant other. It is breaking up with them. It is arguments over every and anything. It is getting in your loved one’s faces. It is saying the meanest things your body has ever created. It is laughing over youtube videos and Rush Hour. it is not eating. It is eating all the junk food. It is drinking alcohol until you forget or are numb. It is smoking until you remember. It is silent. It is loud. It is cussin at God in church. It is thanking God for your grandma, your Mom, for Sunshine, for wind, for air. It is jealousy of other parents. It is cutting your hair. It is everything. It is nothing at all.  It is grief.

Recognizing this has made me see things a lot clearer.

3. my baby was still, born

I remember after my Sun was born my mother taking pictures of him. My heart wanted to post one, so bad and show off my baby boy.

Show the world who I am proud of! Show the world look at God!

My Sun is an angel. He was still, born. I am a MOTHER. I have an Angel, I can’t pretend as if he never existed, or not talk about him… I wanna talk about him ALL day!

Who he looks like, his hair, his smell (BTW newborn babies have THEE most beautiful smell EVER), his cheeks, everything…

Idk why my Sun is an Angel, but I do know that heaven is the best thing I could ever want for my baby and God knew that I needed someone to watch over me.

Life is short, it is a small breath, a small heartbeat…like a string that can just be cut.

Live, Love, Laugh.

It hasn’t been a month yet since losing my baby but my feet keep moving. My heart keeps beating. I gotta keep going for me, for my baby. I start a new job Monday. A full-time job. I won’t be going back to Columbia for my MA in Public Affairs Reporting but I will go get my Master’s one day.

I will see my Sun again.

The post lesson 1 : my Sun was still, born. appeared first on Kwynology.

The post lesson 23 “save money, live better” appeared first on Kwynology.

it’s womyns history month, I would be indolant if I didn’t acknowledge, Mother Earth,  mothers, and womyn.

I was raised in a very a matriarchal family and community.  my grandmother is the backbone to our family. at every event and function it is my grandmother that invites everyone to her house, to eat her food and enjoy her company.

there would be no celebration if my grandmother, mother, or the womyn were not there.

man can not survive without us, let’s be honest.

America would not be America without the black womyn let’s be honest.

in this time of hidden figures, Beyoncé snubbed Grammy’s and #sayhername…womyn’s history month seemed very whitewashed.

I learned about Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe before I learned about Kathleen Cleave, Angela Davis and Mae Jemison.  It was always during black history month that I learned abt the impact that blk womyn made on society but during March it was truly lessons abt white womyn.

after graduating college, and learning about womanism and intersectionality I had to conduct my own research and reclaim my black womyness. the next few posts will be abt blk womynhood and my journey with it. moreover, I had to make my own feminism (turned womanism now) include trans womyn and LGBTQIA.

I am a bisexual blk womyn.

I am a blk womyn phenomenally, phenonmenal blk womyn that’s me.

The post lessson 5 : “man owes every womyn their genesis” appeared first on Kwynology.

in this song, she says ” I don’t know nobody that feels like their somebody 24/7″.

we all have those moments when something doesn’t seem to go right. we all have those moments where you do not feel as beautiful, or as intelligent or you don’t feel.

and that is okay.

“pretty things break too”.

in high school, I found myself as the person that tried to always look at the positive side. but let’s be real, there is no positive side to every situation. in life, there seems to be a guilty associated when someone chooses to be upset. society tells us to just “get over it” and learn to let things go…but it is okay if you don’t. it’s okay to be sad, for no absolute reason at all. it’s okay to be mad. it’s okay to want to be alone, to go for a drive, or just to cry. to be honest, I do not feel okay everyday. lol, I have a few days when it’s nothin but gold then nothin but grief. this would be because of a few reasons, stress or when I think too much. ykno?

but I had to accept that, that is okay.

whatever you need to survive, it’s okay to break down.

it’s okay, as long as you get back up.

mental hygiene is very important.  please know that you can not pour from a empty cup. so when you are empty, recharge the best way you know how.

The post lesson 246 : you can’t pour from a empty cup. appeared first on Kwynology.

the glue

the comfort, the soulfood, the center.

I have 3 womyn who in my life, inspired me as a opportunist, a entrepreneur and as a survivor. these 3 womyn do not look like what they have been through, they look goooooooooooood. y’all know black don’t crack.

1. my mother – being raised by a single parent, my mother instilled me at a young age that there is nothing I can’t do when I put my mind to it. my mother has a enterprising spirit.  she raised 4 kids, all who went to college, graduated and are dynamic. she used all of her 24 hours in a day for her children, her job and for opportunities that she could take advantage of. she has the biggest heart I know, but she is also very brilliant. we were in numerous extracurricular activities that enlarged our network for professional options, college tools and experiences in Chicago. growing up on the southside of Chicago, most children are limited to their block, but my mother made sure that we knew just how big a city we lived in. I was singing Opera, my brother played the saxaphone, my sister doing STEM research and my baby sis was in a top Arts program on the northside. we always attend a unapologetically blk church Trinity United Church of Christ. I accepted my calling to serve as a junior deacon when I was in high school. my mother is a womyn who grounds herself in research, resources and recommendations. my mother can sing a Minnie Riperton song flawlessly, talk about systemic privilege while coding for a computer program.  yeah she is a badass.  now that I am older, I respect everything that she has done for us SO much more. she did not let the absence of her husband stop her from raising 4 children. she never let the absence of anyone affect her ability to work. she is a go getter, a hustler.  it makes sense as to why I am so confident in my God and my own ability to do whatever I can. I am truly a multifaceted womyn with many talents. there is no stopping me.
2. my grandmother – I did not get my hair done in a  hair salon until I was 18. until then, the only hands that touched this head was my grandmother’s. her hands are magic. to this day, I still am amazed when I look at my hair for years how she tamed this kitchen. my grandmother attended cosmetology school, in which she was very successful. in spite of a bachelor’s degree, and being pregnant as a teenager, she launched her own business. she was THEE hairs stylist. she won hair shows, was recommended to do oprah’s hair and won numerous awards from many blk organizations. she is brilliant and a badass. she always had a taste of the finer things. a original bad and boujee. similar to my mother, she has a huge heart to help others. she is the glue of my family. my grandmother instilled me the power of owning your own! this drove my entrepreneurial spirit to create my brand, write books and go after my innate talent of writing. she also is a strong womyn of faith. God’s got this. she made me learn the serenity prayer at a young age. she also made me feel beautiful inside and out.  we are exactly 50 years apart, lol so we twins in our eyes. 
3. my auntie is a survivor – my aunt is the happiest, funniest, positive vibe you can ever meet. she is literally a walking sunshine on any cloudy day. she has a huge heart to help others. she is amazing with crafts. as well as, tells the best jokes. she makes the greatest grilled cheese. she has a smile that will show you life may be tough but darling so are you. my aunt was raped at a young age. a nightmare my siblings and I were told when we were young to always watch out for each other. she also lost her son, my cousin Austin, June 2015. as many as times as her body, her heart has been broken, I only saw her cry twice. any other time she is the shoulder that I have cried on, or the laugh that I needed to hear to make any pain seem a little less intense. she is truly a dynamic resilient womyn that I look up to in so many ways.  surviving is apart of life, because pain is a guarantee but suffering is a choice.

In conclusion, there is nothing a blk womyn can’t do, when she puts her mind to it. you can be a mother and a entrpeuner, you can be a mother without having a husband, you can smile while you are still surviving.
you can do it.

The post lesson 5,244 : there is nothing a black womyn can’t do appeared first on Kwynology.

longer hair,

lighter skin

skinnier stomach.

literally, before I went to college my new years resolution consistent of dieting, weight loss pills, weaves…

(I am not inferring that ALL women wear weaves because they are insecure. Personally, I wore sew – ins back then because I did not like the length of my natural hair or the texture)

to be honest, I did not like the way I looked for the longest.  because I did not like the way I looked, I starved for compliments and affirmations from other people. most of the time, the wrong people.

I found myself in wrong friendships, relationships that caused me self destruction.

it wasn’t until my sophomore year, while I was pledging for THEE Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated Epsilon Rho chapter, that I found my voice.

I found the love within myself. I found the God within me. From that moment on, I knew that I cannot fail.

I was fearful to be confident, but never afraid.

I started wearing wigs just for the hell of it and cut off my hair to Caillou length. It was time, I was 21, and it was timeeee to love me some me. Truly.

Now, self love is not cute. I had to forgive myself for my absolute stupidity from time to time, but own to my mistakes. This takes admitting when you are wrong and not being comfortable in the “victim” mindset.

This also means being ALONE. yes, taking some time away from folks. Going for a walk, turning your phone off, or praying.

I am still on this journey of self love, in 2017, Kwyn has grown SO much. I have become that person that can go out to eat alone, to events alone, to movies ALONE. I am fine with being a Type 2 Diabetic, bisexual, unashamedly. I love my absence of my thigh gap and how my breasts catch anything that I drop. I love my flappy stomach and my wings for arms. I love my neck and my small lips and my squinty eyes. I love how I can keep going. I love me. truly, every part.

self love is a revolutionary act, meaning, to TRULY love yourself INSPITE of other people trying to tear you down is some revolutionary shit.

you betta. self care today

The post lesson 8,001: self love is a revolutionary act. appeared first on Kwynology.

At first I thought it was because of the turtleneck I wore that day, plus I have always been a little chubby.

But when I told my older siblings about it, they told me that my classmate was referring to the way I spoke, and acted. I was a “oreo” because I was ‘black on the outside but white on the inside’.

I think making fun of my size would have been better.

Being called a “Oreo” or that I “talk white” has been a term used to describe my behavior for years. When I tell my melanated friends that I have never seen Friday or that I hate Chicken wings. My blackness has always been a question for other black people. Both black and white people find it hard to believe that I speak so well for a young woman from humble beginnings on the Southside of Chicago.  According to my friends I do not know how to eat chicken right, it is weird that I never seen Friday ( or the sequels) or that I prefer my spaghetti diabetes ( sugar) free. 

but nothing irritates me more to be called a name that provides a negative connotation to my education and upbringing.  I am from what is considered the “ghettos” of Chicago. My family’s socioeconomic status has always been middle class but we have never been financially affluent. I knew before I reached high school that money was something that we desperately needed. Thus, my mother made sure all of her children were in program that diversified our options of higher education, networking opportunities and extracurricular involvement. I played the piano, did drama, learned about stocks, sang Opera, was a Junior Deacon at my church and many many more.

by the time I got to college my blackness was MORE than enough for white people no matter what proper syntax I used.  I was defending blackness in a different way, to be accepted not just assured.

I was on the front lines for student activism preaching “Black Lives Matter”. I was educating all sorts of students about black culture, cultural appropiation….

and STILL

there was always one person that commented that I was a OREO.

bruh, are you serious?

That word is triggering for me. It is a microagression. If using well grammar, syntax, is considered white… what is considered black? the absence of such? the ignorance of such? the antithesis to being educated? the negative to positive reinforcements?

Do we really want all of us to be the same? Do all black people truly have the same experience growing up? 

I know culturally there are a few similarities but I think it would ABSOLUTELY be ridiculous to keep assuming that black people are monolithic. we are not all the same

Can blackness really be defined by cultural colloquiums, food and dress?

As Cady said in “Mean Girls” the limit does not exist when it comes to blackness.

you have your black nerds ( blerds)

you have your black goth babes

you have your unfriendly blk hottiez.

you have your ratchet blk homiez

you have your black know – it – alls

etc.

etc.

etc.

Why should we limit such a diverse culture? I understand that there are similarities among our cultures. Our food and music is definitely one of them. However, blackness does not stop there. There are many beautiful black pioneers is rock and heavy metal as there is in hip hop. There are black creators of great anime projects as well. Blackness is truly universal. It is more than words, music, food, clothes, it is all about who you are.

Whatever your definition of blackness is, be it. Be proud of it. I, for damn sure, am proud of my blackness.  Lets leave the word “Oreo” in 2016.

The post Lesson 15 : ” all black people are not the same : trials of the Oreo” appeared first on Kwynology.

A normal day as a closeted bisexual femme.

I had eaten breakfast, took a shower and I made a post on Facebook.  That I consider myself bisexual. After I had asked my “holier than thou” facebook friends where in the bible did Jesus, God, the Holy Spirit say that homosexuality was a sin. In which, I did not get a clear answer.

I have always been attracted to beautiful things, spirits and people. For as long as I could possibly remember. The first person that I told about my attraction to womyn was a elementary school R. O. D. ( ride or die) and she shrugged it off saying “it’s cool”.

in high school, I tried talking to a stud. however, I was still very much so in the closet and impartial to what people would say about me. she was so beautiful but I was not confident in my faith or who I was to establish a relationship.

in college, I told my boyfriend ( we are still dating to this day) and he responded ” It’s cool”.

the problem is, I never told my family.

I have a close relationship with my siblings and my mother and grandmother and my cousins. but for some reason, I was still ashamed. I do not come from a conservative household about the issue. homosexuality is something we never talked about. whenever Ellen would come on Modern Family, my family would not judge or turn their nose up…we kept watching the show.

I should have told them first before I put it on facebook. because that spread like wildfire, I felt like my name was in everyone’s mouth for a week. I had calls from people I haven’t talked to years admiring my “bravery” and family members saying they will pray for me etc. the day after I came out I was trying to figure out what should I wear now that I am bisexual. is pink okay?

I had to explain to friends why I did not tell them this secret of mine and not to take offense that it was on facebook first. but I realized that disclosing your sexuality to some people is disclosing that you are pregnant. it affects others around you , whether you like it or not. and your family wants to be involved, whether you like it or not because they love you! and anything you put out in the world they wanna be on your side.

so it makes sense that my family and loved ones were upset.

If I had to come out all over again, I would have told my family first before putting it on social media because I owe it to them.

I probably would have came out right after we watched Modern Family like  “Funny story Mom, I’m bi and isn’t Cam hilarious?”

my mom still doesn’t understand. I am not sure if she ever will.

idk if any of my friends for sure unfriended me because of it, I am fortunate to receive more love than anything and questions lol of course.

the fact is closets are clothes, and dusty shoe boxes, but not people.

and I am grateful that my family welcomed me with open arms. the great thing is I have their support no matter what. im blessed for that.

The post Lesson 1233 “closets are meant for clothes, not people.” appeared first on Kwynology.