Denial

                          Denial 

Back during my college days I took a transformative class that left a forever imprint on me when I was 18. 

Death and Dying. The professor at the time was one of the most exuberant men I have ever met, especially for teaching such uncomfortable content. 

Maybe it was my unnatural survival rate, my battle with depression, suicide ideation, but I’ve always been intrigued about death, the afterlife and what it all means. 

I’m the type of person who finds peace at cemeteries when I need alone time. 

So needless to say this class was perfect for me. One assignment we had to write was our own eulogies, morbid right? 

How can you write something so meaningful when you’re only 18 and haven’t lived yet? 

I wrote it from the perspective of my favorite sister-cousin because I’ve always known that children aren’t for me. 

 One thing I learned from the death and dying course is that it doesn’t have to be a morbid, depressing subject. More importantly, you realize that all of these emotions you’re not alone in feeling. 

My first funeral I attended was when I was 17, of my great uncle. 

One you experience your first funeral it seems like everyone you thought would live forever in your family dies. 

Though I’ve experienced more funerals than wedding or baby celebrations, one thing I’ve learned from funerals is they all won’t devastate you. 

Some will sadden you that your whole family dynamic won’t recover. 

Others, like when my favorite aunt who was like a second mother to me, was the first death that made me contemplate a devastating loss. 

She was truly my best friend. I always say I can’t remember the last time my smile was this wide. 

My last memory of her alive while watching her third battle with cancer she would lose, was thinking, how could I live without her? 

I was 29 when she passed. A difficult funeral to play without a doubt. I honestly haven’t found a bond that tight since. 

It was my first time really dealing with heavy emotions of death. 

The hollowness in your chest. Your mind becoming so blurred you don’t know what the next moment will look like. 

If you’re not familiar with the stages of grief, they are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. 

There is no correct feeling once you experience a devastating loss. 

There is no order to the stages. It’s different for everyone. 

Denial is an interesting emotion. It will put you in a place of not believing the obvious. 

I believe it is the heart’s way of protecting the rest of your soul before you can truly process what’s happened. 

I’ve unfortunately played a lot more funerals and attended many since my aunt. 

I remember months after the poem I needed to write to process this surmountable feeling came. 

I performed it at an Open Mic in Boston and a respectable poet said it was one of the best poems I’ve ever written at the time. 

He was probably right. 

Your life changes once you experience that first heavy loss. 

The funny thing is I’ve seen my aunt in complete strangers while shopping. 

Heard her voice in these strangers. 

Stranger who resembles my aunt.

If you knew my aunt, she had a gravel voice and a boisterous laugh that was immediately recognizable. 

These moments were always unexpected.

It honestly still freaks me out and it’s proof to me of the afterlife. 

Sometimes we miss our favorite people who left us so much, I believe when you see people who represent them in our world it means they miss us too. 

Showing this picture to both my brother’s they both had the same reaction of shock I did. 

I believe in ghosts. I’ve seen too many familiar faces to not believe. 

The tragedy of losing those special people we have in our families who just get us, and accept us for who we are freely, naturally is such an indescribable gift. 

She was my biggest supporter in everything I did. Any time I needed to vent, no matter how big or small she was my vault. 

I believe we’re blessed with these people till they’re called Home. 

The ache in my chest has subsided, it’s in little and big moments when I miss her most. 

The sporadic drives we would take, I miss her even more with the doors of travel my poetry is opening for me because I know she wouldn’t hesitate to accompany. 

I don’t know if we’re blessed again with bonds this deep once someone passes. 

I can only continue to hope and pray they do, because we live too many moments without them.

That life can be heavy sometimes even in all of the big celebrations .

Here’s to hope and deeper connections and the ones who stay with us forever.

I don’t know if we’re blessed again with bonds this deep once someone passes. 

I can only continue to hope and pray they do, we live so many moments you wish to share with them.

That life can be heavy sometimes even in all of the big celebrations. 

Here’s to hope, deeper connections and to the ones we never forget.  

Survived

A Daughter’s Journey 

Part 2.5

To me I could never call him my dad’s best friend. He would be forever known as my molester. 

Shocking my last blog? For some it’s probably devastating. For those I confided in back then, there are no words for their safety. Some of those folks are in heaven now. 

So the bigger question is, how did I finally overcome one of many traumatic moments? Finally finding the courage to tell my parents when I was 25. 

The ironic thing about burying a pain for so long as most of us survivors do, is that it will eventually come out in an explosive way.  

Triggers is an important word. Depending on what trauma changed you it matters. For me it was learning who I felt safe around to let my guard down. A reality, just because their family friends doesn’t mean they can be trusted.

I remember being around the age of nine sitting on the porch steps of my auntie’s house in the hood after church and a family friend said to me, “Girl don’t you know you gotta close your legs around here? Because I’m looking”. Creepy. Totally disgusting. That same sick feeling in my gut was there. 

Never doubt your intuition. 

Being a child all I knew is that's not something any child should be hearing from someone I was supposed to feel safe around. I recall telling my mom this story years and years later as an adult and she just dismissed it, laughing it off because she knew that was “just how he was”. Not the response you would hope for from your mother. 

Where is the accountability for grown men who predatorize children?

Remember when I mentioned a child’s intuition? It’s never wrong. No matter when a person speaks of their trauma that has caused emotional manipulative abuse, believe them. 

Triggers are important to recognize. When I finally found the courage to speak my truth to my parents I was 25. From what I can recall I was having a conversation with them in my parents room and my dad brushed his fingers on the right side of my neck, and I Freaked Out! I pushed back his fingers in anger and screamed “Don’t touch me!” now if you knew my dad and his bursts of rage, not the best way to come out speaking on such a sensitive topic. He yelled back “What the f#$k is wrong with you??” and I yelled “Go ask your best friend, he made me this way!” 

It was pretty silent after that. I don’t know if that conversation ever took place. I don’t need to know because one thing I’ve realized after all this time, is there is no explanation a grown man can ever give that justified his behavior towards a child, nevertheless his best friend’s only daughter. 

My mom just looked me dead in my face and said “You better get over that if you ever want a man to love you”. 

Again, the comfort you would expect from your own mother, wasn’t found. This awakening moment should’ve been it. 

I’ve heard my whole life that I'm a survivor. All the things I’ve gone through have made me who I am. 

I am not my trauma. I am God’s child. God has always defined my life even when I didn’t know it. 

Our testimonies are never for ourselves. Recognize your triggers. Block, delete, change the conversation if hearing that person’s name gives you that same sick feeling in your stomach. 

One thing I’ve learned is that some things you experience in life, a conversation, or apology, will never justify the pain from the other person. 

That’s when you find your own forgiveness. Of course my pen, the stage bought me that much needed deliverance in 2015 at a poetry Slam in Boston,MA.

I’ve only performed this poem three times. This moment captured was left with an eerie silence that you could hear a pin drop. 

The tears I’ve seen and deep hugs I felt of teen black girls in classrooms when I performed this poem also brought healing to both of us. 

I no longer perform that poem because healing and deliverance has finally been put to rest. 

Healing is ugly work. It’s isolating. It’s something you really can’t post about. What you won’t see is all the times I’ve yelled, cried, and screamed in my car as to why this traumatic thing happened to me. 

God was there through it all. Even the conversations I’ve had with folks is healing, but at some point you  do let it go. 

Ironically, when I found myself in a relationship after experiencing one of the most devastating losses of my life, it was only then I’ve found completion of healing and embracing intimacy. 

Context always matters. 

Healing Soulmate and I. Summer 2017.

I also sought out countless therapy sessions that helped with my closure. 

Find what you need to release the triggers. You’ll find you’re not alone because the reality is you know someone, that knows someone, that can relate to this. 

As uncomfortable as this topic is, it’s something that can’t be avoided. 

Being strong takes a massive amount of vulnerability and transparency. 

But through it all once the werk is done you can hug your inner child tightly. Comfort her because finally you found your voice to no longer remain silent. 

Part Two:Innocence

A Daughter’s Journey 

Part Two: Innocence 

“If I keep it to myself you might think you’re the only one”

-Jon Keith, hip hop artist

Childhood is supposed to be the easiest time of our lives. For the most part mine was. Filled with loving parents, typical sibling joys, rivalries, and growing pains, summer vacations to the beach.

But like I said, the only way to heal from your trauma is to do the ugly work, which I have through endless therapy sessions in my early twenties, and of course poetry. 

I came from a loving home of a interracial married couple. My mom is African American and my dad was German-Irish. Layers of identity wrapped in that one! 

Mom and Dad.

The one thing all childhoods have in common is trauma, no matter how loved the children were the moment trauma enters a child’s mind or body it changes them forever. 

It’s how an easy going, goofy, silly, fearless child who always would see the best in people becomes quiet, shy, and lost in herself. 

It’s something that when happening in the moment your young brain truly can’t process the effects it has on you, the years it takes to finally find the courage to speak on it, even if some family don’t acknowledge the hurt you never deserved in the first place. The one thing to always remember is it wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong for something so devastating to change how you view the world. 

How you trust in it. 

So here comes the dark part of my story. Very few know of this. It may come as a shock to those who 

 Children are very intuitive because of their innocence. It warns them of adults you can’t trust. That gut feeling. It’s a red flag for a reason. 

My father had two best friends he grew up with.  

One ended up in a wheelchair from a tragic car accident and the other came up through karate black belts together and Berklee College Of Music, best men at each other’s weddings. It doesn’t get any closer. Only one I felt comfortable with my whole life. 

One violated the thing you’re supposed to feel with an adult, never mind your father’s best friend, and that’s trust; in one of the most deceptive, manipulative ways possible. 

Molestation. Definition and context is extremely important. I’m not talking rape. 

Molestation in its most comprehensive breakdown is “unwanted, sexual advances to another person” now based on that definition that is different for every human being because we all process touch differently. 

What is comfortable for one person may not be for someone else. 

Physical touch is something I never really felt comfortable with. Unless I felt safe with a person then it was okay to hug me.

Keep in mind, I grew up care free, no daddy issues, almost sheltered from things. 

During this time of childhood we would spend random weekends with my dad’s best friend and their family. Them having only one child, a son meant no room for me to play with anyone. So needless to say, it was something I never was really excited about. Ever, unless my cousins were there because they were neighbors but it didn’t happen enough. 

 I remember two distinct moments. I remember all of us sitting around in their living room watching old home recordings from VHS tapes of cookouts etc they would hold. In the video all the kids were single digit ages, carefree etc all making silly joyful sounds when the camera was put on them. 

When it was my turn, I screamed “No!” and ran from the room. Everyone watching the recording just laughed. Looking back on it myself, I question why nobody ran after me. 

The second memory is the kind that unfortunately stays with you. Like I said, because I never had friends with me during these visits I was forced to sit with my mom and listen to adult conversations with his wife. I probably had no business listening too. 

I remember standing up near the kitchen table, my back facing the stairs they had which led to other bedrooms. My dad’s best friend comes down the stairs and out of nowhere hugs me from behind and gives me multiple sloppy kisses on my neck, and I instantly FREAK OUT! Screaming, crying, yelling for this grown ass man to get off of me! I am a pre-teen at this point. The whole time I’m elbowing him, he laughs because he’s a whole black belt and I’m a child. What is my full little girl strength doing?

My mom is laughing and drinking and the only thing she says as she’s watching all of this uncomfortable moment of her little girl squirming, “it feels great when a man kisses you on the neck”. Finally I get set free and just remember running to another room shaking. 

I don’t know why I didn’t just run tears and all to my dad. I honestly wish I did. 

When I say everyone doesn’t experience touch the same way, this is what I’m talking about. That horrendous incident of trauma changed my life for the worst for many years into adulthood. 

What’s even more bewildering is the nickname he gave me that nobody calls me. All types of predo creepy vibes. “Ashley-Baby”. Vomit in my mouth. Do you know how many times I would yell that’s not my name, stop calling me that?

The only nicknames I recognize to this day are “Bash, Ash, and Wonder”  and only selected family members can use them. Ash is pretty much universal but all of them come with trust, love, and respect. 

So the creepy “Ashley-Baby” nonsense has never sat well with me. It’s something predators do to their victims in an attempt to have power over them. Maybe I’ve watched too many Special Victim Unit seasons, but that is a very real thing. 

Remember when I mentioned the intuition children have? Never dismiss or belittle it. I’ve learned through this horrible experience that just because adults grow up with people doesn’t always make them good people to children. 

It’s also a testament just because siblings may have always felt comfortable and safe with this individual, doesn’t mean I had that same experience when I should’ve. 

Some may think what happened to me was trivial, but it left a permanent stain of unworthiness, lacking what true physical intimacy is in relationships, it’s why for a decade I wouldn’t hug people or kiss anyone on their cheeks, much dismay to my older aunties that I still don’t. It’s also why I’ve always wiped my mom’s kisses off my cheek. 

Ask yourself again, how do you process physical touch? When, and if, was yours violated? How did you overcome it? A lot of victims of sexual assault have two reactions to it, they run to older adults for intimacy or they fold into themselves. 

Guess which one I did? Might be easy to guess if you know me. I ran to fantasy worlds, poetry, then came the depression, anxiety, low self esteem etc.. 

And the irony of it all? What my mama said was correct, but context is everything. 

One thing to be taken from this: nothing a grown man does to a child They feel uncomfortable with is justified. 

Healing is possible. Your past pain doesn’t have to define you. Wait till part two to find out how I found mine.

A Daughter’s Journey

What defines you? Most recognize me as a saxophonist, pianist and Spoken Word Artist. All things that bring me purpose, joy and pleasure. There’s always a bigger story behind the poems, and melodies.

This is mine. Those closest to me know my miracle story and if you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing me live on stage then you’ve heard that poem, but like I said, I want to dive beyond the word play and give you guys something deeper to possibly relate to me and perhaps we can find healing together. I’m a firm believer in a testimony written or spoken so let’s get into it!

I came into this world fighting for my life with all the odds stacked against me on October 8, 1983 at one pound three in a half ounces with less than a ten percent chance of survival.

A whole living and breathing miracle baby!

Magazine, newspaper covers and all that y'all!

At a time where technology and expertise of the doctors were limited to what we have now for premature babies is massively advanced, my survival rate wasn’t expected.

My parents remember the doctors telling them to make casket arrangements. Look at God, though!

I spent 119 days in the incubator and my left nostril grew around the tube which would lead to a rhinoplasty surgery when I was five and three more at sixteen. The healing process from those surgeries at sixteen was the worst pain I’ve ever endured!

Welcome to my story beyond the poems and stages. I hold this in high honor and is a part of my identity and strength that my family and friends also associate which can be a blessing and curse. To be known for this kind of surviving means most of the time family don’t question your internal struggles like self esteem, depression, suicide ideation because how can someone who wasn’t supposed to make it hate her own existence? Well, stay tuned!

Just like most introverts I found my escape through fictional books like Lord Of The Rings (before the movies were a thing lol) and Harry Potter to name a few.

Writing in my journals also was a freedom like most young girls have. Soon it turned into some dark poetry that I didn’t share with anyone because poetry is personal first. I always knew my life was meant for a bigger purpose. My existence of surviving so many obstacles is proof.

I’m writing this blog in a limited series of my journey not just about how poetry has saved me endlessly, but also the deeper story of my relationship with my dad. Dads are a daughter’s first everything.

Won’t you join me?