My place in this world

People born from violence are not inherently evil. I know my place in this world was very lonely. I was isolated since I was 5 years old.

The narrative in my formative years that I was indulgent and spoiled. It later progressed to indifferent, insufferable, and obstinately ungrateful. 

When I left that place of origin, there was temporary peace and freedom. Most people didn’t believe in God, but the experience I had was mysterious, unexplained, and miraculous. I committed my life to the one they called, "Messiah."

Since then the journey of my healing got into very tight places. I had attempted to stop moving forward. The temptation to give up all hope of moving forward was very high. The Exodus story continued to inspire me. The experiences gained and lessons learned shaped my life. 

When I thought I was doing so well, I was reminded of my place of origin. Countless times I reflected. Other times, I ruminate. 

Just because I lay myself as an open book, doesn't mean people should have the right to vandalize the pages of my life's stories. "Maybe you shouldn't put yourself out like a prostitute!" 😩 As a feminist, that sexist comment directed at me wasn't nice. Women are allowed to choose any profession they see fit. I'm not an entertaining person. Comparing me to a prostitute was suspect.

I recall a comment directed at me back in college, "You're too young to be so wise." I was 19 at the time. Thoughts that poured into my mind came rushing through like the river breaking from the dam. 

• Solomon was 12 when he took King David's throne. He was a sought-after sage of his era

• Knowledge is power. 

• Standing up against malice, oppression, and deception is possible

• Violence isn't always necessary to take your point across 

I was born in the year of the Earth sheep. The star of Cetus and the Dídymoi constellation were aligned to celebrate my existence. Yet, the chosen sex I was born with was a constant disappointment to both my parents. Would it have made a difference if I was born other than what I was?

I was constantly violated with insults. They say words don't hurt. The very words used against me was a revered book of the Christians. The more I read it, the less it made sense. The very people proclaiming their pious religion were neither descendants of Abraham, Israelites, or Jewish people. 

I journeyed far and wide to seek shelter from those who chose to silence me from my existence. The kindness of strangers were angels in my time of need. 

There were moments in my journey where I lingered too long in the mud. I couldn't see myself getting out from under it without causing harm to myself and others around me. 

One act of bravery and a leap of faith from someone outside my culture and religious beliefs, came to my rescue.

I couldn't uphold the generosity they shared with me. Two years into the relationship, they implored me to trust them. I couldn't. Despite my doubts, I stayed. Just when I was ready to end my journey to impediment doom, my spawn was in trouble. 

Although I was physically there for my child, my connection was lost in the midst of my depression. I was led to believe that my vessel had to be fixed before I could help pick up pieces of another's broken vessel. I mean, my ship was battered and worn, but I failed to see the damage it did to my child's vessel. I agonized about it so much, that my storge connection was almost non-existent. 

I relied heavily on my partner's strength. It took a heavy toll on them. Even though my child's ship has successfully sailed into their "maiden voyage," the repairs my partner and I worked together cost a lot more than we anticipated. They wanted their ship repaired too.

Even though my ship is creaking and is in need of a lot of repairs, I understood my partner's request. I acknowledged that no matter how many people I meet and allow them into my life, very few will stay awhile. Some will enjoy the antiquity of a galleon. Others will admire it from a far. A few will try to bargain its value. Then you have the rest of the world judging how it would look better in a painting than it would in real life. As a collector of ancient civilization, I would treasure it for the rest of my life. Of course, the philautia I have is unmatched. 

Nevertheless, I challenge myself everyday to continue my journey alone – as I have carried on – since 1995. Whether I choose to continue to be an open or closed book, my title as "The Reluctant Artist" will always shine and embossed in gold. Don't ask me where the dust cover went.