For many of us “control” and the inability to delegate or share responsibilities is a trauma response.
To be instructed to “assign the task to another” and LET GO (for me) is not only anxiety inducing, but a brutal realization that I have to TRUST someone.
I am ALSO a person who prefers direction.
I enjoy executing orders and doing a good job.
I find satisfaction in playing my position and helping the team win.
I’m not a coach or a quarterback …
I’m a runningback.
“Know thyself”
With this self awareness in the affirmative,
in the face of my trust trauma,
I am telling myself:
“Trust your coach & run the play”
I feel hopeful that practicing “trust falls” in my profession will also help me expand and grow as a whole.
I feel grateful to have guidance from leadership I trust in order to loosen my grip
and in exchange for it I received something in return that felt like love.
I was a caretaker of my sister & mother, for more reasons than one,
and that spirit of service was often exploited by the very people who SHOULD HAVE been doing the caretaking.
Then at the age of 14 I chose to do what was best for me, and I left.
I chose myself ... and the loved ones I left behind suffered.
My sister felt abandoned, my mother was killed, my step father ended up incarcerated and my sisters life unraveled as a result.
It's safe to say,
when I left ...
I walked away from a mess
that maybe wasn't MINE
but certainly one I held myself accountable for.
In the years to come, racked with the unsurmountable weight of the guilt, I kept trying to resolve the betrayal of my abandonment with hyper vigilant loyalty.
Nailing myself to the cross of overcompensation
Continuously caretakin'
and subconsciously seeking redemption,
and yet
when faced with the depth
of a drowning that that feels like death
I STILL use my last breath
to leave.
After hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars of therapy,
I lay wide eyed in the dark. The chirping; an alarm clock, an unrelenting song of unsettle, evidence that even nature won’t be still. I cannot sleep tonight. Neither can the crickets.
My mind is spinning, whirling dervish, dancing around the impossibility of all that is ahead of me. In all honesty, it’s not the hardest thing
I’ve ever had to do. It’s just the brutal and unabashed truth ... that simply said, I’m tired.
My Grandmother’s battle with Covid has left her less than she once was. Finally the time has come and she requires more care than we are able to provide.
It’s a hard divide between duty and capacity, desire and capability, agility ... and process, especially without preparation. Why didn’t we have a plan when it was so obvious we would one day need one? Perhaps, like everyone, we believed she was invincible. She’s the toughest woman ... human I know. And she was always that way with beauty and grace. Never have I known anyone else that would sit stoic on a seat of thorns pretending to enjoy the pin prick. Perhaps only a rose can pull that off.
With each chirping of the cricket song
I chide myself for the times I’ve complained how she was too strong & hard headed mostly because I was on the receiving end. Right now I’m just grateful that she’s more stubborn than death. And that diminished breath and deadly virus were met by her iron will.
They are chirping still, and I realize I have no desire to be that strong ... or sing that long. I shutter with shame; it feels like an ungrateful honesty. Yet it is still my truth; I'm tired. She is tired too. And suddenly feel like I'm not entitled to my own exhaustion.
Then I wonder “how is it that her will has more endurance than my own?” Perhaps I’ll never know.
The trill is yet unstill & harmonizing with the call of the alarm clock. It’s 2:45. My eyes are wide like saucers in the darkness. Duty is calling me
PREFACE: "Lemme remind you I'm an artist, and I'm sensitive about my sh*t." ~E.Badu This account is mainly my emotional journey through my hysterectomy and my way of processing. I am a highly sensitive person, for which I have zero apology. This blog is "wordy" so I have decided to include the audio version for those who don't like to read. For others who are more interested in the medical experience / information, feel free to skip to Part Three & Four.
My hope is that my vulnerability & transparency helps others fell less alone. Thank you for listening.
* * * PART ONE: Be careful what you ask for, even in jest.
When I found out I needed to have a hysterectomy, I recalled all the times I joked about tossing out my uterus. It used to be my running joke.
"I'm just gonna put my uterus up for auction on eBay. The ad reads: Gently used, certified pre-owned. Mint condition, only one previous occupant."
Little did I know it was NOT mint condition, and I had an uninvited squatter dwelling in the womb. Adenomyosis & Uterine Myoma (also known as fibroids). This uterus DEFINITELY would not have passed a carfax.
It took a long time, lots of WINE, nearly devastating heart break, a failed engagement, and deep, unraveling therapy to finally admit I was scared. Fearful that I would never find a love deep & (most importantly) secure enough to have more children, I convinced myself that I didn't WANT them. It felt too dangerous to hope for. I resolved to be satisfied with the child I chose. And let's all just be honest, he is by far beyond any amount of wonderful my mind could have ever imagined, let alone ask for. For that I am infinitely and eternally grateful.
Once I was faced with the fact that a child would no longer be a choice, only then did I feel a sense of loss. I was stunned to find a mustard seed of hope still living inside me when my heart whispered "but what if I fall in love and want to give him a child?"
When I began to share what I was going through, I was met with a litany of "You'll be a'ight. You always land on your feet. You been through worse. You're fine." I am keenly aware this response was less about being dismissive, and more of a compliment of confidence in my ability to rebound. I mean, after all, my bounce back is a sight to behold. But I was not comforted, I was scared.
I knew then I needed to activate my support system.
PART TWO: Processing the Loss If you know me, you know that I am no stranger to loss. I understand all too well the business of burying dreams ...
among other things.
Unlike sudden loss, this was something I could prepare for. I wanted to do so as WOKE as possible; clearly conscious and overly cautious not to miss an opportunity to process the losses. I wanted to hold each moment in my palm and say "Thank you for everything. I release you."
I reached out to my aunties & elders for their wisdom. They comforted me with their own accounts and sage advice; this too shall pass.
I engaged my sister circle for their support, love, laughter & magic. I was so fortunate because the weeks leading up to my surgery I had visits from so many loved ones! Not because of the circumstance, but simply because the stars aligned! My love cup was filled to over flowing.
One of my sisters told me I was "Croning" and how some indigenous cultures regard this as a right of passage into becoming an elder. I liked this notion. Seeing as how my son just became engaged and and I was entering a new phase of parenthood, this felt like a fit. It helped me to reframe it in my mind.
At the time, each of my soul sisters were going through traumatic life events. So at the full moon before my surgery we had a gathering, complete with a "Womb Tang Clan" cake.
I swear, I love these women to death LIFE.
I enrolled in a group therapy course centered around accepting change, ran by one of mentors, a close friend and trusted advisor.
I lived BIG.
I allowed myself to be accommodated, cared for, loved on, treated to, wined, dined & flown out.
If someone offered, I said "YES!" ... and for me, that is rare.
I've always been particularly prudent about keeping account. I hate to feel indebted to others, especially men. For once I accepted kindness & compliments at face value and felt I owed nothing in return, except to say "Thank you."
I made arrangements with my rock.
My baby sister didn't offer, rather INSISTED on taking care of me and I did not flinch.
Yes. That is what I want.
My womb mate, my mothers daughter, a woman who knows the worst of me and loves me still, the person who's love language is my native tongue & whose acts of care require no interpretation. The person who refuses to flinch when I roar and howl and show my sharpest teeth... yes, that's who I need.
I locked hands with my teammate; my Wasband.
Through the toughest of times, he remains steadfast & assured. I know if anything ever happens to me, our son will be fine. This comforts me.
I synched myself with my Battle Buddy for Life.
As it turns out, just a few short months prior she had gone through a laparoscopic myomectomy (surgery to remove fibroids). Much of the procedure was the same, including the surgeon himself.
In truth, if I had not been with her for HER journey, I may not have ever found out about my condition. I would have suffered in silence. It was only after comparing war stories about our wombs that she insisted I follow through. As women we are conditioned keep quiet about matters of menstruation, lending a voice to our suffering is mostly regarded as "complaining". When sharing our symptoms with physicians, they usually just throw some birth control at us and send us on our way.
Because my battle buddy is brave, she lead the charge and I marched in cadence with her ...
as we have always done.
On the day before my surgery I did my first reiki session, suggested to me by one of my soul sisters. It helped to move through some of the negative energy I was feeling and sit me firmly in a place of gratitude.
The day before my procedure I treated myself to a decadent meal accompanied by some fine bourbon. While enjoying myself I wrote a love letter to my uterus, and said all the final things I needed to say. The most important of which was "Thank you for a job well done... farewell old friend."
Finally, as always, I locked in focus on my North Star.
Nino has been and forever will be my guiding light. His light continues to guides me when I feel lost.
He inspires me to be strong when I feel I have nothing left. When I am out of breath, he is air. When I am out of step, he is a constant drum. I call him SUN ... because he keeps me in orbit.
PART THREE: The Business of Healing
"If it's goin' down, let's get it over with" ~Ghetto Boys
I was ready.
My sister took me to CIGC Surgical Center in Rockville, MD. and my Battle Buddy met me there.
I asked my sister in advance to advocate on my behalf. Sometimes I don't ask enough questions, or ask for exactly what I need. I wanted to make sure that in the event I didn't understand something, or didn't speak up, or was out of it because of the anesthesia, I had someone to be my voice.
After signing the paper work, I went back and got in my hospital gown. Both my sister and Roz (my battle buddy) were able to sit with me until it was time for the surgery.
I facetime with both my son and my wasband. They smiled, told me they loved me and assured me all would be just fine.
Before they even gave me any medication, I was tired.
I felt my eyes heavy, and looking back now I just think I was ready to wake up on the other side of it all.
I'd never had surgery before, so I didn't really know what to expect. They wheeled me back and in the operation room and Rihanna was on the radio.
"S.O.S please some one help me, it's not healthy for me to feel this ..."
I chuckled... the irony.
And that was it.
Darkness.
Then a voice calling "Corinna. It's time to wake up."
I was disoriented and shivering, shaking cold. I don't remember much after that except thinking "How horrifying ... to drift away and return with no memory of being cut open and losing your organs."
Roz got me home and in bed. My sister got provisions for the week and my meds. They both kept guard over me through out the night tending to each whimper or whine.
I was sore. My throat hurt from the breathing tube. The incision site was tender. I felt like I'd been in a car accident. But, I'd been in plenty car accidents before, so all of this felt manageable; more drugs please. It was the following day I was not prepared for.
During a laparoscopic surgery they inflate your abdomen with Co2 so that they can see and navigate around your organs. That gas is absorbed by the body and can sometimes cause "mild to severe discomfort" according to the discharge paper work.
F*ck that paper work.
For me, the gas dissipated and aggravated the phrenic nerve. This nerve passes from the collar bone, down between the lungs and diaphragm. Every breath felt like being violently stabbed.
It was unbearable and painful to tears. But I couldn't CRY because it made me BREATHE HARDER. I laid there whimpering, unable to move at all. Pain killers to not address nerve pain, and the discharge paper work clearly states that nothing can be done for this. The gas just has to eventually be absorbed by the body. "If you feel like there may be lung damage, go to the emergency room."
I could think of nothing worse than sitting in an emergency room in that condition for hours only to be sent away.
I felt ... disappointed.
Every woman who told her hysterectomy story seemed to make light of her recovery. I remember thinking "I'm pretty fit & healthy, so this should go well." I wanted my rebound to be as bouncy as I was. But as with MANY this year's lessons, there staring me in the face was the reoccurring message: Comparison is the thief of joy.
THIS STORY is yours alone.
Your experience and what you take from it will not be like anyone else's.
I had to BE STILL ... inside my body, present inside my white hot pain.
I was forced to listen to what it had to say.
This particular pain felt spiritual.
* * *
My sister dug to the bottom of the internet and found that the gas can be absorbed quicker if warmed to core temperature. We got a heating pad delivered post haste and I finally had some relief. That night I slept the sleep of the dead.
I cannot express the importance of drinking enough water and taking your stool softeners.
I had very REAL anxiety about my first bowel movement.
Fortunately, my sister had me on an anti inflammatory diet which included plenty of greens. Coupled with taking sennekot with every Tylenol 3 I threw back, the first moment of elimination came and went without incident. Praise God ... because the thought of even attempting to push makes me wince with pain. I hiccuped and I thought I busted a stitch. I can only imagine what trying to have a BM would do to me.
At this point in my recovery (day 4) I was finally feeling better. I got a little too ambitious and was doing too much. Now, when I say "doing too much" it's not like I was cleaning house, moving furniture and dancing salsa in the living room, nah. "Doing too much" meant sitting down and standing up at normal speed, taking a shower, lifting my arms above my head ... too much. I feel like my insides have been man handled and tossed around inside me.
My body immediately disagreed.
I'm still learning to listen.
Mostly, I am laying here ...
present in my 41 year old flesh, one hand where my womb once was, the other on my chest astonished at my healing,
marveling at all the life I have left.
We first need to understand that our concept of “loyalty” is largely based on outdated paradigms and poisonous social and cultural contracts that were designed to exploit those who are inclined to offer allegiance, benefitting those who leverage that allegiance for their own advancement. This dynamic dubbed “loyalty” is an age old exchange between givers and takers.
More often than not, it is the takers who condemn others as “disloyal” when they are met with a boundary. They will shame a well for running dry, when they are the ones who have depleted the source.
Those who demean your boundaries and deem them as disloyal only take offense because they are the ones who benefit from you having no boundaries at all.
Saying “no” is not disloyal. Not exploiting your network to put someone else on, is not disloyal. Choosing not to deplete your resources to help someone who mismanaged their own, does not make you disloyal. Protecting yourself, your interests and that which you hold dear is not disloyal. It is, rather, a demonstration of one who understand their priorities and holds their personal value in high regard.
As we examine the elements that helped shape our belief systems (culture, family, religion, music, movies, organizations and group affiliations) we can begin to unpack and identify how breeding behaviors of unhealthy allegiance were actually created to benefit those on the receiving end of our self sacrifice.
I contend that loyalty, through this lens, should be revisited and reconstructed. In particular, by Generation X (and beyond) who created and glorified the mentality of “Ride or Die”, need to recognize this as toxic idealism established by a broken and patriarchal social caste.
“Ride until the wheels fall off” why?!
It wasn’t until I began to care about myself and get my shit in order that I realized how ridiculous this is. I was driving on I-10 in Houston when my tire pressure light came on. I immediately pulled into the nearest gas station to find I had a nail in the rear tire. Without hesitation or procrastination, I had them patch it right then and there. While waiting I thought “Ride until the wheels fall off? Nah. I’m not even willing to roll on a flat, much less until they fall off. How is it then, that I’m willing to treat my car better than I treat myself?”
The next time a man expects you to “Ride until the wheels fall off” ask HIM if he gets a flat tire would he roll on the rim. Won’t happen.
Ask yourself this: who benefits from you riding until the wheels fall off? Only the person in the passenger seat who probably isn’t paying the car note or even giving you gas money.
The same can be suggested of your professional career.
No one is obligated to help you. You are not obligated to help others. Assistance is a gift, not a right.
More people will expect you to help them as you ascend in your success. Which isn’t to suggest you shouldn’t help, or mentor, or open a door for others. Certainly we have all benefited from the generosity of someone in a higher position investing in us. But generosity is not to be confused with loyalty, just as someone being conservative with their resources should not be confused with DISLOYALTY. There is a difference between asking someone who knows the way for directions, and asking them to give you a piggy back ride to the destination.
It should also be noted; if the gift HARMS the giver, THAT is not true generosity. If you’re willing to accept a gift that you know harms the giver, you may just be a selfish asshole.
As we find ourselves in a Cancel Culture that glorifies cutting people off, we’ve been reducing our ideals and beliefs to only what can be consumed as a meme on social media. People are quick to dub others “disloyal” not because a betrayal took place, but because someone simply didn’t want to grant a request, or perhaps couldn’t self sacrifice in exchange for the other persons self interest.
At this stage of my journey, I’m learning that life is about agreements. Agreements with our friends, family, lovers, employers, colleagues... and most importantly the agreements that we have with ourselves.
My clearly communicated agreement with myself and others is that I am my first priority. My loyalty is an offering of faithfulness, support and honesty given ONLY after I’ve given it to myself first.
Don’t expect me to “ride or die”.
I certainly don’t expect it of others. I can’t agree with that.
Instead let’s LIVE to see where the journey takes us.
It is with an astonished and heavy heart that we are saying goodbye to our beloved Godmother Julie, who we lost this past weekend.
I keep trying to unpack & process this devastating unexpectedness. I fall short of adequate words to express & and all that’s left is ... I’m so damn grateful to have been loved by you.
It is a rare and wonderful gift to have someone love you your entire life. Being able to have a relationship with you as an adult made me feel so much closer to my mother. It was clear why she chose you as her best friend. Your authentic character and spit fire grit helped me better understand who she was. Being with you always made me feel closer to home.
I believe when we leave, our LEGACY is the LOVE that is left on the path. Everyone you touched walked away loved.
You were a light of LOVE & KINDNESS burning brightly;
surely the world dims at your departure.
I guess what I’m really trying to say is ... I’m sure going to miss you.
And, THANK YOU for loving us.... especially when we needed it most. We are all better people because you did.
It may seem a lofty notion, but I’m hoping wherever we go when our soul is done having it’s earthly experience ... that just maybe mom was waiting for you on the other side.
Once
I was wild.
My whisper was a wind that would rip harvest from it's root.
My tears; a monsoon.
Whirling dervish wild,
my spinning set off Doppler radars.
Sending the fearful to run for shelter
and the brave to play dizzy in my disaster.
Some sought to control me,
but how can you capture the wind?
Once
I was soft.
When wet ... like clay
I would mold to my prey
& mirror his shape
to satiate his ego; appetite of ID
"We are alike, but also different."
& his vanity would manifest
Narcissus
and drown him in my water.
Once ... I was softer.
Once upon a time
in one of these lives of mine
I was ethereal, divine.
I was Aphrodite
deliciously inviting ... & likely
it was the promise of eternal dessert
that compelled my lover to put me first.
Sweet tooth & thirst
Gluttony cursed
& without hesitation
I satiate him.
But inevitably he would tire
of this consistent desire | of mine ...
because nothing is DECADENT & CONSTANT at the same time.
Once ...
I was "fine."
Abandon & left lonely.
Unholy ...
a creature released unto the wind | to discover her way
adapt & assimilate
or go back and domesticate
only to create | yet ANOTHER "Once upon a time"
and though domestication is sublime
in it's constant forecast of "again & again"
Inevitably Aphrodite would cover her wounds in clay & say ...
On Being Other ...
When I was just 2 my mother
moved on in life looking for a love that might make her feel complete.
She married a man with alabaster skin and eyes of ice blue ...
Since that time I have been asked
"What ARE you?"
As a child, I didn't really know what to make of the question,
didn't really REALIZE what it meant to be "other"
didn't fully digest
that what people meant
was
you don't LOOK like you belong here.
Whose child are you?
As a grown woman, I understand now that the query
is LESS about curiosity
and MORE about the INCLUSION someone wants to offer me.
People want to assess
by box I will check
whether they will offer me access and respect
based on the definition of my "OTHER".
"What ARE you?"
What are YOU asking me? "I mean, like ... what ETHNICITY are you?"
Italian & Japanese. "So ... asian & white."
... right.
OTHER.
Don't say to me "ethnicity" when you really mean Color.
Don't feign curiosity when your motive is membership.
Don't try to excuse my presence with "She's not THAT, she's THIS" ...
when you COULD just say
I have access ... cuz I am a fucking BAD ASS,
that's why.
If you and yours need excuses
for my inclusion ...
that's not something I have anything to do with.
That?
That's a YOU thing.
And this aint no new thing, believe me
My ethnicity is NOT my color
my color is not my culture
my heritage is an inheritance whose definition
is OTHER
and there is no country for us.
We will forever be too much ...
and always
not enough
When I was a little girl one of my favorite things was making newspaper kites with my daddy. We’d eat all the popsicles (I loved the root beer flavor) and glue the popsicle sticks together. Then we would use the funny papers, but we always saved the Garfield comic strip for later. We would tie that thing to some fishing line and he’d say “you think you can make it fly?” I never wanted to throw the kites away. But he explained
“If you don’t throw it, you don’t get to make new ones.”
Years after his passing, I am moving his mother out of her home. For those of you who know our family, you know this house has been a source of great pain for us for many years. For those who just happen upon my blog, I will simply say ... the house was cursed, and it ruined whomever chose to stay there. In attempting to transition my grandmother, she seems to be desperately grasping at her "things". I am trying to be sensitive to the fact that she is being removed from her home, and her memories of a life with her only son ... no matter how painful those memories might be. At first I protested against what felt like ridiculousness. Then I acquiesce, who am I to say what small things might bring her comfort in a new place. She watches with a careful eye as I haul five 10 gallon hefty bags of yarn to the moving truck, and another 3 bags of her hand knit sweaters. "I need them" she says. "Okay Grandma." As always, I do what I am told.
* * * After having all her belongings treated, I hung each sweater, each article of clothing, filed each seemingly unimportant document all where they could be easily seen. I hung pictures of her friends and family throughout her home, and decorated in her favorite color - lavender. Dear Daddy, I did my best.
I am grateful for this test, because it lets me know exactly what I DON'T want for my son. I hope to have all my affairs in order, so that when I leave this earth - the work is done. I hope I always remember to Eliminate the “stuff” Keep the memories... make new ones.
Enjoy something sweet, keep what makes you laugh... tie some fishing line around what’s left & make it fly.
My step father was the King of Quick Wit & Sultan of Smart Assery.
This helped me develop a thick skin in life (along with some deep seeded insecurities)
and a healthy appreciation for mean and dark humor. However, unless I’ve been drinking, I’m actually not that good at it. No matter how deep my wounds, or the bitterness left
behind, I have a generally sweet demeanor.
I prefer confrontation to witty passive aggression,
and if I can come up with a snarky comment I will usually say it right to your face, because hey - these moments are few and far between.
I usually don’t think of a good retort until days later, replaying the convo in my head while stuck in traffic. “Damn, I should have said THIS.” is how that scenario often plays out.
I say all that to say this,
DON’T SNARK PEOPLE’S RESOLUTIONS.
I'll admit, I am a fan of the "Petty Party" as much as the next person. Such memes are usually the only reason I scroll through social media, for that moment of mean guilty pleasure.
But let's face it, last year was a TOUGH one.
Who knows, maybe it was Mercury in Retrograde.
Although, Mercury seems to be in "retrograde" as often as a menstrual cycle. Perhaps we should just start saying "The Universe has PMS".
Maybe it was the collective sociological upheaval to one of the most politically charged periods in recent history.
MAYBE it is mere coincidence that ALMOST everyone had a MAJOR deconstruction to the fabric of their lives; a proverbial pulled string unraveling the sweater.
So ... let people knit.
Let us all sew ourselves back together into a patchwork-quilt of hopes & aspirations.
In times such as these, HOPE is so often all people have left.
Perhaps the idea of a FRESH START is the only thing pulling them through the winter of this discontent.
If people want to lean on the beginning of a new year to help them with goal setting, so be it.
Yes, yes - we know, if people were REALLY bossin' up they would have BEEN doing what needed to be done all along (and I am sure posting it to the gram for proof and validation to boot).
But do you have to be the Chairman of the Board for the Shitty Committee?
If the urge is that great, you may wanna make it YOUR resolution to examine that.
We KNOW people often fall short of their goals by the end of first quarter, and we KNOW you are irritated that your 90 minute daily gym sesh is beleaguered with "Resolutioners".
But I beseech you ... have compassion.
Instead of snark, smile and recall your own first steps on the journey of a thousand miles. Hell, if your shit is so "together" ... maybe even offer to help.
Happy New Year to All!
Now go and post those GOALS for the coming year without shame or judgement, because I LOVE seeing all you aspire to!
. 
