When I was five years old, I witnessed a drive-by shooting. Our neighborhood was full of evil, drugs, and crime. Mom’s addiction and our life in the projects exposed me to many evils. Whatever happened in our house, stayed in our house.
If I told anyone else how I felt, I’d have to reveal the root of the problem, and that would break an unwritten code between Mom and me. Mom wasn’t emotionally, mentally, or physically able to hear me, much less help me sort through my pain. Our home was chaotic, and I didn’t have a safe space to express how I felt. She was young, single, poor, and severely addicted to crack cocaine. So I stuffed them deep inside and kept going. As a kid, I’d had lots of emotions…but few felt good. “It ain’t good to keep all those emotions bottled up inside you,” she’d warn.īut even if I’d wanted to answer her, I couldn’t.
My behavior had grown increasingly dark, and she was convinced it was only a matter of time before I hurt myself or maybe someone else. Grandma asked me this question every time we were alone in her car.
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