It’s interesting how old childhood habits manifest in one’s adulthood.
When I was little I would become silent when offended. The silent treatment was my game — often I wouldn’t speak for days until an apology was made.
Now, without intention I fall silent when someone hurts me. I become incredibly pensive: deciphering the nature of the offence and its validity. I start connecting dots and looking for patterns. In silence I heal the small wounds made by words.
When I was younger, and my mother was at work I’d come home from school and lay in her bed. I’d treat her room like a stage for dress up. I took her makeup and painted myself; I tried on her clothes; I styled her shoes. Her vanity was a place for self-expression, self-love and affirmations. Now, my mornings are regimented by a similar ritual. I wash my face then paint it, dress to kill and light an incense stick.
When I was in high school, I wrote down everything. What I ate, what happened in the day, to-do, to-buy, to-go, to-be. I deeply believed writing it down made it real. I knew my hand could compensate where my memory failed. It was in my make-up to write. Now, I’m published.
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