AJ Writer

When your abstinence meets a fine memory with Wi-Fi She should’ve known it was him before the “Wishing you well....” Men like him don’t die; they resurface like glitter you thought you swept up two heartbreaks ago. He messaged her out of nowhere, after years of silence, wrapped in the scent of someone else’s perfume. Claimed he’d forgotten some things due to hospital-related memory loss. Selective amnesia or emotional landscaping, she wasn’t sure. But either way, a photo album of his face and his hands on her body rotated in her mind. Turned 30? Like that mattered. She was vintage, he joked. Almost ancient. With wisdom teeth and wounds that remembered him even if he didn’t remember the way she used to pop up unannounced. My God, the pop-ups! She never meant to be that girl. The dramatic one who showed up, mascara threatening mutiny, catching him in a lie she already knew was true. But she liked him. Even worse, he liked her too. Just not enough to pick her. Or maybe just not enough to ...

  Therapy isn’t about being broken. It’s about paying a stranger to listen to your childhood trauma without telling you to “just drink tea and pray on it.” The benefits? You stop rehearsing arguments with people in the shower. You learn “boundaries” isn’t a bad word. And sometimes, you cry in a way that feel like cardio. Honestly, therapy is just emotional Wi-Fi. You don’t know how disconnected you were from reality until someone restarted the router. Have you ever worked with a therapist? I was forced to work with a therapist after a suicide attempt many moons ago. It wasn’t helpful. It was forced, and I was broken. So, I shoved my thoughts to the furthest place of my mind. I answered the questions, with intent, the way they wanted me to. 10 required sessions turned into just 2, and I never went back. I got a therapist this year. I told God I’d do the work and trusted my faith to do the rest. It has been an uneasy eye-opener. I believe that many folks don’t go to therapy because, ...

  BACKSTORY:   This piece was a bit difficult to write. Care for a backstory? My two younger brothers and I were taken from our mom due to her addiction and were placed in foster care with a white family until we were ALL later adopted. Beautiful, right? They took all 3 of us in. Anywho, the foster home was cool. I had my own room, and they had an infinite number of toys in the basement toy room. Crazy how I honestly can’t remember everything I did last night (thanks, slow ass thyroid), but I remember this particular night like it happened 5 minutes ago. I had on a pink long-sleeve night gown. It was chilly outside. I believe it was the end of summer or the beginning of fall. We were all in the living room watching TV. Foster dad had fallen asleep, and their son’s friend held my hand and led me to the bathroom. The rest is…well, just read the story. Because even the moon knew better than to participate.  She was a measly 6. Snaggle-toothed and still losing teeth. Still be...