when they accuse you of destruction

the story isn’t yours anymore, but the pain still is.

I wasn’t supposed to have an essay coming out this week, but it’s 1:41 am, and what’s sitting in my chest won’t wait seven more days.

Trigger Warning: This piece contains reflections on suicidal ideation, alcohol addiction and relapse urges, trauma exploitation, hazing and death (by motor vehicle.) Please read with care and prioritize your well-being. If you are in a vulnerable place, consider whether now is the right time to read.

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As I shared in my last piece, I’m making an effort to lift the paywall on my future writing and even some past pieces to make my work more accessible to anyone who needs it.

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It's raining quite a bit outside, and that's probably one of the reasons I haven't relapsed tonight. As I lay on my yoga mat earlier this evening, my legs in the air while I ugly cried, I could only think about how much I wanted to drink. I'd walked by a nondescript bar alongside someone earlier in the day. I nonchalantly said, "That's my relapse spot. I'd go there and drink," as if I wasn't already fixating on doing the same thing later. My brain told me that maybe a mezcal margarita could fix all my problems or at least distract me for the few short minutes it takes to consume. I messaged my sober mentor, who has since become a friend. Old me wouldn't have done that. Practice makes progress. I tell her of what's transpired. I tell her how much I want to drink even though I know I don't need to drink. She tells me not to drink. And it's pouring outside, so tonight I don't drink.

Substack reminded me that it's been a year since I published "and if I should." I think that the timing of so many things just feels impeccable, if not just plain cruel. How do I share a year-old post that talks about this invisible sickness, my depression, and the "way that sometimes I covet death" when tonight, for just a moment, I again wish I was brave enough to die. A year later, I wander the same streets, feeling a familiar tide rising, one that I'm doing my damndest to swim over and through, one that comes and goes. I can handle the waves, but even the best can grow too tired to continue onward.

I woke up yesterday, Saturday morning, in search of something to listen to while I began the day. I'm still replaying the moment in my head when I saw my name as the title of a popular true-crime podcast about black women, mainly those who have committed murder. It took me a second to realize I wasn't glitching and that here I was, hit with a crashing wave I hadn't been prepared for. I think the impact is what has had my head hammering consistently since the moment I saw it. The tears were on my face before I ever realized they had sprouted from my eyes, and my hands shook violently as I tried to figure out my next step. I messaged my best friend, my brain moving on autopilot because how can I ask it to be active and aware when it's being assaulted? I sent her a screenshot of the show notes. You can see my linesisters' names listed as victims, and who am I listed as? The 'murderess.' Words mean things, and with theirs, they have slashed a whole new cavity into my core.

Tonight, I again wish I died in the accident that killed two of my linesisters. It's the same wish I had when I was only twenty. I am now five years away from forty. It's the same wish I have come back to time and time again. including today. I rarely share my story. I rarely talk about my linesisters, whom I still struggle to name. I rarely talk about how I feel undeserving of the good memories. I rarely talk about the screams I hear and the darkness that encompasses them; how I've never known if it's real or some nightmarish memory I've created from nothing. I rarely talk about the gap that exists between that November morning and each new day that arrives.

I rarely talk about how I hate myself for falling asleep while driving and somehow, to no effort of my own, survived. I rarely talk about wanting to be a part of something so dearly, only for it to be my downfall. Only for it to kick me even harder once I'm down. I rarely talk about how I believe they probably think I was better off dead because a dead girl can't speak. But if they knew what I knew, they'd think differently.

I rarely talk about the way people consume the trauma, dropping a few letters and adding another. Now, it's nothing more than drama, nothing more than entertainment. Nothing more than something to watch from the outside to say so confidently what you would or would not have done as if you ever really want to be put in that position. I rarely talk about how much they too would have wanted to die if they found themselves in these same shoes.

I already had plans for Saturday. Tamales and coffee with a homegirl in the morning, a date in the evening at a dimly lit, perfectly vibed-out wine bar with alcohol-free options for my choosing. All things considered, my day went well. Maybe I was still in shock. Perhaps I just willfully rebuked all my big emotions to the side because, simply put, I had shit to do. But I also felt incredibly embarrassed and exposed to harsh conditions without any type of heads-up. I felt unprepared for the sudden storm.

I spoke with my friend about it, and I was grateful for a blossoming connection that allowed me to sit with my grief. After the tamales, chisme, and general catching up, I took to my bookshelf with urgency to find the line from Audre Lorde's 'The Uses of Anger.' Audre says, "Everything can be used except what is wasteful. You will need to remember this when you are accused of destruction." I scribble it onto the mirror that holds my affirmations, and I read it over and over again. I message my therapist and update her. I used "wtf?!?" twice in that email. I felt so much adrenaline while I typed it, maybe because I had just been screaming into my hands in the shower not long before, and it gave me an intolerable head high.

I debated how much to tell my date, fearful that I might say too much, that I'd become a Reddit thread about the "first date from hell" because I'd shown up with steaming hot grief in tow. I worry that he will smell the stench from five blocks away. But when I tell him, he makes space. He tells me about a group of Indigenous people and the way they likened our emotions to strangers showing up at our doorsteps in need of something. They won't be there forever and are only passing through, but will we consider letting them in? Will I let myself in? Will I tend to my needs? Will I meet myself with compassion instead of turning away from what needs to be faced? Can my emotions not become bigger than my existence? When I was once again alone today, left to simmer in the past 24 hours, I came undone entirely as if I had been held together by poorly applied paper mache.

As I walked Lennox this afternoon, I tried not to be mad at him. He has no clue what's going on. However, he did see how unhinged I became in the immediate aftermath of learning about the episode's existence. I cried and paced around my room, trying to type a text and unable to do so, looking like a madwoman, and I think I was. Maybe I am. Even with a freshly poured bowl of kibble, he couldn't keep his eyes off me; they flashed with concern as if to say, "Girl, you good?" I also tried not to be mad at the world, more specifically, the people in it. They too have no clue what's going on. It was so hard to smile at the faces who passed me on the street, and when I did, my lips would automatically return to their downward position. I put 'I Release' by Beautiful Chorus on repeat with one headphone in and the other out so I could give some attention to the bustling city around me. I willed the lyrics to bury themselves way down in my soul, to activate something.

I began repeating what Audre told us: Everything can be used except what is wasteful. You will need to remember this when you are accused of destruction. I hope that considering I still have Beautiful Chorus playing on repeat through my one headphone, the people who pass me by won't think I'm talking to myself. But I am talking to myself. These words are holding me up on this walk. These words drown out all the other words that want to enter, the ones that let themselves in, overstay, and surely wear out their welcome.

I am proud of myself for using my tools. Had this happened at another time, say last June or even this January, I might have only been inclined to take a knife to my wrist. Not to message my best friend. Not to tell my therapist. Not to tell my homegirl over tamales. Not to tell a first date while I sip a perfectly chilled 0.0-proof IPA. Not to scream into my hands from a place so far inside me that I almost topple over from the rush. Not to cuss and cry. Not to cry and cuss. Not to read my book so I can focus on a story other than my own. Not to call my sober friend and tell her how badly I want to drink. And I only want to drink because I feel broken. And I don't drink because I know it will only break me more. But because I don't want to feel as broken, I do all the things that give me the illusion that maybe I have the glue to hold together what has been torn apart.

So I self-medicate. And I doom scroll. and scroll. and scroll. And I eat. and. and eat. I didn't taste any of it, and now my stomach hurts, and I fear I won't fit into my clothes. I do what I did when I was twenty, what I've done so many times since; I look at what people are saying about me. I let strangers minimize me, this story, and their thoughts into something bitesize, into something chewable. But if they only knew the half, they wouldn't even dare try to fit their mouth around it, and if they did, they would certainly choke. And I cry, and I cry, and I cry because I know strangers can be cruel, but there's nothing like a fresh reminder.

At the beginning of this month, I released an essay titled "the letter i never wrote," and while so scared about publishing it and then seeing the views grow higher and higher, I eventually landed on the feeling of empowerment. I was proud to say something I needed to say, even if it wasn't everything. And now all I can think to myself is, how dare you? How dare you think your voice is loud enough? How dare you think your will is strong enough? How dare you think your life is worth enough? How dare you think that people will hear you if you're not willing to yell? This is me yelling. I have always been yelling, but so often I am the only one who hears.

Everything can be used except what is wasteful.
You will need to remember this when you are accused of destruction.

Everything can be used except what is wasteful.
You will need to remember this when you are accused of destruction.

Everything can be used except what is wasteful.
You will need to remember this when you are accused of destruction.

For some time leading up to the release of 'the letter I never wrote,' I meditated on Audre's essay 'The Transformation of Silence Into Language and Action.' I repeated it to myself, noticing where specific lines operated like magnets, drawing me closer to various parts of my life. Drawing me closer to this ache to say something. Now, I meditate on this excerpt because I've never been allowed my anger. I've barely been allowed my grief; I had to get that back, and it wasn't an easily won battle.

What I feel now is anger.
Anger because my linesisters are dead. Anger because I'm here.

Anger because you so irresponsibly called me a murderer,
and I can't get it out of my head.

Anger because systems win out over sisterhood.
Anger because more people will die.
Anger because more people will wish they had died.
Anger because more people will want to die.

Anger because they will forget their names when it's convenient,
while confidently using their names to state them as culpable in their own deaths.

Anger because they wrap the worst years into 52 minutes,
when I'm still trying to process it after 15 years.

Anger because they will tell you this is an outlier and "we don't condone hazing,"
and yet the culture of it prevails.

Anger because people will say "couldn't be me"
until they are later praying to gods they haven't spoken to in ages, asking, "Why me?"

Anger because I remember all the stories strangers shared,
their missed moments of tragedy.

Anger because they will blame the legs,
as if the brain isn't controlling each and every step.

Anger because I feel like my 20-year-old self again-- left out to dry, abandoned by those who never did and maybe never will take accountability.

Anger because I feel like I'm losing my voice when I have only just got it back.

Anger because it's pouring outside and all I want to do is drink.

question for reflection: How, if at all, do you use your anger?

📸cover photo by Jackie Tan on Unsplash
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a few things before you go…

⏪ Catch up on previous installments of The Mourning Pages with the stories of emel, Jordan, Samuel, and Melina.

💌 Join me on Zoom—Friday, July 18th, 4–5:30pm (Mexico City time)—for grief, gently, a free community writing space to reflect on loss and care. Register for free <3

❤️ Tap the ♥ if it resonates and share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear from you!