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I Am Nobody’s Mother: a Narrative

I Am Nobody’s Mother: a Narrative

Cis-men don’t know what I know. They don’t value what sensi-femmes were raised to inherit. I have emotional knowledge and sensitive capacities that most cis-men have never seen.  Anyone that learns how to open themselves more to these skills knows that in this world, you have to fight for it; because our world doesn’t fight for knowing yourself intimately, doesn’t value expressing and processing emotions. Our foolish, adolescent world scoffs at mysteries that my mother handed down to me and coddles those that willingly get themselves stuck in adolescence.

A cis-man that I have lived with, a known “fuck-boy” in the community, doesn’t value being in tune with his emotions. So when you approach him with real, human experiences, he doesn’t know what to do with them. He certainly doesn’t know how to connect. That kind of behavior - connection - takes a previously built up honesty with yourself that most modern people are taught is a waste of time to confront.

You know what I know? I can tell what age people are, emotionally speaking, the first time I encounter them. I can feel in that first encounter of the eyes how much they  will reveal themselves to me. I know which cis-men and women can share themselves enough to have a vulnerable, real relationship with me (and not in the boyfriend/girlfriend sense, because that too is the short sighted, end-all be-all relationship that our society promotes). And I fought for this knowledge.

I fought to be wise enough to know these things. I sacrificed with courage what I believed to be advantageous friendships in circles that did not value transparency and communication, and I found myself suddenly with wisdom in my lap; the wisdom that tells me I am only an adult on paper. My soul is still releasing a lot of childishness and buzzing adolescent energy, in insecurities and naivete. My soul will ripen when it ripens and I have the knowledge and self love to know that that’s okay. I still can see all of the children around me - ranging in age from babies in the bodies of 22 year olds, to kindergarteners in the flesh of a grown person. Many of the cis-women I meet are somewhere in grammar school, excited to become wise like me, but with little conception of what that entails. They take their time, as they should,  and grow up bit by bit. They stop infantilizing themselves to cis-men, craving attention. Attracting feels good, but respect feels better. They stop peddling their emotional selves to those without the language to understand it. I imagine these interactions as a ten year old trying to have an intelligent conversation with an infant: everyone eventually realizes the folly in preaching to a deaf audience. They start to study the mysteries - read a lot and think for themselves - integrating the transcribed wisdom with the experiences they’ve had.

In order to receive these lessons; to gain a spiritual year or two of wisdom, you have to abandon your childish ways: quietness/dishonesty with yourself that is sustained by living in the superficial, protecting your emotional self by keeping it an inaccessible ball of potent, pent-up energy in your heart. Seeking others to solve your problems for you: blaming, self-shaming. When you find the courage to grow past these, you grow wiser. And it does take courage because the patriarchal, addictive culture does not value these traits. Doesn’t have space for these ideas, just as you didn’t. I’ve grown older than my father. Long surpassed old partners in age - and they were the reasons I had to grow up. Again:

‘Cis-men’ don’t know what I know. And they don’t have the space for it, which is why I don’t have time for them. I’m nobody’s mother, so when a lost little boy or a crying little girl approaches me, I treat them as what they are. I can’t learn their lessons for them. Especially when they have convinced themselves that they are adults, because their bodies have matured and they pay bills.

When little cis-men complain to me and expect some type of acknowledgment of the fantasy problems they they manifest, I can’t be bothered to explain to them that their complaints are their projections of ego, because we don’t share the sophisticated language for them to understand me. Besides, I know they only cry because they want attention - because they’re used to attention - or crave it from mommy. I’m not your mommy. When you find the words to ask me to help you find her or to voice that you realize you’re lost, I can help you. Until then, I’m probably going to laugh at your antics and walk away. When a little girl approaches me and cries for mistakes she’s made from her own naïveté, I will point this out to her, and then again, walk away. I can’t grow up for her. I can’t learn her lessons for her, because I have my own lessons to learn, and the longer I stay to indulge her sobs, the longer it will take for her to confront her Self and her responsibilities.

Essay: To His Granddaughter

Essay: To His Granddaughter

Mental Health Awareness Month is Over, What Now?

Mental Health Awareness Month is Over, What Now?