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at this point, love is being someone i am unable to recognize. “the fixer, the filler-friend, the third wheel, the other person, the resource, the therapist, the supply” waiting to be used—roles i have mastered and rule well. ever wonder which rung of consciousness rupture occurred? early childhood wounds less about my parents and more about the conditions in which my consciousness did and did not develop.
scattered across consciousness spheres like a bag of Skittles, clocking my stationing at rule/role identity rung, conformity as belonging began around year eight when folks started making comments about my way of being—”you talk low like a boy.” “you say ni**er like a white person.” “you complain too much” an elementary school peer proclaimed, banishing me from belonging. Truth is, I did not belong and I wish I would have known belonging lack meant differentiation/transcendence—that i was indeed, climbing my rungs.
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