I am having a psychic temper tantrum today. Taking a detour from issues of race, there are many kinds of statistics kids face in life. Despite being born into a white, upper middle class family, I still managed to run headlong into many of these bad odds of survival. I've overcome a lot, a LOT, of stuff. And now, here's me, a mom of three healthy kids, a treasured employee, and in an Ivy League PhD program. And I'm grateful and blessed and all that good stuff. I truly am. But sometimes, I don't want to be "the girl who lived." Sometimes, it's too much pressure. A friend, who knows my struggles well, called me her hero today. Please, please don't do that. Please. I don't want to be a hero. I'm still sure someone's going to find me out tomorrow, and when my cover's blown, I don't want to let y'all down.
Days like this, I close my eyes walking down an alley, and run my hand along the brick wall to feel the comforting textures and rhythms when nobody's looking. Days like this, I want to break beer bottles in the playground and terrify strangers just for sport, then curl up in a fetal position and be spoon fed hot chocolate. With marshmallows.
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