RUMINATIONS.

the first time I picked up a journal, the word "teen" was still in my age. I didn't quite know what I was doing, or what purpose it would serve, or that I would soon become addicted to chronicling my life before an audience of blank pages. what I did know, however, was that I had complex emotions that I needed to work out, and a haphazard trust in man's ability to keep a well guarded secret. and so it was thus that my delicious habit was born.

over the course of the next decade, I would write about every single minute detail of my life; my thoughts, feelings, ideas, frustrations, inspirations, pains, traumas, joys, ecstasies, all of it. everything went into those pages. my soul lived in those dusty books. year after year, memory after memory. I chronicled everything. and in the process, something gorgeous happened.

I became my own best friend.

there was no better expert to consult than myself in a moment of confusion, and no better friend to rejoice with in a moment of triumph. particularly during the first year of the pandemic, I would ceremoniously spend hours, daily, nurturing my own soul. perhaps if I was feeling a little nostalgic, I would crack open a journal from eons past and smirk at the juvenile issues that plagued me from earlier editions.

I say this with my whole chest: journaling has saved my life, and my journals are my most valuable asset. In my darkest of hours, when I had no one to turn to or nothing to lean on, through journaling, I came to the cognition that all I have ever needed was myself.

through journaling, I learned to love. through journaling, I learned to love myself.

in light of the above, take a moment to close your eyes, settle in silence, and allow yourself to feel the searing pain and roaring terror that gripped my heart.................

...........................when someone stole them all.

during a move. broke into my car. and took the one box that I wanted to personally transport. for safekeeping.

my entire life, my darkest secrets, the enormity of my story: all in the hands of a stranger in the ether.

it was a matter of days before accounts and credit cards started popping up in my name. and it dawned on me. as if it weren't bad enough that these criminals were pouring through my life story, they were reading my journals and piecing together a digital version of me, a framework of who I am to utilize to their benefit.

and this, dear reader, I simply cannot tolerate.

since my mama ain't raise no bitch, my response is thus: you can keep the pages. but you unequivocally will not control this narrative.

no, it was never my intention to publicly share the most intimate details of my life, my experiences, my memories. despite being an artist, I've gone the majority of my days being incredibly mindful of my indelible right to privacy. I don't sell salacious stories for clicks. my integrity doesn't have a barcode. and yet, I find myself in the most fascinating predicament: it's all out there anyway. they robbed me blind.

this, dear reader, I can promise you. if I have no say in the matter. if my right to privacy has been compromised against my will, then at the very least, that dissemination of information will be up to me. under my control. to my gain. to my benefit.

by subscribing to this group, you help to put the power back in my hands and allow me to be the narrator in my own tale.

as a member, you will read weekly RUMINATIONS of the truth, from the source.

who I am. where I've been. where I'm going.

with love,

ME.

p.s. to maintain the anonymity of those who are irrevocably tied to my story, all names in the foregoing pages have been altered. all events and details, however, are factual.

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