Honoring The Space In-Between

June 29, 2022July 14, 2022 ~ kay dilla ~ Leave a comment

It is with great hesitation that I share this post. To be honest, it’s with great hesitation that I share pretty much anything these days. For this reason, I have struggled with how to return to you. Nearly 8 months ago, I conceptualized and created Tha Scribble, a platform that was conceived to be a safe space for me to mindlessly create in. This space also stood as an opportunity to showcase my talent, and if my ego could have a moment, possibly help someone. Even if only myself. On my darkest days, the act of creation has always been how I stayed in the light, and I was really excited to do what has always come natural to me. After all, my urge to write is as primal as tears or laughter. The will to write, however, was something totally different.

In the time since I published my first post, my ENTIRE existence has shifted in ways that I’m still not ready to expand upon as of yet. To be even more transparent, I wouldn’t even know how. As someone who has gone through life trying to turn pain into poetry, and was ready to embark on an artistic journey, that innate and unconscious desire to create through the chaos presented itself, but I really didn’t have anything to say. To anyone. About anything. For any reason. That’s the thing about life, it is constantly changing… And then, without warning, it changes you. The woman I am today, cannot easily wring wise words from my wrists, and write away all that was wrong then, or even right now in this very moment. The WOMAN I am today, is a lot more cautious and conscious about what I choose to contribute to a conversation. I wish to scribble outside the lines of heartbreak and not just pen and publish posts about my longing and my losses, if there isn’t a lesson involved. It is not enough to just be hurt. How are these words healing? How is this work helpful? Before I can answer to the callings of this world, I must first answer to myself.

And in doing so, I’ve been in sacred isolation. I’ve been keeping to myself, lately, and trying my very best to keep it all together for me and my babies. This solitude has been my solace. I sit in the silence. I sit in the sorrow. I sit in the suffering the uncertainty brings, and I let spirit have its way with my soul. I feel my way through the darkness, I throw myself at the mercy of the mourning, and I give myself the freedom to fall apart. I’ve noticed that coming undone is cathartic in ways that I could’ve never imagined. As someone who has always needed control or at least the illusion of it, I now find myself calling out for my creator. My relationship with God has become less of the head, and more of the heart. My relationship with myself has too. It was when I let go of the everything I thought I knew, and was stripped of all the ideas and concepts that both buoyed me up AND broke me down… that I was able to truly know God, and also be able to see the God in myself. And, as I get to know myself again, for who I am now, I am able to honor the space between who I once was and who I wish to become.

So what does this mean for Tha Scribble ? Although, I can’t in good faith commit to a posting schedule, I can predict that I shall be more active in the coming months. It is with great hesitation that I post this peice, but also with great hope that you enjoy it, at best or understand it, at least. Until next time.

KayDilla

Gone Til November.

November 8, 2021April 27, 2022 ~ kay dilla ~ Leave a comment

Date: November 7, 2021

Sunday at 6:17pm

I want so bad to be able to turn the pain of the last year into poetry. I want to be able to write away the wrong, but the words don’t come easily anymore. The urge is unconscious. I will always want to write. It was never just a past-time when I had time. For me, it was basic instinct. For me, it was the difference between life and death. The only healthy way I knew how to cope and my only hope for faith. But I didn’t write. Instead, I would spend hours sitting in front of a blank page, waiting for me to show up. Waiting to wrangle words from my wrists, but the words don’t come easily anymore. Not as easy as sadness. Not as quickly as the tears. I wanted badly to write away the wrong, but what do you do when writing no longer FEELS right?

At first, I tried working out, tried modeling, tried therapy. Hell, I even went back to bartending. I was drunk and high, and tired. I was depressed, and ridden with anxiety. I became a shell of my former self. The woman I used to be almost feels like a figment of my imagination because nobody noticed. Nobody realized that the woman who walked out of that room was not the same woman who walked inside. And the woman I am now is the woman I had to become in order to come out on the other side of it all. Shutting down, checking out, sleepwalking through life, showing up missing on paper, and in my every day, while avoiding sobriety felt vital to my survival. I still had the unconscious urge to create, but what if the person I had to become doesn’t possess the ability or imagination to be creative? I want so bad to be able to turn the pain of the last year into poetry. But what if who I am now no longer believes that pain can be repurposed or reimagined into something positive, and no longer believes that life and all of its experiences is beautiful, and no longer believes that my story is worthy of becoming art?

The person I had to become was almost primitive. Unevolved. Emotionally unavailable. Surviving, sure, but not actually living. Taking time to reflect and remember it all, was a luxury that I couldn’t yet afford. I eventually realized that the words that I thought didn’t come easily, were waiting for me on the other side of my own devastation. I just had to be ready to let them break my heart a little. I couldn’t turn the pain into poetry, without letting the pain hurt me first. So, I closed my eyes and opened the floodgates. In an instant, a lump swelled in my throat, my chest tightened, my stomach tied itself in knots, and I let it all wash over me. And it wasn’t until I let it hit me. It wasn’t until I could let it in, with all of its sadness and all of its tears, that I could truly let it go. Today the words came easily and went freely. And between these pages, I found what I thought I had lost. Myself.