New Year, New What?

How many times do we say, “It’s a New Year, a new me” ? How many times do we make a resolution only to give up by Spring?

I told myself that I wouldn’t cry. I told myself that I would focus on me. I knew I was lying to myself.

After so many years of building a wall and not letting people see how broken I am, it’s failed. Now I have so many people who care and with one look, I just break down. I care too much sometimes, so I can’t just focus on me. Or maybe I’m so scared I’m afraid that if I focus on myself, I’ll realize just how unimportant I am.

This is in no way written to make people feel sorry. It’s simply a way for me to write out my feelings because only a few people look at my blog anyways. What harm does it do, just being unapologetically real?

New Year’s Day. The day many people nurse a hangover. The day that is supposed to be about starting fresh.

How can I start fresh, when its also the day I was born?

Yup, I’m a New Year’s Day baby.

An unwanted one.

I come from a dysfunctional upbringing. I’m a foster kid…no, I used to be a foster kid. It’s funny that even all these years later how some labels stick. How words have a way of attaching themself and we let them define us.

Twenty-nine years ago, a surprise was born to an unwed teenage mother. A surprise with tawny skin, a contrast to the woman of beige complexion who birthed her. From the moment she could comprehend words, she knew what she was Unwanted, Different, and a lot of times Unloved.

The greatest sin was me being born Black into a racist home ruled by an unhappy woman who I happened to be related to. Just because we share blood, does not make us family.

An innocent child who is hated because of who her father is. A child who is told over and over again that being Black is a bad thing. A child that is told over and over again they shouldn’t have been born. A child told over and over again by those closest related that they don’t like you because you are Black.

Does it matter that the “family” you are born into are mixed Native American and Hispanic/Latinx?

Does it matter that growing up you knew you were Black, but not what it actually meant?

Does it matter that as much of the traditional Native American/Indigenious you grew up learning, you still didn’t feel welcome?

I was too Black for the Native/Hispanic side, but I was also too Native/Hispanic when I tried hanging out with the few Black kids in the neighborhood.

I don’t know my Black side, my father’s identity remains a mystery to me.

What I do know is that despite the harsh labels and hurtful words I’ve grown up with. 2021 will be the year that I won’t be fearful of who I am.

I am Black. I am Indigenious. I am Latinx. I am Me.

I am anxiety. I am depression. I am insecurity. I am stubborn. I am broken. I am me.

So this isn’t New Year, New Me.

It’s New Year, Unapologetically Me!

Published by firestormofbooks

Hello, An avid book reader, crochet enthusiast, makeup enthusiast, and someone who enjoys those hobbies. This is where I will share some book reviews, cosplays inspired by bookish or televison characters as well as crochet creations I make from time to time.

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