Motherhood.

One word—a million emotions.

A million more, since the hysterectomy.

In my last post, I talked about how I never thought I’d have a baby, because I was determined to never act out the violence I knew growing up on another soul.

#realtalk: If you’ve been hurt the way I’ve been, you don’t f*** around with it. You just don’t. I don’t f*** around with hurting people I love. I’ll leave you first. I won’t hurt you, because I know how damaging it is. I know how traumatic it is when someone who says she loves you puts her hands on you. I couldn’t gamble with that. I couldn’t chance it. I never wanted to put a child through what I experienced myself.

Why should a little one ever have to feel the wrath of her own mother?

I remember what that was like—to FEEL the anger emanating off her. When she put me out that final time (she had been putting me out forever, really … she put all her kids out. When you got to a certain age, that’s just how she did it), I could literally feel the force of her anger. I could feel the heat of her angry energy, as it propelled me out the door.

She held a knife in her hand.  #straightupstreet

She took my purse so I wouldn’t have any money or ID.

She threw me down the steps, out of the house.

To her credit, her Momma died when she was 17. I think she was stuck in that emotional energetic of 16, 17 … a baby raising babies.

But there I was, sitting on the stoop where she left me, when the anger became mine.

It rose up in me like heat from the asphalt, and I saw red.

I knew if I ever went back, I might put my hands on her.

So I never did.

It wasn’t because I didn’t love her. I didn’t go back because I loved her.

I was too old by then to force the positive. I couldn’t justify what she did to me anymore.

The truth is, I loved her too much to hurt her, so I left her.

I took that hit, and it has been my life ever since—it’s what I live by.

I would never hurt a baby.

Even if it meant never carrying one … holding one … loving one.

So I kept the momma in me safely secured in a box. My Pandora’s Box.

She’s been there for decades—only emerging from her hiding place when a doctor told me it was time to remove my womanhood from my body.

And now, I hardly know what to do with her …

Venus Opal

Author(s)

  • Dr. Venus Opal Reese

    Your Millionaire Mentor

    At 16 years old, Dr. Venus Opal Reese lived on the mean streets of Baltimore, amidst drugs, prostitutes, pimps, police, and violence. 14 years later, she graduated from Stanford University with a second Master’s degree and a Ph.D.

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