Raw and Red

I have eczema, a skin condition that gives me dry, itchy patches on my hands and arms. When I don't put on my cream (which is often because I'm lazy), the itch constantly bothers me and so I scratch and scratch until the skin is raw and red. That's how my soul feels right now: raw and red.

Even before this time, I had a healthy fear of the world. As a queer Black woman who is only 5'2, I know that there are a lot of people who don't view my life as sacred and could seriously harm or kill me. I know I wouldn't be strong enough to fight off an attacker. I don't say this lightly. It's a reality, a reality that I've had 19 years to come to grips with.

I still live a life full of love and light, but there is always the shadow of hate tailing everything. When I was still able to go out, I was on high alert when any man came into eyesight. Drinks never leave my hand. I walk with headphones on blast to discourage anyone approaching me for conversation. It's a life that straight white cismen can't even imagine, but it's mine and I wouldn't change anything about myself to conform to white supremacist heterosexist patriarchy.

Like everyone in this awful country, my life has changed drastically since Trump so devastatingly fumbled the bag with COVID-19. I'm back home stuck in the house with only the internet and books to give me escapism. And so much of what I'm consuming is just me scratching the itchy feeling that something isn't right here.

Every day I look at articles about COVID-19. Both because my anxiety about this particular worldwide calamity craves up-to-date information and because some part of me lacks self-preservation and wants to confirm all my worst fears. Even as I know pushing myself to this point isn't necessarily healthy, I also know that my panic and fear is not misplaced. There are people who are ignorant (willfully or otherwise). Some of those people are my loved ones and others are not. Their actions affect me even as I try to release myself of feeling responsible for other people. When they make the irresponsible decision, that could mean they get sick and/or bring it home to me. As someone who struggles with trusting other people to do the right thing, the US is a nightmare right now. I know the government is the one that is truly to blame and shaming people who don't wear masks isn't really productive, but I been knew the government was on some fuckshit. I don't expect them to ever be the ones protecting me. I wish I could count on others to at least do what they can.

When the news of Toyin's murder was released, I felt that pang of sadness that I feel for every Black person whose life is taken from them. It was more personal as she was my age and I could see myself in her, but it was still behind a veil of desensitization. I could vaguely understand the horror of what that man did to her, but I didn't truly know. Then, despite all online trigger warnings, I read the details of what happened to her. Or, more accurately, I skimmed it until it had me breaking down in quiet sobs. The pain and aloneness were so much more clear to me. It wasn't just an abstraction that I could mourn and move on. The horror haunted my days and nights. It would be days until I had therapy and I wasn't yet back on my journaling kick so I just internalized the ache of what happened and what could be. I always knew of the brutalization that could be waiting around any corner for me. It was in the relief in my mom's eyes that I didn't like drinking, it was in the mace and pocket knife I was given to protect myself, it was in the warnings to not have my headphones on too loud lest I react too late to an attacker. The signs were always there and I thought I knew, but I didn't know until I skimmed that article, until I scratched too hard on that particular itch. Beyond being raw and red, I was bleeding.

I think I've done enough to stop the bleeding. I'm really happy some days and mercifully okay most days. Sometimes though, I still scratch.