So here we go again. This is only maybe the third or fourth attempt at blogging. But here I am again starting again.
I’m learning that there is no shame in starting again. In fact, it shows strength, it shows persistence. Also, I didn’t know why I was so drawn to writing before. But now I understand. My mom used to say that when You keep on trying to do something and it doesn’t work out for you it means that it wasn’t meant to be. I also take that to mean that when something won’t let you leave it alone despite how much you neglect it you need to pursue it. So here I am sitting at my favorite Starbucks location writing again.
Getting back to what I was saying about starting again, it also requires courage.
Being Claudia B is about me getting back to myself. It means me being me, living from my core, no filters. Learning myself, accepting myself, living myself and loving myself. I started again because the past few months have proven quite catastrophic in my life but have also caused me to face myself and I’ve learned so much. This collection of writings will serve to document my transition. My transition from Lost to found. It will document the journey of finding myself.
So, why do I write.
I noticed something, whenever something is happening in my life I always want to write about it. Granted its typically the sad stuff but I’m always drawn to writing. During these past few months as things have been happening in my life I realized that my journal became my haven. Its been the one place that I could just pour it all out without restraint and after I was done I felt relieved, even cleansed. Like I took a soul bath. Writing makes me feel tingly. I get butterflies almost. When I realized this, I went into analyzing myself to figure out why. (As you’ll get to know me you’ll start to realize that I’m always analyzing. I’m always seeking understanding) Why does writing make me feel this way? When did I fall in love with a good old fashion journal and pen? When did it all begin.
Then I remembered.
I saw the little girl about 7 or 8, pouring her soul into a journal. Writing everything her lips couldn’t form the words to say into a black and white mead journal. Sitting at a round table with other little girls who were all able to form the words and share with the counselors about what happened to them and how they were feeling. That little girl never spoke a word. Like Maya the caged bird she held her silence, she only spoke through that pen. The first time she wrote like that was when after several group counseling meetings, the counselor realized that she would never voluntarily open her mouth to share. The counselor one day offered her a notebook. The rules were that she never had to participate in the group discussions if she didn’t want to, but she could write whatever she didn’t want to share in the book instead. Only thing was that the book had to stay with the counselor when counseling was done.
I remember that place. I went there for counseling weekly I believe. On Mondays. My mom would drag me and my siblings to the counselor where I was court mandated to attend counseling because of what happened to me. Writing this just brought on the taste of the cheese we used to eat for snack time during the counseling sessions. I think that maybe where I fell in love with cheese too. I remember a lady, Ms. Thompson I think her name was. She was a heavyset Black Woman, the kindest soul I’d ever met at that point in my life. During Christmas she made sure my mother had presents for all of us. There was a sign language poster in the baby blue waiting room, that’s where I learned to sign letters.
That place. A children’s counseling practice is where I fell in love with writing. I never realized it, but I’ve been writing ever since. I stopped writing when I met my husband. And for the past thirteen years I’ve only written when I had nowhere else to turn.
Here I am writing again because I’m positioned to rediscover myself. I’ve been brought back to the starting place, Claudia Boucicaut age 5-6 I think.