Since I was about 5 (gaging by my height at the time) I recall blurting things out (well, that actually hasn’t changed in the least) before thinking of the consequence.
When the doorbell rang, whatever kid happened to be closest, would race to open the heavy door, hugging one arm to the stomach to get leverage enough to swing it wide. There wasn’t anything between the front cement slab and the kid standing, gaping at the guest.
This time, I recall, it was a large woman, bulky with her fall coat, opened to the chill, seemingly ignorant of the lines of her body. She stood, appearing a bit alarmed at the size of the welcoming party. As my mom rounded the great staircase from the narrow hallway that jutted into the kitchen, the woman seemed relieved.
I’m sorry he hit you, I admitted. In an instant, the woman pulled back, clearly alarmed. My mom’s grip landed on my upper arm, no bigger than a kid’s bat, and latched like a leech who hadn’t fed in quite some time. It singed my skin. I knew I was in big trouble. Her eyes turned towards me, followed by her curly black hair, in fury. “Don’t be mean to people!”
I admit, probably for two decades, I didn’t whisper the words in my head. The scenes that played out stayed behind closed curtains. My visions were kept firmly solid, without conversation. I wasn’t aware of what I had separated from – the part of myself that trusted ME. The inner knowing, the truth of life, the significance of sensations.
I want for anyone who has those gifts, to witness them without guilt, remorse, shame, anger, retribution, or hesitation. For it means you don’t have access to everything you’re capable of, to contribute.
I found my voice, much later, and wasted so very much of what I had to offer.
Let me help you suss it out.