⚠️ Content Advisory: Unfiltered Truths, Tender Realities
This piece includes candid reflections on sexual trauma, intimate partner violence, STDs, abortion, and the emotional toll of complex family dynamics. It does not aim to shame or shock—but to tell the truth as it lived in one body, in one moment, under too much pressure for too long.
If you’ve experienced reproductive trauma, emotional neglect, or carry your own stories around shame, survival, or unsafe love, please tread gently.
Take what you need, leave what you don’t. Breathe deep. You are seen.These stories aren’t shared for sympathy.
They’re offered as soul medicine—for anyone who’s ever had to stitch themselves back together in silence.
My Dad claims that he and my mom were over (why wouldn’t he) well before the new relationship with my stepmother began.
Maybe not Connie, but ehh. The math ain’t really mathing. But what does it matter all these years later?
He’s still here.
She and my mother are not.
Whatever did or did not happen is between the three of them and their God.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t address how their actions had an adverse effect on my well-being, along with shaping my adult and womanhood.
I am grateful to my stepmother. But also: Fuck her too though.
It was just her and me while my dad worked two jobs.
Raising a kid that wasn’t hers, all while her body became a prison that couldn’t carry her own…
She taught me bargain shopping, grace, and the importance of a handwritten thank you note.
I chuckle when I think back to when I started doing standup.
She would joke that she hoped she was long gone before I started talking.
Well, even words on a stage all began as words on a page. Feel free to laugh or not when the urge hits you.
She had some self-esteem issues.
A chunky farmgirl who had fallen in love with a handsome, charismatic man in uniform, with more than a little baggage. She of course wanted to build a life with him, including children even though he already had two. When I re-entered their lives permanently, outside summers and holidays –– I get that I was intrusion.
And a constant reminder of what she was unable to have with her husband. I didn’t want to be there anymore than she wanted me there, but the authorities said I had to choose: Back to my mother’s house or stay with my father and his wife. When I said neither, I was told that was not an option. Lol. I was aware that it was not Stepmother’s first choice to have me there, but society frowns on that kind of honesty.
Suddenly, there was this preteen on her doorstep, with few social and healthy conflict resolution skills. While I learned to keep my nose clean for the most part, I. WAS. A. KID. Nothing less than a B on my report card meant I could stay off punishment.
There were hiccups in the beginning. So she immediately threw me into Catholic school to let the nuns deal with me.
Didn’t she know Catholic school kids were the most problematic?! I had a best friend who looked way older than a 13-year-old and was a carbon copy of her mother. This came in handy when she stole her license and picked me up to go joyriding one weekday night. What was this new obsession with stolen cars?! And we would have gotten away with it, except that big mouth had a crisis of conscious one day and decided to turn our living room into a makeshift confessional. I remember coming home from wherever and seeing both sets of our parents in our living room.
Where was that bitch, you ask?
Oh, she decided to do all that singing like a canary before being shipped off to some teen crisis treatment center, leaving me to deal with the blowback of her newfound honesty. I quickly realized her verbal diarrhea was inherited when her parents decided to visit my parents and share what had been going on in their house. What happened to Black folks keeping what goes on in their four walls –– in their four walls?!
Why couldn’t she just leave me out of it? This wasn’t her first foray into grand theft auto.
Why did I have to catch strays for her to clear her conscious with her Lord?
Fucking Judas. My folks were so disappointed. It was the first time I ever really saw my dad cry. I thought, damn I did that.
Extra, Exta!
Other than regular teen stuff, I stayed below the radar after that. So that I could have my own money, I started working at thirteen. My first job was a paper route. As a teen, I remember being in a perpetual state of fight, flight, freeze or fawn on any given weekday when that garage door went up, because I never knew what prednisone-induced Dr Jekyll or Mr Hyde haze would greet me disguised as my stepmother.
And still –– she did not play about me when she was made aware that other people were trying to take advantage of or bully me. The “manager” of my paper route found a “discrepancy” with the monies I submitted versus what was owed. This Karen tried to roll up to our house –– unannounced –– and confront me without confirming an adult present.
No one could out-Karen my stepmother, intelligently, anyway.
Stepmother cordially invited the woman in and offered her a seat and a glass of Crystal Lite Iced Tea. She heard the woman’s charge, reviewed the figures, and when Stepmother found that the discrepancy was in the manager’s math and not mine –– baby, Stepmother proceeded to read that woman for the filth. Told her if she ever came around our house, bullying a child –– her child, there would be hell to pay. And then she would have to deal with her husband –– my dad.
I was a senior in high school, the next time Stepmother had assumed the role of my public defender, except this time it was a bit more subtle.
I had been ditching classes to see a guy. My friends turned frienemies once we disagreed, decided to call my stepmother and rat me out.
My stepmother thanked them and said she would handle it. Her way of handling it was not to punish, but instead let me know that those bitches who I thought were my friends –– were not. Then she convinced my dad to allow this older guy I had been sneaking to meet, over to meet them. She didn’t shame me, instead allowed me to find my way, in my own way. And I did. Once the guy realized my no was non-negotiable, he eventually lost interest.
.
One thing became clear during the six years I lived with my Dad and Stepmother: They were allowed to have moods and bad days — to be human. I was not. Instead punished for exhibiting the same.
I spent a lot of time in my room, not because I was a sullen teenager, but because I was scared to emote for fear of being grounded or threatened with a backhand for “having an attitude”. I did not have an attitude; I had a deregulated nervous system, raised in a house with adults who suffered the same. I was thrown straight away into therapy at the behest of my stepmother upon my arrival to their doorstep, for which I will be eternally grateful.
The only problem is that it wasn’t family therapy. She didn’t think she needed to come or had anything to work on. Insert the bugged-eyed emoji reaction to that memory lane cognitive dissonance. It was just my father, who, when he did join me, sat through the entire session with his arms akimbo, ready to pounce on me or the therapist like a kodiak bear on a salmon –– if either of us said anything he felt disparaged or challenged him.
I remember my stepmother yelling at me one Winter Break, “You and your Father aren’t going to ruin Christmas for me!”
I’m sorry, what, ma’am?
This “othering” she had done to my father and me… like she wasn’t somehow the Michelle to our Kelly and Beyonce –– not integral to the survival of his and my relationship, but not nonsensical either.
My presence felt tolerated, never celebrated.
I had burned the safe dwelling bridge with my Mom.
Where else was I going to live?
Bye Bitches!
Leaving for college was a relief. I joined every residential life program that would enable me to stay at school practically year-round.
I remember being home one weekend from college. It was a Sunday, and I planned to head back later in the evening. I woke up early, grabbed the paper to raid the sales ad section. A cardinal sin, I later learned, many people (read: freaks) frowned upon.
They liked to be the first to wrinkle the Sunday paper. Second-hand handling and reading were sacrilege.
My stepmother made a flippant comment. Not unlike ones in the past, but that day it felt particularly cruel. I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat, along with the tears insisting they be invited to the conversation. I got quiet. And when I felt enough fawn had passed, I made an excuse about having a project I needed to get started on for the upcoming week. She asked if I was ok. I smiled and headed downstairs to pack.
Even though I had tested their patience as parents of a runaway eccentric, I had managed to graduate from high school –– with honors, without getting pregnant. A matriarchal curse that my mother later shared that my sister and I had escaped.
I am an outlier, a rebel. I waited for college to do that. And didn’t ask them for a penny to take care of it.
The only problem was that the pregnancy made the previously undetected HPV – detectable.
And requiring surgery since the hormone and immune system changes as a result of the pregnancy, had caused the genital warts to grow too large. This I did have to alert my parents about since I was still on their insurance.
Without missing a beat to weaponize my existing shame, my stepmother asked who the guy was. I refused to answer.
When she asked if it was the same guy with whom I had become pregnant, I hit her with a defiant “NO!”
“So you’re down there letting them use you up, huh?” She said.
I ignored her.
What?!
You thought I actually let that older motherfucker I was ditching class for, hit it?!
I told you my no meant no. I did like him, but not enough to lose my V-card.
I knew he wasn’t shit…especially for dealing with a high schooler. No way was I becoming his baby mama number two.
But I didn’t tell my parents that.
They had already made up in their minds the degree to which whatever kind of whore I was or wasn’t.
I knew the truth. And that’s all that mattered.
And the fact of the matter was that I had only been with two guys in my life.
The dis-ease gift giver was a groomer frat guy from freshman year.
By that summer I had had enough of his always (literally) asking me to lick his butthole.
I wasn’t a dog. Nor was I Gabby Union to his Dwayne Wade.
The savior from that relationship was, unfortunately, another groomer, but this time a small-time hood. You know the kind that hangs out around a college campus, but is not and never has plans to ever enroll?! Yeah, him. Anyway, I knew I had to get rid of him and that baby real quick when he slammed me against a wall for…asking a question.
But first, the electricity.
Yep, I co-signed for electricity on his place that he tried to get me to rent for him –– IN MY NAME! Once I realized he wasn’t shit either, by the end of the Summer –– it was too late and baby was trying to make three.
I remember my best friend from high school drove me. And nursed me back to health over a weekend before returning to school. Her older sister happened to stop by and peeked in on me. She thought I was asleep, but I overheard her tell her sister, my friend, “y’all gotta stop killin’ kids.” Damn. Had she just outed her younger sister?
When the fuck was my homegirl pregnant?
And didn’t tell me?
If she had been, by the rascal she was messing around with at the time… I understand why she kept it to herself.
After exercising my “my body, my choice” rights, it was time to cut all contract ties with this wannabe Nino Brown.
That meant getting the electricity switiched out of my name to…some other unsuspecting sucker??? I really didn’t give a fuck who.
Oh, that’s what the slam was about: My asking him to come with me to switch out the names on the power bill. Apparently, that triggers a man with low to no credit, and I was cutting off his gravy train.
He asked to keep it in my name a little longer, promising to pay the bill. After the slam, I gave him a deadline. Yea, yea –– I know. I didn’t know my power back then, and was the queen of self-betrayal via pleasing and appeasing. Until I wasn’t. I told the other homegirl of our best friend trio, who also happened to be on campus me, what was going on.
I love my co-Taurean sister(s), because she literally dragged me by my hand to the power company, so we could explore my options. And just like that, in the dead of Winter, guess whose power was cut off?! But more importantly –– out of my name?! Hallelujah.
He was, as the kids say, hotter than fish grease. He was scouring that campus to place my head on a pike.
Then he remembered who my father was and thought better of it. He played silly games and won silly prizes.
Last I heard, he was in and out of prison –– which tracks.
Social standing in the cafeteria’s soup and salad line
Once Wannabe Nino and his unborn offspring were off my list of to-dos, addressing the coco-puff-sized nodules in my underpants was next.
The surgery had been scheduled. Since we were of a family of fight, flight, freeze and fawners –– the blemish on the family crest had not really been addressed. That is, until I was being wheeled into the O.R. You see, the hospital in which I was being operated on, was also my dad’s workplace. With my father nowhere in sight –– of course, she didn’t want witnesses, Stepmother leaned over, as the IV drip kicked in and whispered, “Don’t you worry about a thing. Everyone in the hospital will be gossiping about (dad’s name)’s daughter having surgery to remove genital warts…but you just focus on getting through the surgery.”
Pick your mouths up off the floor, babies. That is a true fucking story.
Hurting people hurt people. And clearly you have to be to say some shit like that to a child you claim to love, drifting into an anesthesia-induced unconsciousness. And still I rise.
I was lying there too weak to punch her.
However, I do remember thinking: “Thanks Bitch. Until then, no, I hadn’t been worried about how my getting walnut-proportioned warts lasered off my labia would affect my father’s social standing in the cafeteria’s soup and salad line.”
If she –– oops, I mean my dad was so embarrassed –– why not do what Roseanne did for Jackie when Fisher beat her up?!
They went a few towns over, where no one knew them, to get Jackie patched up. Note: This was the Matt Roth “Fisher” –– AFTER the George Clooney version.
If you know, you know.
There was another instance where my “messing up” was used to get in some cheap shots of projection.
But that time, it got physical.
It was the end of the school year, and my parents had been traveling. We were all due to arrive home on the same day, with the assumption –– expectation that I would arrive well before them. There was an off-campus frat party. It was the end of the year. A lot of my friends were going to be there. It was not one to be missed –– so I didn’t.
We only had payphones then. I convinced one of my homegirls to call my folks and let them know I was en route.
My stepmother asked my friend to put me on the phone.
I shook my head manically, and the friend said I was already on the road. Stepmother knew my friend was lying.
On that two-hour drive, I relished in the hot and sweaty dance moves I had just taken part of, because I knew there was going to be some shit when I walked through the door.
Just how much, I had no idea.
When Stepmother heard the garage door, which was directly above their bedroom, she tiptoed downstairs and was waiting for me on the other side of the door that led into the house. As soon as I entered the house, she ambushed me, grabbing my hair and slamming my skull against the wall. In shock but still fighting back, the next thing I heard was, “Get off her!” My dad had flown down the stairs, his feet having touched maybe two or three steps. He pulled my stepmother off me, which sent her flying into and breaking the adjacent laundry room accordion door.
There were no words spoken, just heavy breathing between the three of us.
What was there to say?
It had been primal.
The lion had flown into fight mode… forgetting that in his vows to the lioness, he had promised to forsake all others.
I guess that was until she attacked his cub.
We never spoke as a family about that incident after that night. A silent line had been drawn. And she was on the other side of it.
What was likely suspected had now been confirmed. She resented me for the quiet thing, now having been intimated aloud.
My father resented me for having unearthed what was supposed to forever remain silently understood.
In the end, it was what it was.
Even though we didn’t always see eye to eye when she was in her carbon suit, I was Stepmother’s fiercely protective intermediary in her last days. It’s when the veil is the thinnest, and when most ancestors are hovering to make contact to usher you to the other side or connect in general.
One spirit summoning was her creepy maternal grandpa. A man who tried to unalive her in utero.
I was standing next to her bed, caressing her temple, when I noticed him. I became aware that she noticed him too by her sudden agitation and glances over my left shoulder. Stepmother was minimally verbal at that point. When her grandfather kept begging me to tell her that he was sorry, I asked if she wanted to hear the message he was trying to relay. She got angry. With all the might in her fragile body, she yelled, “No!”
I looked over my shoulder and told him to get the fuck out of there. He did. She died less than a week later.
I hope she and my mom are somewhere smiling and have made amends. And are looking down on us, helping where they can –– where we allow… to navigate the tough and scary terrain that is this dimension called Earth.
And just like that, the women who married him fade to the background… It’s time to talk about the man himself.
The blueprint. The wound. The enigma.
Next: Part III – The Floating Father File.
Catch up: Hopefully Floating Part I
💫 A Gentle Invitation Before You Go
What you just read might have stirred something. Maybe it cracked something open. Maybe it made you remember. Or maybe it was just… a lot.
If you’re open, I want to offer you a soft landing. A quick moment to call your energy home and bring your nervous system back to center.
Try this:
Close your eyes (if it’s safe). Drop your shoulders. Unclench your jaw.
Take a deep breath in… for 3 seconds.
Inhale what is yours.
Hold for 3 seconds.
Anchor into yourself.
Exhale for 3 seconds.
Release what is not yours to carry.
Place your hand on your chest or your belly.
Say, out loud or silently:
“I am here. I am safe. I return to myself now.”
“I call my energy back to me now—lovingly, gently, and fully.”
That’s it.
Take your time. Drink water. Stretch.
You’re back.
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Jehan Cicely | www.awakenedasshole.com
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