Sometimes it’s hard to sit down to write and explain what is going on with me. There are always several different stories bouncing around in my head, so I’m never short of ideas. What I lack is providing a good description of things to people who have no experience in the realms I have been in.
I don’t sleep well most nights, but I never get any rest on Fridays. It’s been this way most of my life and I never knew why.
A sunflower soaks up the rays of the sun at BE Farm in Bayard, Nebraska on August 3, 2023.
A few days ago, I read a column, which really hit home. The author, Lucia Osborne-Crowley, is a trauma expert. After reporting on the Ghislaine Maxwell trial devastated her own mental health, she checked herself in to one of the world’s leading residential trauma-treatment centers.
I would encourage everyone to go read the article, but I wanted to share some parts of the article that resonated with me.
As we grow and learn, we are able to decipher when things are good for us and when they are not. Sometimes, we need a push to get there, but, for me, how I got to the next step in my journey in life doesn’t matter as much as the fact that I’m here and continuing on toward a better future.
A robin rests on a fence post at the Scotts Bluff County Fairgrounds.
On October 28, 2013, Steve Frederick gave me the opportunity to prove I could write. As the editor of the Scottsbluff Star-Herald, he told me on my first day, “I can’t teach you how to write, you already know how to do that, but I can teach you to be a reporter.”
For nearly six years, that’s what I did. I learned about my adopted home of Scottsbluff and all of western Nebraska. I found cool stories to tell and suffered through countless boring meetings, so I could go out and tell more cool stories.
My mom had just taken me to get my hair cut. She had to run a few errands before we went back home. I was sitting in the front passenger seat. We were stopped at the red light by the police department when a friend of hers started talking to her from the next lane over. After a few minutes, her friend asked her who the boy was with her in the car.
“That’s not a boy, that’s Irene,” Mom said. She said it matter-of-factly like her friend was an idiot for not recognizing me. I was six years old.
I encourage everyone to watch the video above. Imani speaks around the 11 minute mark exactly what I’m thinking.
Storyteller
They tell me I’m good at telling stories
but they don’t want to hear mine
it’s too dark
it’s too sad
it’s too scary
and they don’t want to think about it
They want me to tell them stories
but accounts need to be happy
tales need to be funny
a narrative which can be shared
“Tell me another story about your grandma,” they say.
Those are fun
those are nice
those make me think of my family
and not anything sad
They don’t want to hear my stories
of violence and anguish
they don’t want to hear my stories
of loneliness and torment
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end
No one wants to hear descriptions
of potential snatched away
or chronicles of terror and screams,
suffering and tears
keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are rescinded
it’s too much for them to endure
I write my stories down on paper
for no one else to view
Everyone says they want to read them
but no one ever does
They say they want me to share my stories
but as soon as I open my mouth
the topic gets changed
keep that to yourself
Tears stain the paper as I go
memories I don’t want in my head
transferred to dead trees
but the visions live on just for me
They don’t want to hear my stories
of brutality and struggle
They don’t want to hear my stories
of solitude and sorrow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end
No one wants to hear
stories with terror, screams, and wails
of potential snatched away
or lamentations of what could have been
keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are retracted
it’s too much for them to bear
weeping should be kept solitary
Asleep or awake
my stories are continually shared
only with myself.
Everyone says I’m a good storyteller
but joy is all they want to hear
There is no desire to receive my speech
Their reticence serves to placate themselves
pat themselves on the back
with empty platitudes
thinking they provided guidance
and good deeds
while I process the images alone
I sit alone at home
putting horror and repugnance into words.
With my little blue book and black ink
I detail my stories
that no one will ever read
They don’t want to hear my stories
of trying to pick myself up again
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless it’s tied up neatly with a bow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s pleasantness at the end.
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