Is blood thicker than water?

As she stared into the mirror, the cuts on her face seemed usual. They hurt but not as much as her soul. She could cover this with makeup. She was skilled in that art at least. No one would notice her anyways. As she walked through aisles of supermarkets, no one would glance at her twice anyways. She was a black woman, hidden behind a jacket in the heat of summer. They assumed she was invisible anyways. No one ever saw her unless they needed her. When was she ever really needed anyways? Except to wipe the tears of others as she absorbed the rations of love they coated in deceit. She was accustomed to these wounds because she watched her own mother cover them up. If her mother could, then what was her excuse. She was built to be strong. If not strong, then she was weak. She would be labeled as a victim, and no one had pity for a black woman victim.

Nayo. Her name meant that “she is our joy”. Where was her joy. The lies she told herself growing up that eventually joy would find her in her darkest times. That joy would wrap her up like a blanket and cradle her in its bosom. That light would pierce the silence of her loneliness and heal her. That never came. Instead, her darkness was replaced with more suffering. As she lay on the coldness of her floor and cried out for her mommy, she wondered if God could hear her. Did he even care to make it stop? She prayed that the dirt pressed into the carpet was her own nerve endings so she couldn’t feel herself being beat into the floor of her bedroom. She cried out for inner child that watched her own mother suffer the same infliction. She wanted to fight back but her arms were too heavy. How did the cycle continue with her? Why didn’t she know better? How could she not see the signs? As she curled into a ball, hoping that he would stop hitting her, she felt nothing inside her chest. Even her heart rate was not audible enough to let her know that she was conscious.

What do you do when becoming the villain to your own story isn’t possible? As Nayo stared up into eyes that had once said that she was the light of his life, she saw the rage behind his lens now. He had transformed into a bull. All he could see now was red. The red before his eyes blinded him of the blood that now was brown underneath his fingernails from scarping along her skin. He could not be tamed. Nayo felt like she was to blame. She raised up from the floor and could not even say a thing. She knew the truth, her words had cut deep. Hurt people hurt people. Those who are abused, abuse. So, it’s easier to exile someone and label them taboo.

What do you do about those who ignored them when they were children and taught them this is what you do? How do we fix the issues before the cycle chooses you? The trauma is passed down genetically and we pretend that we fell victim to it too. Everyone does what the generation did before them without question. We repeat the same cycles, because of survival. If it worked out for them, then what do we have to lose? Just like factories, we create replicas of trauma, and call them our legacy. We teach them the same toxic ideology and make them submit to family. We are selfish beings. We don’t like change. We don’t support dreams. We don’t heal mentality, nor do we care who we label crazy. We care most about food and country. We start wars in our homes and make monsters out of babies. Is blood really thicker than water or are all of us just morally dehydrated?