Rest Easy, Cousin

Damn This World

My cousin Skip and his Mom, my Aunt Mac

Every content warning, I don’t even know anymore…

This was my cousin Charles, we called him Skip.

We were born two months apart. I made my way here on December 11th and he joined on February 11th. We were only children and grew up more like siblings than cousins.

He was my brother.

Skip and I were both gentle, sensitive and creative kids.

We were decent tiny humans.

And this was me…

Our only problem was that our childhoods were in the hands of volatile and emotionally immature parents.

Our mothers were sisters so yeah, that tracks.

But I was the lucky one.

My dad was an asshole but thankfully absent. His dad, on the other hand, was present and brutal.

Skip and my Aunt Mac had the crap beat out of them on the regular. My grandparents pretended it never happened because that’s how their own parents handled abuse.

Generational trauma is a mutha’.

When Skip noticed his dad starting to give me the “creepy uncle” look, he learned subtle ways to shield me. That wise eight year old boy learned to deflect attention, redirect advances and always kept me in his eyesight.

That was more than any adult had ever done.

He was my protector.

Not only did he have a beautiful spirit, but he was incredibly talented at football and baseball too. Skip had college scouts at his elementary school games. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stand that competitive shit. He just wanted to play because he loved the game. But his daddy smelled money and pushed him to stay with it. When an injury in high school ended his career, his parents were crushed.

I’ll always remember the day he learned he couldn’t play anymore. His entire leg was in a cast and he was in a wheelchair looking dejected. When his parents left the room, he turned to make sure they were gone and then flashed me the biggest grin.

Dude was ecstatic. He was free.

Only, he wasn’t.

Skip and I were both traumatized kids who carried our dysfunction into adulthood. Neither of us ever had the chance to live healed, healthy lives.

He had a history of poverty related health issues.

I have similar issues but pretend they don’t exist. I’m poor, what are my other options?

Skip passed away on June 1st. However, I didn’t learn about his death until last weekend thanks to one of my frequent “lemme check on my cousin” internet searches.

We hadn’t been in contact in over 20 years.

Please hear me, it wasn’t because we didn’t care.

We loved each other.

At the same time, we were both in survival mode. Neither of us had the emotional space to maintain the relationship. We were just trying not to die and praying the other had found a way to do the same.

I can’t explain how it feels to live a life so confined by the trauma of poverty that I don’t even have space for people I deeply care about.

I hate this for myself and for those I love but can’t stay connected to.

I don’t have anything to offer anyone.

I am empty.

I am trying my best and my best fucking sucks.

Please forgive me.

I cried for Skip until I could barely breathe. And then, I went outside, closed my eyes and gave him the same grin he gave me that day in the hospital because this time…

…this time he was really free.

As for me, I pray my own rest doesn’t come in death.

I want to experience freedom, liberation and restoration while I’m alive.

I’m tired of existing in a place that despises my existence.

The vile hatred I heard in the video of Sonya Massey’s murder is the same I feel every day just mindin’ my Black ass business as I walk down the street. The way certain people look at me with contempt and disdain for simply existing chills me to the bone.

I’ve tried for months to fundraise to relocate to Mexico and, I’ve failed.

I won’t survive the hate here as Black woman.

I really, really want to leave.

I want to be the first in my family to take my last breath and say “I lived well.”

I deserve that.

If you feel called to support my Vision with a contribution, a share with your networks, or a call to your rich Aunt Bertha, then I receive it with gratitude.

Please click here to invest in my healing and safety.

To send a direct contribution of care (because capitalism sucks) please use:

Venmo: @divinerobin

CashApp: $divinerobin

PayPal: practicecommunitycare@gmail.com

You can also Buy Me a cuppa Coffee here

If you have the means to upgrade to a paid subscription, that would be extremely appreciated as I’ll need a steady income in Mexico.

2024 Goal: To only have to write about poverty and not continue to live in it.

Rest easy, cousin. Tell my Mom I said hey. You both deserved better.

I love you.

My gentle, kind-hearted cousin Skip: 1976 - 2024