Practically Magical

When I was 11 years old, I had an inappropriate sexual and emotional relationship with a 13- or 14-year-old boy who lived under the same roof. To the world, we were step-siblings. The truth was a little more nuanced.

His mom was Ant's first wife. My mom was Ant's second and, at the time, current wife. So, we both called the same man "Dad."

From the time I was 11 until about 14, I took in three specific, harmful messages:

"My vagina stinks."

"He always chooses pretty girls."

"No one can ever know."

My romantic and sexual ecosystem quietly formed around the core beliefs:

"My body is bad."

"I will never be chosen."

"I will never be accepted, valued, protected, and understood."

Those are the voices that still remain the loudest when I'm hurt, afraid, embarrassed, rejected, guilty, confused, etcetera.

When my brain can't make sense of a thing, one of my oldest parts speaks up.

Her 11-year-old voice breaks when she whispers, then shouts,

"We'll never be enough."

More than any other version of myself, she is the one I wish I could meet and hold and offer wisdom, comfort, and perspective.

It's her eyes looking at me in the mirror.

It's her fears popping up in connections with men.

It's her innocence, innocence she never believed she had, that makes me so fucking ready to attack.

She took the ugliness handed to her and turned it inward because what else can an 11-year-old do?

I watched Practical Magic 2 today, and I cried more than expected, even for a crier like me.

I think what really, really got me was this idea that the curse can be broken. It will be. Love will be sweet again, not something to fear.

And life?

It's not one big ass redundancy.

It can get better, richer, fuller, but the only way to that light is through the shadows.

Exactly seven days from my 36th year, inching closer and closer to 40, I'm all nerve endings.

I cry a lot. I process out loud. I express anger, love, and desire. I'm fearful and radical. Unconventional, even. I hold and explore my contradictions, mess, and glory.

But most of all, I am safe.

Even when I feel as cursed as the Owen Sisters; as messy as Queenie Jenkins; as pressured as August and Miriam North; as alone as Eleanor Oliphant; as confused as Celie; or as fed up as Sofia, I AM HERE.

I am here.

Feelings aren't the house anymore.

They're weather.

And I am the house.

I am among complicated women. Not above them because I'm "healed." Not beneath them because I'm damaged.

Among them.

35 years, 11 months, 24 days later...

I am still here.

The Anatomy of Finality

My energy will not hold you.

My body will not please you.

My mind will not sharpen you.

My time will not pass for you.

My empathy will not understand you.

My intelligence will not challenge you.

My humility will not chase you.

My comfort will not soothe you.

My grace will not soften for you.

My forgiveness will not repair this with you.

My wisdom will not elevate you.

My conversation will not stimulate you.

My prayers will not cover you.

My awareness will not extend to you.

My presence will not entertain you.

My love will not see the best in you.

Never.

Ever.

Again.

You exceeded my capacity and my generosity.

Finally.

Access is denied.

Finally.

In perpetuity,

This is finally done.

With self-respect,

LeKechia Lyshell 

Dear Elijah John

I'm not mad. 

Of course, I'm not. I can't linger in anger at you too long. As difficult as that makes resolve, I don't resent it. I like how I soften concerning you. I appreciate that I have to work hard to harden when it comes to you.

It says so much about my growth and the condition of my heart.

I am disappointed. 

I know we're so much more creative than this cliche shit.

I am sad.

I believed you to be my person. That's wild. I know. Presumptuous? I know. Humorously optimistic? I know. I know.

I'm sitting here thinking about what I want to say. What I want to hear. And Liz Gilbert’s words come to mind:

"I want, I want, I want—there it is again: the ferocious drumbeat of the ego, pounding away within the blistering furnace of the self. While meanwhile the truth remains standing in the center of the room—patient and timeless—gazing at me with maddening indifference, waiting for me to address it at last. So. Let us surrender now and address that truth."

There are so many truths fighting for acknowledgement. Which should take center stage? Yours? Mine? Hmmmm.

In this moment, the most generous interpretation I can give to the both of us is this:

We are two people who like and enjoy each other. Between us there's care, joy, and some budding iteration of love. And as much as we want to be in each other's lives, right now, that's too painful. Too complicated. So, we are releasing this connection. We wish each other all the best. This is more bitter than sweet, but that's okay. We'll be okay.

Love you, "Elijah John."

Like you too.

Dear Old Wiring,

My introduction to cooking was as a little mama. As my mother’s only daughter, I was a domestic lieutenant, frying the bacon she brought home. And while being a parentified child is not a badge of honor, being in the kitchen was. 

Or, at least, it felt that way.

A CNA at a hospital, my mom worked 7 A to 7 P. Often, I had dinner ready when she got home. I was a teenage girl preparing meals for a family of seven. I even cooked my first Thanksgiving meal in high school. Mom had to work, and I had her back.

I married at 21. And once again, culinary prowess was something I took pride in. Trying and perfecting new recipes. "Cooking for my husband." It felt good.

I knew how to cook for a family.

I never learned to cook for myself.

So, in my late twenties, living alone with no family, no partner, no roommate, cooking always made me feel lonely. "Why prepare a meal if there is no one to share it with?" And I could never get the portions sized appropriately for my solo dining.

Eating out eased that solitary awareness.

In 2022, after a challenging breakup, I was back in that place, equating meal preparation with connection, a reminder of absences. My therapist gave me an assignment: bake some cookies from scratch. I did. 

I baked a beautiful batch of chocolate chip cookies and felt sad that there was no one to share them with. My family lived a few hours away, and I was single. Again.

The other day, I had a thought that lingers: "I cook because I must eat."

How radical is that?

Not because MJ must eat (and he does).

Not to feed others (which I still deeply enjoy).

I. Me. LeKechia Lyshell must eat.

I am worthy of food prepared by my hands in my kitchen. I am worthy of dirtied dishes and the cleanup. I am worthy of meals prepared with love and served with the hope of pleasing the recipient.

Baking is teaching me to share from my abundance. Cooking is teaching me self care, how to be loving even if and when I am the only person at the table. Meal preparation is not just communal. Eating alone, in public or private, is not shameful. Cooking for myself is not a waste of time. Baby, it's a necessity.

I cook because I must eat.

Dear Control

I hear you. I know you’re speaking when I say things like, “I’m one and done.” “No more kids for me.” “I’ll never get married again.” “This is JUST _______.” “I won’t be a single mother to more than one child.”

I see you. You were in the room when I considered a tubal ligation. When I chose a “partner.” When I stayed. When I left. When I fought and when I fled.

You were there, repeating the mantra:

On my terms.

I loved and sexed on my terms.

I broke my heart on my terms.

I expanded and contracted on my terms.

Always knowing what to expect.

Baby, I know you only want to protect me, and I’m so thankful for the ways you have. I’ve been an unruly charge, so it couldn’t have been an easy job. But now—now—I need you to trust me.

I am not the eleven-year-old girl on Taylor Street.

Or the twenty-one-year-old seeking validation in marriage.

Or the twenty-five-year-old who definitely needed protecting.

Today, I am a thirty-five-year-old woman who can survive disappointment and uncertainty. Baby, I am a woman who employs wisdom, counsel, and self-control. Trust this version of me.

My masochistic tendencies have faded. I am no longer willing to put us through the worst because I’m afraid of hoping for the best. I understand now. I see it. Hope deferred made our heart sick, so you did what you had to do.

I’m holding your hand as I say this. I know it’s hard to hear and harder to comprehend. Dear misunderstood Control, my fiercest advocate, we cannot force any outcome. We must surrender now. We must accept that we know in part. We must be willing to hope.

You’ve done so much for me. You were brilliant in your role. You protected me so well. Thank you for your service to this internal family.

This next part of our journey will be uncomfortable—especially for you—but I’ll be here, soothing you through it.

P.S. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life. Or, said plainly: not getting what you want can break your heart, but a wish that comes true is life-giving.

Dear Irony,

Having a brilliant, high-energy, sensory-seeking child is sort of like living close to the sun. There is warmth, radiance, awe. You know you are in the presence of something extraordinary. And also… you are getting burned up.🥵 Consumed by the energy.

I was not “made to be a mother.” There is no way. I enjoy peace and quiet far too much for this to be my default setting. 🫣

Me and Jesus are still having come-to-Him meetings about single parenthood. I would really like to review the plans He has for me, because what is happening? 🥴

I distinctly remember praying for daughters. Instead, I was given a son. And in a divine reverse Uno, God showed His sense of humor: his name is Messiah Jordan. 

An agnostic was given Messiah. 

Messiah from Greenville convinces me daily that I need Messiah from Nazareth.

This is the most humbling part of my journey. 

I can totally Kechia in my own strength. I cannot mother in it. I will fall short every time. The job is too big. The stakes are too high.

It took a son to show me The Son who led me back to The Father.

It's complicated.

It is holy.

It is exhausting.

It is sacred.

It's exactly on par for the course.

P.S.:

When I said "I can do hard things," it was an affirmation not an invitation. You know what? Scratch it. Hear me and hear me good:

I CAN DO EASY THINGS!

Sign me up. 🫡

Dear God,

Thank you, God. Thank you for the safety. This leg of the journey isn't easy, but I am emotionally, mentally, physically, and spiritually safe. Oh my God, I thank you. Thank you for the dream that reminded me where my nervous system was at 25. That you for the peace and safety I have at 35. Thank you for allowing the 25-year-old me to be a warrior. Thank you for allowing the 35-year-old me to be a sanctuary. Thank you for the therapy and therapists. Thank you for the regulation and self-soothing. Thank you for music, walks, fresh air, trees, grass, and baking. Thank you that every being in my care - all Yours - is safe, fed, and can borrow from my regulated nervous system. Thank you God. I see that peace is not a detour. It is the destination. I see that sanctuary is the higher evolution. 

And I am so grateful.

Selah.

Amen.

war​rior

noun, often attributive

war·​rior | \ ˈwȯr-yər, ˈwȯr-ē-ər , ˈwär-ē-, also ˈwär-yər \

Definition

: a person engaged or experienced in warfare

broadly : a person engaged in some struggle or conflict

sanc​tu​ary

noun

sanc·​tu·​ary | \ ˈsaŋ(k)-chə-ˌwer-ē \

plural sanc​tu​ar​ies

Definition (Entry 1 of 2)

1: a consecrated place: such as

a: the ancient Hebrew temple at Jerusalem or its holy of holies

b(1): the most sacred part of a religious building (such as the part of a Christian church in which the altar is placed)

(2): the room in which general worship services are held

(3): a place (such as a church or a temple) for worship

2a(1): a place of refuge and protection

(2): a refuge for wildlife where predators are controlled and hunting is illegal

b: the immunity from law attached to a sanctuary