I cry a lot.

And over anything.

It seems that I wear all the bad I come across on my body. As shiny blisters bursting into open sores, weeping as I do.

It’s difficult not to scratch and prod and make myself feel worse about things that I can’t change.

Trigger Warning: This article contains details about sexual assault against a minor.

What happens when the evil stranger you’ve been taught to stay away from lives with you? What is the protocol when sexual assault happens at the hands of a family member? The Black community has some learning to do here. No one wants society’s input or judgment. But what about the child? Who will protect them when the monster in the closet sleeps in the next room?

Many moons ago, I wrote about my time working in social services. I spent seven years in the field utilizing my Bachelor's degree in psychology. My role spanned from working in homeless prevention in New York City to the behavioral health field. Throughout all of my roles, I noticed one constant. Women grossly outnumbered men in the social work field.

I sometimes find myself going through old pictures of my grandfather, desperately searching for pieces of my face in his. I couldn’t really tell you why. I hunch over my desk at my computer with images of him, which usually accompany some amazing story. I deliberately crop out the fascinating things and people that are part of these stories as to not distract myself.

I’m a documentary buff, and when I watch Black documentaries, I’m always so blown away by how cool our history is. This year’s Black History month I’ve had the overwhelming feeling that we don’t share enough stories that reflect on the positive aspects of our history.