Today, I had a slight panic attack. I was sitting in class at Virginia State University when a threat was reported and an immediate lockdown was placed on the entire campus (or maybe it was an anxiety attack, I’m still learning the difference). And now, I’m trying to forgive myself for being a punk ass bitch.

Okay, I know that’s harsh but hear me out. I’m a black woman… in America! I’m inevitably supposed to be tough as nails. I mean, it’s the stereotypes that keeps on giving; our bodies are brick houses, our mouths are slick enough to slip on, we don’t need a man, we can do anything and probably better, etc.

Mind you, there stereotypes aren’t just fallacies for the picking. They are torturous oppressions rooted in survivalism. That is to say… black woman have come to believe we have to be brick houses, slicked mouthed, and completely capable.

It’s interesting to me for a number of reasons that I, tough as shit Paula- Mother Fucking- G!, would be so overcome with panic that I not only started to physically shake and struggle to breath, but I also cried! A bitch cried…. in front of teenagers who probably have done enough lockdown drills to bet on how long this would last. And me, within minutes, started to sink into a hole so deep, I had to call me therapist for help.

So why am I struggling to forgive myself? Because I can’t shake the idea that I should have been able to handle that shit. Part of me can’t help but feel ashamed by it all. Like when did I become this person? I sat in class during 9/11 and watched the second plane hit. I zig zagged at the bus stop to avoid being shot by the DC Snipper. I survived child birth in America… twice! And now, I find myself panicking at an unknown threat during a math test on a random Thusday.

Yes, I know I’m being hard on myself. It comes with the territory!

In class recently, an older classmate relished about how black people used to be stronger. We were discussing trauma and she praised the previous generation for always sucking it up and moving on. I objected that just because they appeared to be moving-on doesn’t mean they were dealing with the trauma in a healthy way. That shit came out later or they just died from high blood pressure.

In an attempt to deal with my trauma in a healthy way, I fear I may have gone soft!

I know! I know! Black girls deserve to be soft. But some of us can’t afford to feel all our feelings all the time. That sucks and it’s not fair but I mean, it just fucking is what it is.

It’s also a privilege that I have a therapist who can help me breath through a crisis. I don’t take that for granted at all. Cause old Paula would have sat in that class convincing herself she was unbothered then three weeks later struggle to understand why she’s drinking more than usual, being reckless with her body, or feels the urge to punch people in the street. Cause you ain’t deal with that shit girl! And then the anger and sadness comes seeping out of your body, spirit, and soul in every unhealthy way imaginable.

Knowing that the alternative to dangerous behavior is feeling all my feels in real time… makes me call myself a punk ass bitch. But the contrary would be a dumb ass bitch who bottles up all her pain, pretends like everything is okay, and develops a tick to avoid crying.

Okay okay, I’ll stop calling myself a punk- ass.

Cause really, this healing work is more like brave-ass, wise-ass, strong-ass. I don’t want people to think I’m strong, I want to actually be strong.

Eventually, I’ll have the tools to be able to handle these moments, maybe still with tears but not with intrusive dangerous thoughts too. And for now, while I may cry in math class because a lockdown has triggered some of my worst fears about loss, abandonment, and captivity, it also proved to me that I can go through a thing and survive. I don’t have to pretend I didn’t go through it or that it didn’t impact me.

And after survival, maybe there’s thriving.

Yeah, I think that’s it… I’m a thriving ass bitch!