When the light is mine and the voice is free.

This morning was beautiful.

Not because of anything fancy happening online. Not because of Facebook allowing me to speak—because it didn’t. But because of something much better: real moments, real light, and real love.

I woke up to the kind of internal sight that only I can see, even though I have no physical eyes. It was a burning bright white, glowing from within, like a presence I can’t explain. That light slowly faded into a gray wash, and then came tiny yellow floaters, gently drifting across my inner vision like they were dancing. Peaceful. Soft. Like my soul was still dreaming even though I was wide awake.

And then, like a blessing from above, I heard his voice—my nephew Ramsey. He had been upstairs helping Grandma, and came down to say hello. That boy has a way of showing up just when I need to feel grounded. We hugged tight, and before he left, I told him the truth:
“You’re not allowed to go anywhere without giving me a hug. I won’t let it happen.”
He laughed, and we held each other again, longer this time. It’s those moments—family, hugs, simple hellos—that remind me who I am when the rest of the world tries to silence me.

Because right now, that’s exactly what’s happening.
Facebook won’t let me speak.
I can’t post. I can’t comment. I can’t even say good morning to the disabled community I love so much. They’ve blocked me—again. No warning. Just silence. And if my follower count goes down again? That’s not on me. I’ve done nothing wrong but try to connect, to uplift, to share real life.

And maybe that’s what bothers them. That I’m still here. Still seeing. Still speaking.
Even when they try to shut me up.

But what hurts even deeper is what happened last week, on Wednesday.

My best friend hurt me.
Not with yelling. Not with mean words. But with distance—with the way she handled our call like I was a stranger instead of her “sissy.”
She didn’t say, “Are you feeling better, sissy?” the way she usually would. Instead, it came out cold: “Are you feeling better, ma’am?”
Then her boyfriend’s voice started replacing her own.
“Tell Kamala I said this.”
“Tell Kamala I said that.”
“Tell Kamala I’m playing my game.”
It was like I wasn’t even there—like I was being talked around, not talked to.
And when it was time to hang up? She said “I love you”—but not to me. To him.
No “I love you too, Kamala.”
No “Bye, sissy.”
Just a quiet click, and she was off to the clubhouse like our bond didn’t even matter.

That’s how she hurt me.
Not with what she said, but with what she didn’t say.
With how she made me feel left out of a friendship that used to feel like family.

But here I am.

Still writing. Still shining. Still filled with light—internal, divine, and mine.
I don’t need Facebook to validate me. I have my blog. I have my story. And I have a truth that glows so bright, it breaks through all the grey.

So let them do whatever the fuck they want.
I’ll still be here, seeing in the dark, speaking in the silence, and holding on to hugs that matter.

And speaking of my best friend hurting me last night with everything she did that showed me that I was just an after thought, let me tell you something else right here and right now. 


She Needs to Figure That Out Herself

Right now, the colors in my world are shifting again—this time into a strange blueish purplish gray, still with those floating yellows. It almost matches my mood. Because once again, I got a voicemail from my so-called best friend.

She’s talking about how her case manager got fired. She says she’s going through a lot of stress. Her boyfriend is going into rehab. And then, in the middle of all that, she asks me if we’re cool.

And now—she’s blowing up my Snapchat. Snapping me all over the place. I don’t even know what she’s saying anymore, and to be honest, I don’t want to hear it. It’s just too much.

Why is she telling me all this like that erases what happened? Like that’s supposed to smooth everything over without her actually saying anything real about how she treated me?

The truth is, I’m tired. Tired of always being the one to figure things out for her. Tired of having to carry the emotional weight for both of us. She’s an adult just like I am. If I can work through my own life, pain, and responsibilities—so can she.

She needs to figure that one out herself.

I’m not here to clean up her mess while she avoids the truth. If she really wants to know if we’re okay, she needs to start by showing me that she cares—not dumping her drama and expecting me to just accept it.

Because I’m done playing the fixer.

  

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