It's My House

On reclaiming the self you worked hard to become

I miss my solo late night dance parties. When I lived alone, I’d hit two long drags of a joint—just enough to turn up the dial of my senses—and play what felt indulgent to move to in the dark. Sometimes it was music I love to belt, like the songs of Cleo Sol and Snoh Aalegra, or artists that awaken my inner seductress, like Teyana Taylor and Jazmine Sullivan. Sometimes it was my divas: Lauryn Hill, Diana Ross, Erykah Badu. Always, it was music that made me know that I am, indeed, the main character of my own story.

I’d sit right in front of the speakers and close my eyes, letting the music envelop me. Listening with my whole body, I’d get lost in the soundscape of timbres and textures, the silk of a voice. Feeling the thump of bass inside my chest, I’d free myself from the cage of perception and move, however my body desired.

Loose and primal, I’d crawl on the floor and revolve my ribcage, fan my legs like I was dancing burlesque. I’d circle every joint, loosening the kinks in my body and liberating the ache. I’d surprise myself with my own voice, letting it soar to the high notes of Deniece Williams and vocal runs of Destiny’s Child. Hair flips. Stank face. Body rolls. Full permission to move my body however it craved. No one was watching.

My late night dance parties honored my erotic power, in the Lordean sense Audre writes about in Uses of the Erotic. If you know, you know, dear reader. It’s the one you’ve had a taste of, and suddenly, you can never go back to the same old characters in the same old weary drama. It awakens something alive in you, something animal in you. It awakens the entire point of your existence.

I’d let my erotic power coil up from my hips and flow through limbs and fingertips, filling a house that once encased bloody fists, punched-in walls, and the yells of a man who scared me. No more. My divine energy filled the home now, composting the darkness into feminine redemption and creative power.

When I was done, I’d breathe, body sticky and spent.

I didn’t care what people thought of me then. During that chapter of my life, my entire world shattered, and everyone I knew was aware of it (literally, everyone I knew, because I called off a 300-person wedding a week before I was supposed to walk down the aisle). There is liberation to be found at a rock bottom. When all pretense and ego have been stripped away, you can create anything, be anything, with the universe as your oyster.

Recently, the new moon in Taurus prompted a big pause. I realize I’ve been pushing way past my capacity this season. Living with my dad, I am reverting back to the younger version of myself: the person who is constantly achieving and overworking as a way to assuage him and be seen as “good” by everyone around me.

I’ve been filling empty space with tasks, scheduling more meetings than I usually take, and ignoring my needs as a disabled person. I am being hyper aware of how other people are perceiving me, which is creeping into my social life too—I’ve noticed myself feeling guilt and shame for declining invitations to take the time I need to rest. Most of all, I feel frustrated because I have spent *so much* time and effort unlearning this behavior. Suddenly, the person who I was before I was cracked open and freed, has returned.

I have compassion for myself—this version of me kept me safe when I was younger, and the tension I feel is a sign that I’ve developed strong personal values and a distinctive way of moving. But I am longing for my true self. The body rolls, the booty shaking, the freedom. I miss the version of me that expresses as easily as I breathe.

So, I am anchoring into this truth:

Who I am, completely unmasked, is the most powerful version of myself.

I think back to my book tour, when I was chopping it up with Niki at my launch in Denver, talking about pleasure with Jezz in New York, and being loud about Palestine with Yumi in Los Angeles. I was the most vibrant, unfiltered, and brilliant version of myself—and everyone who came to be a part of it, my dad included, was proud of me. It showed me that I don’t need to be anyone other than who I already am in order to be loved.

The people around me have shown that they can hold the most honest version of me. Maybe my task is simply to let them—and to remember what it feels like to move freely in a house of my own making, witnessed by absolutely no one.

It’s my house and I live here

(I wanna tell you)

It’s my house and I live here

On the table, there sits a rose

Through every window

A little light flows

Books of feeling on the shelf above

‘Cause it was built for love

I was built for love

It’s my house and I live here

(I wanna tell you)

It’s my house and I live here

There’s a candle to light the stairs

Where my dreams await someone to share

Oh, there’s music on the radio

And good vibrations won’t let me go

I put my name on the ceilin’ above

‘Cause it was built for love

It was built for love, ooh

—“It’s My House” by Diana Ross