On Top of the Mountain Hill

By Mazikeen Quinn

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YOU

LISTENING? 

I've felt lost, incomple

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warrioress Publishing
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088262269

Book preview

Mazikeen Quinn

On Top of the Mountain Hill

Letters to My Younger Self

First published by Warrioress Publishing 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Mazikeen Quinn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Mazikeen Quinn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Second edition

Editing by Harper Ray

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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Contents

Preface

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Part I

Dear 4-Year-Old Self

Dear 5-Year-Old Self

Dear 6-Year-Old Self

Dear 10-Year-Old Self

Dear 12-Year-Old Self

Dear 13-Year-Old Self

Part II

Dear 13-Year-Old Self

Dear Self

Reflection

Dear 15-Year-Old Self

Dear 16-Year Old Self

POETIC BEAUTY

Dear 21-Year-Old Self

EMPOWERMENT POEM PIECE

LETTERS TO MOTHER

Roxanne Milayah Poellnitz-Morris (Grandma)

About the Author

Preface

For all the times I wanted to tell myself:

Your SAFETY is ALL that MATTERS

Acknowledgement

I want to thank my partner for being patient with me as I wrote, thinking out what I wanted to put into On Top of the Mountain Hill, and being by my side every step of the way.

Thank you to the writing center for letting me use their space to brainstorm, using their computers, and to those that looked over every inch of On Top of the Mountain Hill!

Thank you to my trauma therapist for helping me through the process of understanding my self-worth and being able to tackle my demons and using the tips/exercises to work through my episodes, and knowing it’s alright to break down after a while.

Special thanks to my friends for being so understanding and loving. Without you, I’d be lost. Also, to the woman that raised me, also known as my great-grandmother, even though she’s no longer here: Erma G. Gardner. RIP. It was a pleasure knowing you. I miss you. Not to mention her daughter Roxanne (my grandmother). You were one of the many reasons I fell in love with writing, and I wish I could hug you and tell you Thank You. May you RIP.

Prologue

Take my hand and follow me…

Iwant to be able to reach the stars.

Stretch my hands as far as they’d let me.

Tap the stars and watch them dance.

Hear the joys of laughter of the GODS as they nod in approval of how proud they are of me.

I want to hold a loaded gun and not feel the world’s pressures around me.

I carry the world’s weight on my shoulders and feel my burdens burry beneath me like quicksand.

The way it drags you down—it’s like wearing 1000 lbs.

Shackled to both feet, dragging you down to hell.

The louder you scream, the more toxic your lungs burn.

It’s like setting a fire that won’t die out.

The screams make your ears bleed.

Your eyes are shut.

Glued tight, not being able to be vulnerable or let anybody in.

You peel your skin off.

There’s nothing left but bone, but even that’s too much to bear.

Your lungs are filled with water.

You’re suffocating from the inside out. Drowning trying to reach the surface to breathe.

Can you count backward from 100 by sevens?

I bet you can.

I bet you even fly.

Go ahead and try.

Close your eyes and stand completely still.

Mind, Body, and Soul…

Steady the heart—that’s beating inside you to stay alive. I bet by now you are in your happy place.

Content…

At Peace…

Alone….

Listening to the waves hit the rocks and breathing in that salty air.

Looking out into the abyss seeing the sea stretch miles from my existence and smile. For the first time, I’d smile.

A smile so wide it would never end. It would keep going and going and going.

Like a line.

How it never seems to start and finish.

It goes on and on for hours.

The way you look at her when she crossed your path.

She smiled at your jokes and touched your hand as you’d introduce yourself.

You practiced all day talking to her. You practiced in the mirror for hours. Hoping she’d say yes to your invitation.

She did.

She smiled and was pleased.

You passed with flying colors.

You’re nervous like before when you ask for her hand.

I wish it could be as simple as 1, 2, 3

Playing hide and seek in the backyard with your imaginary friends and playing dress-up for fun.

No one to pay attention to or worry about the hardships of adulthood.

I know you’re scared and want to feel protected, loved, and most importantly, heard.

You’re still drowning—falling and hoping when will it all end?

I wish you could end it yourself.

Cut the inviable cord and drop to your death.

I bet that’s what you’re thinking?

You feel the walls caving in on you like they’re going to crush you.

You feel bided by the ties like standing on a trapeze: having the world look down on you and judge you, for you shall not be judged yet.

That tightness in your chest makes it impossible to breathe, move even. You’re stuck, and you can’t seem to move your arms, legs—you can’t even speak! They took your rights away from you.

But WOMEN don’t even have rights!

They SHOULDN’T EVEN have the RIGHT to do ANYTHING!

That’s not true, by the way.

Well, you’ll soon see all of that will change.

We have ALL the rights in the world, but certain people believe that’s false.

I wish there were a reset button to take us back and start over, but there’s no reset.

You care so much about what the world thinks of you. You’re taken for granted and seen as less than because you didn’t have much.

You’re being told:

How to dress….

How to act….

Who to be…?

Who to love…?

People love control. Since you could remember, you’ve been controlled.

You’ve been conditioned.

Petted…

It’s pretty sick if you ask me.

It’s not your fault.

You didn’t ask to be here?

No one did.

You’ve always been fascinated by the "unknown" or those unanswered questions people seem to dance behind.

Again, it’s not your fault.

It’s no one.

Who do we blame for others’ wrongdoings?

No one.

Well, who do we—

Again, no one.

No one’s to blame for things happening.

We blame others, but we must forgive them when they cause us harm or hurt us because it’s good for us.

We don’t forgive them just because no, we do it to steady ourselves. We don’t do it for them. We do it for ourselves…

I wish I had all the answers, but sadly I do not!

It kills you inside to want these answers. To be the one to fix what’s broken.

I want to hold you in my arms and tell you everything will be alright as I rock you back and forth.

You’ll survive the harshest winter storms before the tornados come and blow away the foundations, you will build to survive, but then again, you’ll grow up being coddled and soon won’t be able to fend for yourself.

You’re capable of greatness.

You were born to be tough, as strong as tree bark!

Can you see it?

Can you see the paths split in fourths?

Time moves slower in hell, like repeatedly being trapped in a time loop.

Reliving the same event. Reliving those memories, knowing you can’t change what’s already been done. Can you pay attention to all the tiny details beneath the cracks? You see it clear as day. Day in and out, those memories fade over the years and become unrecognizable. Shutting out the pain and acting like it doesn’t exist only feeds off the tension as it grows like a weed in a garden.

It’s invisible, like people made you feel all those years through existence.

You’re a problem…

Or so you think.

You wish it were that simple.

To vanish in the wind like a tumbleweed.

It’s there but not seen.

You have a voice; go on, use it!

Time is precious.

It waits to be called on like a kid in a classroom.

It gets abused like a relationship.

It sits in the corner hidden behind the blind spots of reality and plays along as if you have no idea, but you know, just like everyone else, it’s tired.

Tired of people, and it’s bullshit—the lies people tell themselves to please others.

It’s exhausting.

Do they have your undivided attention yet?

No…

How many nights do you have to cry alone?

How many scars have to be shown for them to see you?

How often do you have to lose yourself before it’s too late?

Cock the barrel of the gun before it’s too heavy to hold.

Release your burdens onto the world before meeting your maker.

Like a fire to a flame, you attract people with your grace.

Your beauty is intoxicating.

Like being drunk in a Benz calling your friends—talking about life and its problems.

You waste time standing in the middle of the street waiting for answers that will never come.

Hold your hands to your chest as the first droplet hits your cheek. You look up and see the rainfall, and it soon turns into this sweet melody of pure bliss. This is your forever.

It is imprinted in the scrolls.

It is molded into the minds of the innocent.

Welcome home.

Welcome to on top of the mountain hill.

Part I

Dear 4-Year-Old Self

Lie, to me again, as you did before.

Tell me sweet nothings and kiss me with the intent to leave again. You make it harder to stay around because all you do is stare—from where you stand in the middle of the street. Rain, Hail, or shine, you wait for me. A different color hoodie every day of the week to signify your love for me. On Saturday, you wore BLACK.

Be covered from head to toe.

You’d have a WHITE ROSE to signify innocence.

You’d explain to me how tragic your upbringing was back at home. How daddy never came back and