Nik Nicholson's Blog, page 5

Writing Prompt

From writing group I’m in

Great character options.

First option, someone who doesn’t know how to love herself. Or she doesn’t see her worth and is just glad a man with an actual career wants to live with her.

Or. She has a plan. 35K isn’t her long term salary. She’s in school. Her long term goal is to be a nurse practitioner. Once she’s done with school she’ll be starting at a minimum 125K, working three days a week.

And Jameson is the perfect height, weight and skintone for siring children. Not to mention, his parents are both healthy well into their 50s. Both successful and connected. Her children will be in line to inherit. And though his mom hates her, they will still pay her for every heir, even more for males.

This is a test of love or devotion… to herself. Lol

Another Character.
The radical.
Or a hardline feminist who wants equality, because she doesn’t yet understand equity, or freedom.

She actually declined her partner’s offer to cover all the bills. Which has created a growing wedge in their relationship. He sees how she denies herself basic necessities to cover her half of their living experiences.

It’s painful to see your love suffer. D’Angelo and Attila use to be best friends.

Now he’s denying himself because he feels so guilty about enjoying the luxuries he’s use to. Attila quietly judges how he spends money.

90K is just what’s on paper. Between his inheritance, side projects, investments, savings and patents  he could support them comfortably.

Still, D’Angelo remembers how his love’s father, Jeremiah, lorded over her mother, Carolyn.

While they were growing up,
Jeremiah demanded absolute submission from his Carolyn. He treated her like a maid and his personal servant.

Attila promised herself and him, she would never depend on a man. Her father had controlled every cent in the house. He’d give Mrs. Thompson the third degree over cuts of meat, while splurging on fishing gear.

He bought a Harley and a boat without so much as mentioning them. While expecting Mrs. Thompson to mend her clothes, coupon clip and account for every dollar she spent.

D, would find Attila crying after witnessing her mother’s indignities.

Attila believed in the idea of freedom but she had no tangible way of being free.

D’s mom married for money and a certain lifestyle. She didn’t work in her house or outside of it. Not in anyway outsiders could measure.

Mrs. Dr. Robinson, came with a dowry. She requested a salary or an allowance just for waking up in his father’s arms.

His mother painted. Took dance classes. Went to college just to learn, without ever considering she might need specific skills to work. That was part of their prenuptial.

Other women feared prenups. Ma Robinson began jotting down her  requirements for marriage at  8yo. She wanted to oversee her children’s rearing, not be anchored to them.

She like the idea of breast feeding but not the broken rest or time commitment.

Ma Ro, spent his father’s money like she earned it. His name was a shield she weilded at the world, before she called his lawyers.

His mother was dark as night with thick cotton hair just a shade darker, who lived in thrift stores, coffee houses, poetry spots and museums. She knew everyone there was to know, she spoke four languages and planned to learn more.

His mother took care of their family’s soul. She made his father feel safer in a world hostile for Black men. Her laugh is bigger than the challenges Dr. Robinson faced climbing the ladder of a global corporation.

She was sometimes his dedicated soldier, but most times his captain. She brought jazz, mixed drinks to chase brutal honesty, while sharpening his knife and building his confidence before THEY declared war. His parents are a team. Money is a tool.

Attila, with her wild ideas, big heart, passion, zealous discipline and sharp wit reminded him of his mother. Attiya helped him give birth to his ideas and dreams. She encouraged and nurtured him… Knowing she believed in him made him believe in himself.

He dreamed of freeing her to explore all her dreams. In five years or maybe sooner, they would never have to worry about money again. While in reality, all they worry about is money.

Attila is not unlike her father, in how she questions D’Angelo’s flashy new car. Even if it was a gift. It’s an impractical gas guzzler. Red makes their insurance higher and cars lose a 3rd of their value as soon as they are driven off the lot.

Atilla argued they didn’t need such a large house. But D needed a home office and a sound proof studio. Tbh, Attila needed work space too….

So I don’t waste energy or lose my words. I’m reposting my response without editing. Practicing character development like so. I don’t believe this was the intent of the post. Lol!

Love is life.

Freda Kahlo

I started reading Freda Kahlo’s diary. In addition to getting to know an artist in their own words, I’m learning about Mexico.

Do other countries teach global history or only their history. France, Spain and Britain are older than us. Where do they stop their histories regarding places they’ve colonized and robbed?

A copy of Freda Kahlo’s beautiful diary.

The introduction putting her work in context is poetry of its own. Then her images are so rich. I love that she writes with thick ink and draws between her words.

After reading her book I had the most vivid dream. The depth of her spirit transcends her own transition. I’m looking forward to being more creative and free with my own expression in journals.

I recently fell in live with coloring with a 6yo little one.

Karma, from her coloring book.

I’ve thought of using color pencils to draw, paint is usually my medium. I’m not sure though. I’m excited by all the possibilities and overwhelmed by my own new found expectations.

Love and light

Reading Again

I love reading and writing. I write without making time and without ceremony. I put words everywhere. I think I misplace energy.

I’m taking account of where I speak, to whom, why. I’m more conscious of what I listen to, who I listen to and what I allow in my feeds. I’m also learning to curate through my hobby.

Speaking of hobbies. When you connect with others through something you love the energy is magic. It’s weird how one small act, repeated for simple pleasure builds a whole community.

I realized I don’t do random things. I only desire to be in spaces that nurture my spirit. What a weird way to be. Some people just float and go whichever way the wind blows.

Bare Your Own Cross

Minding My Bidness

My posts feel too heavy. I wanted this one to be different, even though I came to the cursor hurting looking for free therapy trying to sort out my shit. Life has been good recently. I’ve learned more than I anticipated. The truth has been anchoring and peaceful, even the things I don’t like. My life has a little rhythm. I’ve learned some things about myself through loving others. So, let me start with that. Life has been better. I’m feeling powerful, hopeful and inspired. I’m feeling beautiful. I’m feeling odd in a good way. I’m feeling necessary in this sea of people.

I’m finding outlets for my creativity. I’m trying to find a place to sell my paintings. I’m curious about AI. It’s the middle of the night and I probably should have done three pages, because I don’t feel safe writing here my whole heart… I think that’s healthy, but will this censured openness be enough to soothe my soul?

My stomach has been burning since yesterday after I gave myself a shot of medicine. I haven’t been able to eat much, and I’m so thirsty. I brushed my teeth several times and cleaned my tongue because there is this weird taste in my mouth. Lately, I’m always in pain or experiencing discomfort, so I’ve stopped informing loved ones I’m hurt. I’m tired of it so I know they have to be.

My mom invited me out to dinner. We use to go out every Sunday. I was really looking forward to hanging out even though I had no desire to eat. I tried. We had good conversation and laughed. Then I was stirred by a sharp pain in my hip. I put my head down like I was savoring the food in my mouth. We were talking about my grandmothers and how I called both of them by their names. Wondering over how both sides of my family raised me to call our matriarchs by name.

I’ve got a bonus child. Culturally, it’s weird to have a child I’m parenting call me by my first name. Due to the situation, I’m doing the most parenting. I don’t know if a title would create greater respect? Now, I don’t call my elders by their first name, if my grandmothers were alive I wouldn’t still call them by their first name. It feels wrong now. I also don’t let people much younger than me call me by my first name. They can call me sister, auntee or something of the sort. What’s in a name? The difference between a seed being planted or in full bloom. The difference between a bud getting ready to open, or needing it’s head chopped off for the next season.

Someone screamed, “Yes, Queen!” recently. I felt small and lost in their perception. I tried to find myself in their words as they praised my work. I was afraid and considered correcting them. Then, I felt shy to demand someone call me anything. It’s all so strange.

I’ve been working on a business plan. For about a year and a half, I have been doing unsuccessful pitches. Each one has taught me how to tighten up my plan. It’s also helping to fine-tune my goals and audience. Today, I got the initial money for trademarking. But I didn’t have a way to receive the money from the supporter. They listed the ways they wanted to pay me the money, and I didn’t have those resources.

As an artist I push myself to be transparent and explain what I need. Which, actually has been quite successful in the past. For some reason, when played my response in my head, it sounded like a scam. I wouldn’t have trusted my explanation if the shoe were on the other foot. Still, I shouldn’t have told myself no. I tell myself this all the time. Still, I avoided responding while wallowing in shame. Offering other payment options felt like a failure. Or maybe, I couldn’t be vulnerable and talk about it after such a great pitch. The truth felt like admitting I wasn’t going to ever get my business off the ground.

I don’t know why I have so many doubts. I mean in two days, I did two different pitches. I work hard, all the time. Let me say that again, I work hard. Being an artist isn’t valued until you’re a famous actor, singer or writer. It’s the reason I fought being creative. I have the energy and stamina to walk an uncharted path, but not the stomach to explain why there isn’t anything tangible to show for all this time I’ve been on earth.

Some days I feel so lost and behind on my goals. Other days I feel productive. Yesterday, I accomplished a lot of personal goals that have nothing to do with business. I’m organizing myself. There are a ton of small tasks. I think the more organized I am the more productive I can be. I am still writing regularly.

Once, while working on a project an art supporter noted that another writer was disciplined. She writes

I’ve started writing down what I do in a day so when I’m feeling like a failure or that the days are slipping away… I review what I accomplished so I know where I spent time.

The business of creating is not challenging, I just have to recognize it doesn’t look like other people’s journey. In other careers, you build and continue building. Someone gives you a promotion. You can say this is where I’ve been for 20 years. Me, I write plays, I paint, I build miniatures. Once I sell my work, that’s the end of it. My projects are not long. I’m trying to figure out what I can do consistently that will give me more stability, which is the first time I’ve had this approach. So I’m definitely thinking clearer and more hopeful.

I deal with suicidal ideation and today, I felt so bad about not being prepared to take money for my business, I have been beating up on myself all day. Well, let me not say I wasn’t prepared. There were other ways to receive payment. I just didn’t have the courage to suggest other options. I’ve paid people and received tons of payments through the options I have. I have a history of doing exactly what I say I’m going to do with money. I keep track of what I’ve paid.

I felt a lot of shame around this. I’m still feeling it. As I’m writing, the burning in my stomach is getting cooler. I’m on the brink of tears, without the energy to cry. Maybe if I cried, my stomach wouldn’t hurt. Is this what anxiety or stress feels like? I considered going to a gas station and getting some Tums. I told myself it was probably heartburn. It’s heartache.

I’m gathering my eggs and baskets. Figuring out what projects I’m going to give energy. I decided to check on my business plan, what I’d accomplished. I am always doing work on it, but I never see what has accumulated.

During the pandemic, I was notified someone bought my namesake. I wasn’t checking email when the domain expired. When I looked it up, there was another website. I was heartbroken. Like who wants my name? Well, something happened and I got it back. Which I forgot, cause mental health be having you in the worst alternate reality.

Not to mention, occasionally, I’d go look up my name. It would say, “This site isn’t available, but if you’d like to buy it…” It says that now, which makes my heart sink. Turns out I’m the somebody who owns it… When did that even happen?

See? I’m always working, but I work so much I don’t even know when I’m resolving issues. This is why writing things down and reviewing where I’ve been and how close I am to my destination is going to be so helpful. This TMS might really work. I can see how to organize better.

Today, when I logged in to see what domains I owned for my business, my name site was there. I didn’t remember I’d gotten it back. It soothed my feelings of failure some. Also, I’d paid for the domains for my business for a few years. So there is some progress.

It’s really easy to get caught in the flow of others doing or not doing. I give a lot of energy to those I love. It’s an honor. Now, I need to focus on me and what I’m trying to accomplish. Even saying this makes me feel guilty. Someone I love is going through it and I wish I could be more help.

A month ago, I promised myself I wouldn’t abandon myself to save anyone else. It’s a hard and addictive behavior to stop. Especially because I deal with so many feelings of inadequacy. Helping someone immediately makes me feel valuable and for a moment my life feels like it has a definite purpose. On top of all of that, I get to put off dealing with my own shit. Why is it so much easier to see the way for someone else, but be so confused about your own self?

So, I guess I’m taking account of what I’ve accomplished and I’m planning how to move forward… I do this often, but not I’ve never done it with this much clarity.

Hoping for a better life.

Health. Mental and Shit

Nausea. Lower back ache. Anxiety. People pleasing by choice.

Just read the purpose of two of my prescriptions. One is for my pancreas, which doesn’t work well based on my A1C. Another diabetic medicine’s side effect is stomach cancer. The slow release I’m taking was recalled in May 2023. I been taking that one in its highest dose. Nobody called to instruct me to discontinue taking it.

Life is wild. I wanted to kill myself some years back. I had a plan. But I wanted to die responsibly. I’m an only child. I didn’t have a life insurance plan. I’d emptied my savings when my father was sick.

Sooo, I knew they’d want to give me a funeral. My parents don’t call me daily, not even weekly. Around holidays we play phone tag. My first thought was to kill myself in a hotel. I didn’t find one that didn’t require I.D. even if they took cash. I thought about renting a car and getting rid of everything identifiable. But, the rental would be traced back to me. What I wanted to do, was be cremated or buried as a Jane Doe by the time my parents figured it out. Then they could just meet at a church and break bread with family.

Now, I know other ways because my brain is fully functioning. In that moment though, I was in emotional agony. I was self isolating. My mental health seemed like a challenge I’d never conquer. I mentally and emotionally hurt. I’d cry to sickness. Then through sickness to exhaustion.

I did the bare minimum. Bathe, work, and eat. My place was a mess. So I couldn’t have visitors. Then I have a happy affect. I’m witty and I make great jokes about suffering. I read up on tons of subjects. So, I think from the outside, people thought I was great.

I enjoy people. I also remember what it was like to have someone ruin a good mood or day with their sadness. So, I usually steer conversations away from me. People invite me to everything. I don’t judge, cause when you ain’t shit how can you. I generally assumed everyone was doing better than me. So, if I was too broken to attend something, I’d say I didn’t feel well, I got the days mixed (I for real get days mixed up too and am bummed at times), or I apologize without an excuse and find another way to support or be useful.

So, I start looking for a life insurance plans. Nothing pays out under three years. The first million policies I read have suicide clauses. I can’t wait three years. I’m fighting to make it through the day. I’m taking long bathroom breaks to cry at work. I’m not taking lunches and working early or late off the clock to make up for long breaks… I love working before everyone arrives and after they leave. For some reason, that’s when I get the most done and my emotions are manageable.

When I realize I can work from home, I’m also working from home off the clock. Working alone keeps me from feeling. People say I’m amazing, thorough and they don’t know how I get so much done. I dismiss compliments and pray no one ever looks at the time stamps on my work… what am I talking about, everyone works too much in social work.

Anyway, I decide I’m going to get on mental health meds. Just to make it three years. I’ve found two policies without suicide clauses. This makes me feel hopeful. I work in mental health so I know where to get an appointment tomorrow.

I get meds from my primary care. You just call, say you feel bad. Go stand by and presto. She refers me to a psychiatrist who doesn’t have an appointment available for four months. She prescribes me enough refills of anti-anxiety and antidepressants for a year.

After three or four nights on the meds I fall into a deep sleep. Did you know when you are severely depressed or have PTSD you don’t have restful sleep? Which is prolly why we’re tired all the fucking time.

After a week of sleep, I’m thinking clearer. I think I’m fabulous, why was I going to kill myself. I’m single, no kids, living alone on a pretty fun city. I can go anywhere or see anything… I can live a whole secret life. The possibilities are endless.

I start taking my own mental health seriously. I start meal planning without knowing about meal planning. Let’s be real, if you’re single with a decent income it’s cheaper to eat out. (Let’s fight! After I buy all the ingredients for a meal, I could have ate three meals for the same price.) I started working out. Got tight and fine. Started feeling myself. Started dreaming and having hope.

Four months passed so fast. The psychiatrist cancelled and rescheduled me until it was seven months before I got an appointment. By the time I went in, my depression was back but not as intense. I was still losing track of days. I didn’t have kids or a partner so it was like I was an adult adolescent. Well, to my family.

From their perspective, I hadn’t done anything significant. Whenever I spent any length of time with them, I’d be told about cousins my age. Like they’d ask me about my accomplishments, which were nothing, and then brag about someone. When I was happy for the cousin, and mentioned I planned to call and congratulate them. They’d warn me the person had a lot of responsibilities and too many other priorities.

Each year, for my birthday a family member would call and ask if I was who I dreamed I’d be. No, I wasn’t. Every since I saw Sparkle, and heard Envogue sing, Giving Him Something He Can Feel, I wanted to be the lead singer of a girl group. And because I had a fucked idea of marriage, I also wanted to be a house wife with like 11 kids, a billionaire husband who looked legit but was the head of a crime family. Fuck you! I read grocery store novels young. So no, Auntee, I haven’t crossed anything off my childhood generational dysfunction list.

What was one of your dreams, they’d beg insist I share. I wouldn’t. I had access to HBO and Cinemax without the life experience to have context. I’m just enjoying the breeze in your child’s shadow. I’d try to make failure funny, light… I’d try to save my spirit so I could rebound to my birthday. But sometimes, I’d wish, this was my last year on earth.

So, seven months later my psychiatrist appointment finally comes. I take off work and drive 45 mins to a rural town. When I arrive, I’m immediately grateful the appointment is in the morning. I know a Sundown town when I see one. I make a note never come to this place too late.

I’m also grateful I have a real appointment. I’ve been dealing with suicidal ideation. I’m having crying spells. I’m exhausted and then I’m up for days at a time. Sometimes I think anything is possible. Other times, I can’t figure out why I keep waking up. I’m losing track of days. I don’t know if it’s morning or night. I’m calling off work and not working anywhere, which turns out my job notices. I’m too direct. I look people in the eyes. I say exactly how I feel and well, you’re not supposed to be that free at work. I’m casually dating or hoeing, depending on who you ask. You know what, I’m living my secret life.

When I get to the doctor’s office, I’m dispelled. Any break in my routine is devastating. Still, I smile. I’m polite. I wait in line to check in. I’m early for paperwork as instructed. I’m late everywhere else and feel I deserve a cookie for my super heroe skills. I got all my clients together and created this space. I’m self caring myself like they tell you at all jobs that deal with mental health. (But dont respect personal boundaries or pay you a living wage.)

The receptionist apologizes that this psychiatrist isn’t available today. She thought she left me a message. (Who the fuck leaves voicemails and actually expects people to listen when there is text!? Joan Cleaver here.)

When I tell her I was referred and I’ve been cancelled and rescheduled for three months, she apologizes like an automated operator. It’s been eight months, I exaggerate. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. “I don’t know what else to tell you,” she pleads exasperated.

I know what it’s like to deliver bad news and have no power. There are people everywhere behind her doing paperwork. Ignoring this situation. Staring at cells, paper or screens like it’s porn.

Thank you. I’m defeated. I go back to my car. Drive into a wooded area, then scream and cry until I can’t anymore. I clean my face. Turn on the air. It’s burning up. It’s 3pm. I’ve been away from work five hours, it was suppose to be three. I don’t return any of the work missed calls. I go home.

At 2am, I wake up. Determine from texts I’m in trouble. Pick clothes. Make my lunch. Plan to be at work at 6am, though 9am is the actual time. I eat until I’m satiated. I shower. The water is so hot I’m lightheaded. I barely make it to bed before I’m out again. I wake up at 830 am, to my alarm clock beeping like her shoes are too tight, she hasn’t had a coffee and she always gets the short straw.

A year later, I still haven’t had an appointment with a psychiatrist. One because I am discouraged. Two, it’s Bern explained they all have a certain number of clients they need to meet all their financial obligations. Three, this is a city of established families and doctors. Even my PCP took over her dad’s practice, I later find out when I ask if the office is named for her husband.

About my PCP. I use the King’s English and my nickname when I call businesses. I grew up in a mixed environment. So, I don’t think they expected me to be Black. We had a lot of incidents until I showed up and spoke to THEE OFFICE, using previous examples to conclude racism.

Because I scheduled clients as one of my responsibilities, filled out their insurance forms and followed up for medical records I knew when I was being fucked with. I knew what a doctor’s office could do regarding sick days, co-pays, appointments and referrals. As a result, my PCP would pretty much write me a prescription for anything.

One day, a nurse friend at work was teaching staff about doing metabolic screenings on clients taking mental health meds. She showed us why it was important to do it quarterly. Mental health meds have side effects that can be extreme in some clients. She showed a client of ours who had gained 200lbs. She noted meds could cause permanent ticks, memory loss, erratic behavior, diabetes, high blood pressure and in the worst cases stroke.

Then she checked my blood pressure and sugar. My blood pressure was a little high and my glucose level was 352, normal after eating is 180. She came every day to stick me. For three days it remained in the 300s. Later I learned, elevated glucose was a side effect of my antidepressant. My pancreas was already too damaged and I was officially diabetic.

I cooked at home. Ate well. Worked out. Still I was going to have to learn how to manage. My blood pressure was consistently a little high, so I take high blood pressure meds now too.

I’m exhausted when my glucose levels aren’t right. I have banging headaches if I don’t drink enough water, don’t take my blood pressure meds. My internal clock never worked that I can remember. I went to work twice in the same day too many times afraid I was running late. 5am and 5pm look similar during fall, except traffic is lighter at 4:15 am for my 5am shift.

I can’t sleep. Then I sleep too hard. I take meds for ADD. Sometimes I’m starving other times I eat once a day. My body is foreign to me. Just when I think I’ve learned its language, I’m kidnapped in an ambulance and delivered to a new local.

I’m given just enough information not to be medically negligent. It’s, your hotel check in is at 11am. No hotel name. Discharge paperwork, don’t take candy from strangers, drink water, get some rest and mind your business. Follow up with your PCP in the next 48 hours. Don’t care if you have one, don’t care if you have insurance and of course, if you pass out at work again come back.

I’m young to have so many health problems. Both of my parents were relatively healthy until their sixties. I’m already a failure. My family doesn’t believe in mental illness, though I could name four people who are definitely off. So, I don’t say when I’m feeling down, sick or hurting.

Today was hard. TMS makes my teeth hurt. My whole jaw feels like I had bad dental work. My cheek hurts because I fell and hit my face on my phone. Out of nowhere I get light headed and dizzy. Thank God for that rubber cover. My partner noted I fall too much. Sometimes, I get the worst headaches ever and light sensitivity. I’m nauseated. I’d lost my meds, but my insurance company won’t replace them unless I do a police report. I also need another doctor’s visit to get a prescription refill. So, I’m missing meds and exhausted for it.

Today, was my partners birthday. Today, I smiled and served and went along. Today I was anxious because it rained and our plans fell through.

Then our favorite neighborhood restaurant wasn’t answering their phone, while online says they are open. We went by, and they are closed for multi generational infestation of cock roaches and mice. We get food from there 2-3 times a week. My partner thinks that’s why we’ve been having diarrhea. I attributed mine to taking so many medicines and then withdrawing from them all. Could be all of this or drinking high fiber juice. Lol!

I was disgusted and afraid to eat out. My partner wanted to try another neighborhood restaurant. It’s their birthday. I’m feeling queezy. I’m tired. I’m up all night cause I come from night people… Or my equilibrium is off.

I napped earlier. I usually go to bed about 4am, then get up at 6am.

I’ve been dragging but productive. I’ve done three loads of laundry. Cooked twice. Pressed half of my bonus baby’s hair. (She refused to continue). I’ve put up two loads of clothes. One load is in the dryer. I’ve been cleaning up after my partner and our child all day but it doesn’t seem like it. My house is still a mess.

I’ve been dragging from one project to another. So I believe TMS is working. I feel better, at the end of this blog. I hope I get more focus and am able to organized. I can see organizational solutions. Finding the time and energy feels out of my reach. Maybe, I will figure that out too.

Love and Light

P.S. this is stream of consciousness in the a.m. on my phone. I’m going to push “publish” then edit when I can. Peace

TMS

Depending on whose research you read, 60-98% of patients go into remission. 60% is like better than 50/50 I’ll be off my anti-depressant. So here I am, 15 treatments into the 36 research says is required.

If you’re depressed, one of the worst parts of this treatment is leaving your comfort zone for 36 days. I get so depressed, I won’t eat. Now I have to get dressed and actually go outside.

I started abruptly. They said come in for a brain examination. I thought they would show me my brain and the areas they were planning to stimulate. They didn’t. They told me they were brain mapping. Then they said my map was done and they’d see me tomorrow.

I was so stunned they asked if I wanted to start another. I’m learning there never really is a good time. And saying I’ll do anything later or tomorrow is to keep from disturbing my unrestful depression lounging.

Are cats depressed? They sleep all the damn time. They are moody and unpredictable. They lick themselves clean instead of bathing. They are only interested in things just out of their reach. They don’t bring their lovers home… or maybe they do, cause who are they fighting in the bushes? Wait, are cats toxic is the question

Forgive my ramblings. I’ll mention this when I’m asked about my focus.

I’m here. Writing. My last draft disappeared. I just started something called jetpack so I’m not sure how to get anywhere. I was trying to add a photo when I lost my way. Now I’m afraid to even reread for editing and readability. Forgive me.

I think I was warned another day that once I started with the jetpack I can’t go back. I’m feeling regret and adventurist. I’m a little afraid.

I have a picture of a dark brain with depression versus a more vividly lit active brain without depression. When my head, jaw and is teeth are hurting… and people ask why I’m doing this to myself it’s a great illustration.

It’s after 1am. I’m manic. But don’t panic. I come from a night family. I usually can on catch my dad’s people on the A.M. they don’t sleep all day either they are just not answering phones and if you don’t live their they are nor at home. Car parked out front, so what. You can hear the TV playing. Somebody’s listening to the only radio station playing tracks worth singing

And you might hear somebody out singing the lead. Still nobody’s coming to the door no matter how hard you beat. Eyes seen peaking, you making eye contact, and if you make a move like you don’t know the tea, better be an emergency. Days are for silence and self actualizing. Days are for pressing pants for work, and washing clothes. Days are for slow cooking and blues. Days are for communication without words. Giggles at the absurd. Word. Oh word? Bet. Days are made for family skits and bonding. And disappearing in one’s self without worry for anyone else. Days are made for quiet reflection, a family history of undiagnosed depression and insomnia. Cleaning guns, bullet wounds and the law ignoring family disputes.

Mopping floors after putting on beans. Serenaded by all green. Days are for busy bodies, niggas ain’t go nobody and no hobby and not enough business to keep him busy and off our front porch. Days are for sliced watermelon wit a lil salt Days are for admitting you heard the directions and still got lost. Got lucky and found a new BBQ spot.

Days are for paperwork, work, and acting like it seems, cringing at not living your dreams.

Nights are for silence, laughter, homemade drinks, wild lies, a friendly tease, only thee familiars speaking truth, inching close to hear it too. To learn, to judge, to relate, to mourn the fools fate and remember be fooled. Fueled by old time customs and rules. Getting high as God too. Creating and breaking rules. Sultry walking, big butts admired in fitted pants, perfumes, powders, soaps and colognes. Folks shol’ put on and git down. Music barely makes a sound outside the house. But it’s a sweet kiss on the skin when you come in. Marvin Gaye or the Temptations make arguing politics with simpletons feel like progress. These youngins with they smart self, feeling they self. Feeling they self.

Nights are for being free. Is anybody up with me?

Happy Affect

When I was a crib baby, my paternal grandmother stuck a pin in my foot. She wanted to know why I never cried. Was I was deaf? Slow? Or sleeping with my eyes open? Based on the story my mom tells; I frowned and then cried. My dad said I looked like my feelings were hurt. It was my first lesson about this cruel world. People will see you happy, then conspire to make you cry.

I’m happy? I smile a lot. I never meet a stranger. I’m my Aunties’ favorite. Thus is my greatest accomplishment. I’m the mean Aunties’ favorite too.

May 2023

My spirit aches. Is this depression? Something in me feels full, restless and I’m on the brink of tears.

I said I would write about my mental health, the challenges. I can’t commit to discussing it here with any regularity. I spend my life convincing my psychiatrist, doctor and love ones I’m hurting.

I’m high functioning. I’m a work-a-holic no matter what. I show up for work if no where else. I love people. Like, for real. I’m curious about us all.

Lately, I’ve been mourning a friend’s life. They were born into a street gang. Beaten and abused to make them a man. Like all the patriarchy and misogyny you can fit in a human. He’s a man’s man. A man men clear a path for. For this honor, he’s been shot, jumped several times, abandoned, and he’s given up on himself.

I look at how poverty has broken him. He’s 40 something and never been on a plane or too far from his hood. He eats the unhealthiest foods because he doesn’t know better.

I didn’t understand things too. But I had outs. I’m drawn to light. All their friends are barely surviving. All my friends are thriving. My friends are struggling to self actualize. His friends are struggling to maintain antiquated ideas that keep them oppressed. They have no sense of themselves, but they are more loyal than folks evolving and abandoning things that do not serve them.

So when my world’s collide at a pool party, it’s the first time I realize my friends are judgmental. They never ask who he is or what we have in common.

I’m somewhere between translating, protective, ashamed and secure. I wish he dreamed bigger, saw how beautiful his spirit is. I wish he could forgive himself. But then would my dreams be safe with him?

Sometimes we talk all night. Sometimes, he sees my worth when I am looking for reasons to stay alive.

Sometimes, he’s everything I love about being Black. Relentless determination. Politically incorrect jokes. We make light of our suffering. We laugh instead of cry. We laugh until we cry in joy.

One day, it will be revealed that laughing, singing and dancing through our suffering is how we made it over. Al Green, Franky Beverly and Maze, Teddy Pendergrass, Luther Vandross, The Temptations are sound tracks to life and death.

I have asked him not to litter. But what do you expect from a man who writes everything important on himself, as if he might forget? Then when packing to move says he’ll just start over… Leaving what yesterday was home and some of his prize possessions.

We talk about the penal system. How a judge told an elder not to take responsibility for his own weapon. Then pinned it to a child and kept him out of school so long, he returned confused… and too prideful or ashamed to ask for help. So he graduated to streets, off the straight and narrow.

His soul is screaming, been so long since someone listened, his body twitches whenever he tries to rest. REM sleep is out of reach and exhaustion is a test of strength. Sleeping too hard could be your death, he learned after a prison riot.

So when I tell him depression isn’t situational, he doesn’t understand. Black people don’t believe in mental illness.

He thinks I’m just lazy. I never get mad, I never talk crazy. I’ve had too many years of therapy to appear like my illness. Proving I’m struggling is actually killing me. I’ve worked hard at changing behaviors. And, I have a happy affect. Plus, I try to focus on the positive. Life literally is how you see it, unless you’re face down on the ground with a barrel to your head and you’ve buried several friends… Death is the cost of doing business.

I am trying a new depression treatment. It should be daily. They are doing things to my brain. Stimulating the part that’s dark and responsible for my mental health.

I go into a room alone. I’m shocked. I come out sometimes emotionally and physically exhausted. I don’t tell people how I feel. I’ve learned they don’t understand.

When the treatments make me light headed, I isolate myself and fall. If I’m caught I act like a clutz cause explaining takes too much. Even my bonus baby tells me I need to watch where I step.

You expect kids not to understand. But then it’s everyone else. And to be honest I don’t really need to pretend, people see what they expect more than what’s there.

Yesterday and today, I was hurting too much not to be fragile. So I slept and ate as best as I could. I considered going to the emergency room. I’m having flash backs. I’m having nightmares that aren’t even that bad but my heart is racing like I’m under attack. Night sweats, fevers, stomach cramps, fear that my hurt is becoming tangible and real for everyone dismissing them… Including myself. I want to be someone else…I want to be somewhere else. But I’m here.

Relationships Don’t End Loneliness

Being single is fun.

A friend posted about her loneliness. I didn’t want to high-jack her post so I’m discussing this here.

Loneliness is a human condition not resolved in social, familial or romantic relationships.

I have several only-child friends. Once we stopped romanticizing romantic love, we prioritized our basic needs, interests and friendships. We realize love is a verb and a huge responsibility.

Us onlies also discuss the loneliness of relating to people: hearing without projecting, their authentic perspective, and expectations. Then, if we are willing to meet them or not. Example: calling or texting to let them know you made it home. Or checking in when you’ve been out all day. Is it concern or control? Being alone with our thoughts regarding what is happening. Trying to navigate getting to know someone.

Then, if or when you get beyond thee initial getting to know you phase. There is loneliness in arguing. Conflict is necessary to set boundaries. Abuse is never necessary. Emotional highs and lows are not even necessary depending on your level of maturity.

Let me define abuse. Verbal abuse is name-calling, saying anything to wound or unnecessary to reach a solution. For example: You’re comparing the pros and cons of two houses. Then you point out you found a McDonald’s receipt, and thought they were on a diet. You don’t have to call people names or curse to be abusive. Lying, misrepresenting your goals, shifting focus just to be right. The goal is resolution and connection. Physical… you know. Emotional abuse looks like, shutting someone out. Punishing folks for their truth. Guilt trips. Threatening abandonment. Overtalking them, even if what you’re saying is relevant. Throwing things. Breaking people’s property. Withholding. If you’re the breadwinner, financially punishing your dependent partner is abuse. Not being able to disagree and move to comprehending, and accepting difference. Is this a deal breaker or just a thing?

I know a vegetarian married to an omnivore for over 30 years. Do you need the person you love to eat exactly like you do?

I like taking long walks and talking. He/she hates being outside. Can this need be met with friends?

Loneliness, wishing you had a break from taking care of other folks. Children, lovers, aging parents and friends going through struggle. Needing support to be supportive can be lonely.

Missing yourself, your ability to just sleep or eat what you want.

Now yall on the phone, talking about being hungry. No one wants to cook and no one can agree on what to eat. You’re an asshole if you hang up and get your own food. Then leave them to their own devices because they have a phone, money and a car. They could feed themselves since they hate all your suggestions.

Then there is the loneliness of a rough patch. Which you can’t really discuss because you are protecting them by not sharing personal shit. As a result, you do all the sorting within yourself. So you suffer alone or maybe you tell the one person you trust.

At the same time, you don’t want to abuse your friendships. By treating them like dumping grounds. So you hold it all in because talking about it all the time feels selfish.

Now you’re hanging out. Heartbroken in a relationship because something is hurting your connection. You don’t want anyone else, if you’re monogamous and even if you’re not people are not replaceable. You want to get back on the same vibration.

I said all this to say that we idolize romantic relationships. But they do not resolve feelings of loneliness. I idealized familial relationships and longed for closer relationships with my cousins. Meanwhile, they don’t talk to each other. I always wished I had siblings . Now, I realize having family doesn’t guarantee you will be close or even functional.

At this point, I don’t generally get lonely unless I’m feeling disconnected from a specific person. But if I’m not interested in anyone, I don’t miss anyone.

Spouses of folks in the military, or people going back to college are some of the loneliest people. If your partner is extremely successful they are also in a relationship with their careers. That’s why a lot of Hollywood couples don’t last. Shooting movies on different continents. Traveling all the time. Even though you’re IN love, you don’t always have companionship.

Loneliness is not cured by relationships. It’s cured by a deep relationship with yourself. It is also cured by the understanding you’re going to have to sacrifice for romantic love, all love really.

Enjoy your singleness until you’re moved enough to labor for love.