Kern Carter's Blog, page 176

When Will You Be Yourself?

“Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” Gandhi.

So ask yourself…are you happy?

When Will You Be Yourself? was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

TRIGGERED

I thought the world would change. It didn’t. So I had to.

Phones don’t ring at 5:00 a.m. Not when you’re a teenager. Not when the night before was so typical. School, my friend J.P’s house for dinner, then basketball practice with my club team till 10:00 p.m. Those were my days.

So when my phone rang at five in the morning, I instinctively reached for my chest. It’s like my heart knew even before I did. Something’s wrong. And when the voice on the other end of the line confirmed that one of our best friends had been murdered in his own staircase, nothing I did could stop my heart from bleeding tears onto my bedsheets.

I was 15 at the time. Just two nights before I spoke to this friend over the phone. He was older and made sure to call me nearly every day just to check up and make sure I was good. Now he was gone and I was left scarred.

I thought the world would change that day.

I thought everyone would be different. I thought rain would pour from the sky and anyone who ever knew my friend would change their lives so they didn’t end up like he did.

I was wrong. So wrong. Nothing changed. And after an outpouring of emotions at the funeral, no one changed, either.

Then it happened again. Another early morning phone call. Another close friend murdered in the parking lot of his townhouse complex. This one cut deep. It broke his brother. He was never the same. Again, I waited for the world to acknowledge it had lost one of its evangelists. Someone who loved life for no other reason than to be alive. Gone. Just like that.

But nothing…

Paranoia

These murders still haunt me. These and the dozen more like these I’ve endured over my adolescent years. After a while, I wondered who’d be next. And since I was around that type of environment, I realized it could be me.

So I stopped feeling. Those emotions do you no good when you feel like you’re in the jungle. I moved around with people I thought would keep me safe. No going out on my own. Who knows what could happen when you’re alone. I stood behind bus shelters, hidden from the street. I’d seen too much.

Everyone I met was a suspect. I was wary of new friends, scared to connect with anyone outside of my direct group. I felt like a target for any person with baggy jeans who walked by me. My heart would pound as we side-eyed each other before keeping it moving.

This level of paranoia was normal. Routine, even. It was my defence mechanism. My way of getting by day-to-day. The thing is, you just can’t turn it off. Once you inject that mindset into your veins, it circulates through every part of your being.

Now all of a sudden I’m late for classes. Now I’m failing classes. My standard for what it means to be a good person descends to, “at least I’m not on the streets.” Authority means nothing to me because they don’t get it. They don’t get who I have to be. They don’t understand that I’ve made myself this way so I could survive. And I don’t just mean that literally. I mean there’s no way my mind could accept everything I’d seen unless I became this person. It was necessary.

It took an angel

It took years of parenting to begin my shift from this type of attitude. Having a child at 19 forced me to trust again. It forced me to lower the curtain I’d raised to let people see who I was. Being a good person meant a lot more to me. I had an example to set. My daughter wasn’t going to be like me. The relentlessness of the world wouldn’t break her.

Today, I still shudder when my phone rings past midnight. I get goosebumps every time I turn on the news to learn someone else has lost their life because of violence. I’m better at letting people in, but it takes a lot. You can know me for months without getting past the surface, years before you know who I really am. I make friends easily but let them go just as fast.

I know it sounds extreme, but I don’t want to end up in a staircase or parking lot. That’s the precise thought that goes through my mind when I first meet someone. And it lingers in my mind till it doesn’t. A circumstance forged by my past.

It’s been well over 15 years since that first phone call. Time hasn’t yet healed these wombs. If I’m still dealing with the residual, I can only imagine what these families are going through. I’m still triggered by these murders to this day. Maybe I shouldn’t expect that it goes away.

C R Y

TRIGGERED was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What Do You Expect

Photo by Efe Kurnaz

“Have no expectations.” That’s what they say. Just enter into a project or a relationship without any precondition for how you hope it will turn out.

I say that’s bullshit.

Expect your art to be great. Enter into a relationship with standards you expect your partner to match. And if they don’t, you don’t stay.

Expectations motivate us to do better. To be better. To push our art to the limits of our imagination. It forces us to be inventive, to think of new perspectives. I’ve lived with expectations my entire life. And while it can feel overwhelming at times, it has elevated who I am and what I expect from myself.

C R Y

What Do You Expect was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Disappointing Myself

It happens every day.

Image by Sergey Safronov

I know where I want to be.

I know who I want to be.

I know who I am.

I hear the word potential and cringe.

I look back and see everyone who has dropped off on my journey and cheer.

The closer I get, the harder it feels. The closer I get, the more I feel like it will never happen.

Days and weeks and months go by. Nothing. Till I realize that those days and weeks and months are something on their own.

Disappointing myself means not appreciating my gift.

Disappointing myself means not transforming.

Disappointing myself means giving up.

C R Y

Disappointing Myself was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Dear Creator

You can only see the world through your eyes,

So let us see the world through your eyes.

C R Y

Dear Creator was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Men Are Drowning

And we’re told to pull ourselves out.

Photo by Karthik Chandran

I almost drowned when I was 12. All I remember is sinking to the bottom of the pool with my eyes wide open as the surface slipped farther and farther out of sight. Then right before I started gasping for air, my friend’s mom pulled me out.

I think about that story a lot. About drowning, about not being able to breathe, about being saved. The irony is this has happened again. Many times. Except drowning is only a feeling. A wave of anxiety and sadness and fear confusion pulling me under. But this time, no one is there to pull me out.

This time when I’m drowning, I’m asked to be my own lifeguard. I’m taught to pull myself up. I’m taught to be a man.

And real men don’t ask for help. Not when they can do something on their own. So I don’t. Whenever I was having trouble in an intimate relationship, I told my friends we’re fine. When I was fighting to build my career and things weren’t going my way, I curled up on my bathroom floor with the door locked and screamed silently. Then I stood up, wiped the tears off my face, flushed the toilet and smiled on my way out.

I joked about men who cried. Called them soft. Weak. I’d get upset whenever someone suggested I was being sensitive.

“I’m not fucking sensitive. Don’t say that shit.” A sensitive reaction.

Moving into my most recent apartment, I scolded my mother for offering to help. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine. Why do you think I need help?” Insecurity. Sensitivity. Masculinity. Stupidity.

The thing is, I’m still not comfortable being vulnerable. Not in real life. Writing has become that hand to pull me out of the water. It’s what stops me from drowning. But in the real world, there’s nothing. There’s no one.

I still hold these ingrained thoughts about what it means to be a man. A hunter. A sole provider. A go-getter. Emotionless. Maybe not quite emotionless, but emotionally withdrawn. Careful. Because God forbid someone thinks I’m weak.

Is It Really OK to Not Be OK

The first part of my morning is spent in silence. I sit on my couch with the lights off and think of who I want to be and what it will take that day to get me one step closer to that person. I think of what it takes to keep my daughter happy. To keep the energy in our home positive.

My mind wanders: Money. Work. Money. Be patient. You’re a disappointment. Groceries. Lunch money. You need to hit the gym. Rent is due. We need a bigger place.

“I can handle anything.”

That’s what I tell myself. I repeat it over and over till I make myself believe it.

“I don’t need anyone else.” Even when I really do. Even when I wish I was brave enough to say, “No, I’m actually not OK. I’m actually a bit stressed out. I don’t know what I’m doing. Do you ever feel like this? Because sometimes I feel like this is too much.”

But I’m not that brave. I know what people would think. I don’t want to know what my daughter would think. I’m her support. I’m who she’s looking at. She can’t see someone broken. I’ll never let that happen.

I’ll be strong for her.

Men are drowning. Everyday. Men are drowning.

C R Y

Men Are Drowning was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

LOSER

Being present is the best gift you can give your child.

Image by Sergey Safronov

“Daddy, why does mommy call you a loser?” She was only six or seven years old. Old enough that what she said made my heart sink. I told my daughter that I didn’t know why her mom would say that. “She says it all the time,” my daughter replied. “Does that mean you’re really a loser?”

I was two years removed from graduating university and living in a one bedroom apartment with my girlfriend. The loser comment came because I wasn’t exactly raking in the dough. Actually, I was barely making enough money to keep up with my portion of the rent and certainly didn’t have anything left over to do much for or with my daughter, apart from keeping her clothed and fed.

But I had a dream. A year earlier, I had committed to becoming a full time writer. I had already started writing my first book. On top of that, I was blogging and searching for clients to build my freelance career. Writing had consumed my life and so I didn’t want any distractions, and that included full-time jobs. So I decided to only take on part-time work, nothing too demanding mentally so that all my creative energy would be put towards realizing my dream.

I didn’t feel like a loser. Not until my daughter asked the question. Now I had to look myself in the mirror and face up to that possibility.

Am I really a loser?

Am I not doing enough for my child, my only daughter who I, of course, love with as much emotion as is possible for my soul to store?

Then the question that haunted me most: am I putting my daughter second behind my ambition?

That’s the one. That’s the thought that made me look away from the mirror. Shameful. Callous. Selfish. These are some of the words I thought described my actions. There I was, chasing my dreams with every ounce of energy possible, putting off what my daughter’s mother considered my responsibility of being a provider.

But I knew. I saw what no one else but myself could see. I had another love not equal but just as magnetic. I knew that I was being called to be a writer. It was more than just a passion. This was my fate.

And so I sucked it up. All the sadness, anger, frustration, and embarrassment of being called a loser added fuel to my pursuit. In all, it would take six years after graduation for me to reach my goals. Six years to complete my first book. Six years to become a full-time writer who didn’t need any other side job to support myself and my daughter and to provide all the things “expected” of fathers.

The love I have for writing, the passion I have for this craft pierces my bones so deeply that I can feel my skin tremble just thinking about it. These aren’t just words for me. Being able to sit here in an apartment I love in the neighbourhood I specifically chose with my daughter sleeping comfortably in her room means that I have done it.

It means these words have power.

Power enough to transform my life in the precise manner I’ve envisioned since starting out on this journey.

Now I can look in the mirror and forgive myself not for the path I’ve chosen, but for having ever doubted myself in the first place. Today, I can look my daughter in the eyes and tell her with all sincerity that she can do anything she puts her mind to. That she, too, has no limitations and should never allow the doubters or the self-doubt to stop her.

Too often we think our hearts have a finite amount of space. We’ll decide to throw one thing away because of the love we share for something else. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wasn’t going to be that person. The two things my heart cares for unconditionally are the words I create and the child I helped create. I wouldn’t be who I am without either of those influences guiding my every move.

What both of these treasures has taught me is that love is infinite. And in a world often absent of love, expressing this emotion is more powerful than we can ever imagine.

C.R.Y

LOSER was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

LOSER — For All Fathers

LOSER — For All Fathers

Being present is the best gift you can give your child.

Image by Sergey Safronov

“Daddy, why does mommy call you a loser?” She was only six or seven years old. Old enough that what she said made my heart sink. I told my daughter that I didn’t know why her mom would say that. “She says it all the time,” my daughter replied. “Does that mean you’re really a loser?”

I was two years removed from graduating university and living in a one bedroom apartment with my girlfriend. The loser comment came because I wasn’t exactly raking in the dough. Actually, I was barely making enough money to keep up with my portion of the rent and certainly didn’t have anything left over to do much for or with my daughter, apart from keeping her clothed and fed.

But I had a dream. A year earlier, I had committed to becoming a full time writer. I had already started writing my first book. On top of that, I was blogging and searching for clients to build my freelance career. Writing had consumed my life and so I didn’t want any distractions, and that included full-time jobs. So I decided to only take on part-time work, nothing too demanding mentally so that all my creative energy would be put towards realizing my dream.

I didn’t feel like a loser. Not until my daughter asked the question. Now I had to look myself in the mirror and face up to that possibility.

Am I really a loser?

Am I not doing enough for my child, my only daughter who I, of course, love with as much emotion as is possible for my soul to store?

Then the question that haunted me most: am I putting my daughter second behind my ambition?

That’s the one. That’s the thought that made me look away from the mirror. Shameful. Callous. Selfish. These are some of the words I thought described my actions. There I was, chasing my dreams with every ounce of energy possible, putting off what my daughter’s mother considered my responsibility of being a provider.

But I knew. I saw what no one else but myself could see. I had another love not equal but just as magnetic. I knew that I was being called to be a writer. It was more than just a passion. This was my fate.

And so I sucked it up. All the sadness, anger, frustration, and embarrassment of being called a loser added fuel to my pursuit. In all, it would take six years after graduation for me to reach my goals. Six years to complete my first book. Six years to become a full-time writer who didn’t need any other side job to support myself and my daughter and to provide all the things “expected” of fathers.

The love I have for writing, the passion I have for this craft pierces my bones so deeply that I can feel my skin tremble just thinking about it. These aren’t just words for me. Being able to sit here in an apartment I love in the neighbourhood I specifically chose with my daughter sleeping comfortably in her room means that I have done it.

It means these words have power.

Power enough to transform my life in the precise manner I’ve envisioned since starting out on this journey.

Now I can look in the mirror and forgive myself not for the path I’ve chosen, but for having ever doubted myself in the first place. Today, I can look my daughter in the eyes and tell her with all sincerity that she can do anything she puts her mind to. That she, too, has no limitations and should never allow the doubters or the self-doubt to stop her.

Too often we think our hearts have a finite amount of space. We’ll decide to throw one thing away because of the love we share for something else. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wasn’t going to be that person. The two things my heart cares for unconditionally are the words I create and the child I helped create. I wouldn’t be who I am without either of those influences guiding my every move.

What both of these treasures has taught me is that love is infinite. And in a world often absent of love, expressing this emotion is more powerful than we can ever imagine.

C.R.Y

LOSER — For All Fathers was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We All CRY Sometimes

I saw a quote along the subway line the other day. It says goes like this:

“hovering

All of us

hovering

between

the dream

of possibility

and the

certainty

of gravity”

I believe we all yearn for something more. There’s this flicker inside us we hope burns into a fantastic flame before it fizzles into embers. The only thing preventing this fire is gravity. Our self-doubt, our fears, the words of defeat we whisper to ourselves instead of fanning those flames.

I say we all CRY sometimes because at some point, we all experience these emotions. And these emotions can make us feel small. But if we’re able to hover long enough, we can overcome this certainty.

Do not let gravity hold you down.

C.R.Y

We All CRY Sometimes was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This Is Why I Don’t Post Blogs Regularly

Because I don’t have to.

Image by Playground

Maybe a more accurate title would be, “This is why I stopped trying to blog so much.” Because truth is, there was never a point that I actually posted blogs daily or even every other day. I tried though. Trust me. I wanted so bad to be one of those writers prolific enough to knock out articles with assembly line type speed. But I couldn’t, and you know what? I’m better for it.

Here’s the thing about my writing; it takes time. Not only that, my blog is called C.R.Y for goodness sake. It’s not just an acronym, it’s a statement to show that I genuinely try to connect to you emotionally with every single piece I publish.

That takes energy. That takes effort. It also takes a lot of thought.

Trying to blend that with the expectation of delivering daily pieces never felt right. And to be honest, it doesn’t work for me. Keyword being me. Of course I recognize the value in creating more content than the next person. There’s still a small part of me that’s a bit jealous of those speed writers.

But what’s more valuable for me is putting out meaningful content. Content that can be helpful to you in some way. I want you to read this and feel something, learn something, or become open to a new way of thinking that you never considered until reading one of my pieces. If I don’t think a piece fits that criteria, then it’s not getting published. It’s probably not getting past my “article ideas” list.

You Can Still Be Consistent

Not posting four pieces a week doesn’t mean you can’t be consistent. I’ve settled on posting once a week, more or less. It’s a cadence that allows me the time and psychological freedom I need to put out my best work. It’s also what’s manageable with the other projects I have happening.

Consistency is definitely important. I recognize that and you should, too. It’s one of the principles of good blogging that shouldn’t be ignored. So find your groove. Figure out what feels good for you and run with it.

What’s The Result?

To put it plainly, the result has been better writing. It’s not an accident that the engagement on the majority of my pieces has increased. You’re connecting to a more patient writing process. One that allows me time to fully form out my thoughts, plan my post, and deliver quality on a level that makes me feel good about the content you’re reading.

The side effect of all this has been my improved mental health. It’s not till I removed the pressure of daily blogging that I realized what kind of strain it was putting on me. My mind opened up and my stress level dropped. This isn’t me referring to any qualitative change. Taking away that pressure has had a measurable impact on my daily life.

Why You Should Care

Because we all we want to be heard. We all want people to read what we write and say YES! But it’s for this very reason that you should care. It’s such an honour having people follow your blog or read one of your posts. A real privilege. So you should honour those folks back with only your best work because anything else would be an insult.

C.R.Y

This Is Why I Don’t Post Blogs Regularly was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.