There’s not enough melatonin, or seroquel, or wine on this planet to silence the white noise that blares in my head on a nightly basis. I would want nothing more than to know what it feels like to lay in my bed and drift off into a peaceful sleep without the sledgehammer of sleep aids.
I stopped writing again. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I grow weary of hearing my thoughts echo as I write them out. Sometimes I feel like no one is listening. What I do know is not writing…not “journaling”…not “expressing” myself…whatever…means no sleep. Swallowing all these words leaves a perpetual lump in my throat.
Honestly, I prefer not to have my thoughts, feelings, and fears etched into the stone that is the internet, but I don’t feel like I can directly express myself to the people I hold dear. So writing here allows me to speak, and allows them to “hear” without being directly responsible for my feelings. WIn-win, no?
My job is overwhelming. Abuse, domestic violence, abject poverty, struggle, neglect, hopelessness, mental illness, rape, homelessness, disease…until I feel like I can’t absorb much more…until the end of my shift draws near. Then I turn to face the struggles of some of my closest friends and family. And I find myself lacking the empathy and sensitivity they absolutely need and deserve. I battle with grasping the art of companionship because the career path I’ve chosen is brutal and unforgiving. I’m genuinely sorry I can’t be what is needed.
Tomorrow, I wish to remain under my big down comforter. Protected from responsibilities, expectations, and bills.
Here’s some “Yeah, duh…” knowledge for ya: Beware of sociopaths. I know the word has a certain connotation, but when you really think about the profile of a sociopath, I’m sure one or two people come to mind.
Some of these individuals are attracted to people who have that glow. A light that shines so bright it draws attention away from their darkness. They feed off of your brilliance. Initially, it seems as if they are simply basking in it, loving you for it… but eventually their Cimmerian nature becomes stifling. Damn near painful.
If that’s the case B-Rock (we cool like that) please travel back in time and fire the Dorm Monitor that caught me running up the hallway with a bottle of vodka in my pants while covered head to toe in Frooty-O’s because I was a “Cereal Killer” for Halloween.
…the other day, that familiar Trinidadian phrase popped into my mind. I literally laughed out loud when it happened because it pretty much summed up the last 5 years of my life. I didn’t even realise that phrase had become my personal motto. A subliminal mantra.
I’m working on finding that mystical balance between vulnerability and…whatever the hell you would call this weird, ambiguous manner I’ve developed. I teeter constantly, but I’m still not able to steady myself. Letting go of the so-called “stability” paranoia deceptively offers is difficult. I’ve spent so much time not trusting others, I’ve almost forgotten how to trust myself and my ability to do what is right for me.
This experience is uncomfortable as fuck, but I will continue to allow myself to open up and dwell in that awkward space of unprotected exposure.
me:so Maya kicked over my last glass of wine. i wanted to punch her in the ear.
huny:oh noooo lol
me:son. she was prancing around me trying to get me to look at something on her phone, and just as i was about to tell her to watch the glass she kicked that shit over with the force and accuracy of 1000 ninjas.
huny:lmao oh no. red?
me:of course. that's the only type of wine that actually spills. it's like it has different laws of gravity.
huny:lol I know right. I take it it spilled on the carpet?
1. to fall or slip back into a former state, practice, etc.: to relapse into silence.
2. to fall back into illness after convalescence or apparent recovery.
3. to fall back into vice, wrongdoing, or error; backslide: to relapse into heresy.
By definition, I had a relapse. There’s something about experiencing that kind of wicked pleasure that can be addicting. Something so wrong it could never be mistaken for being right, but you do it anyway. Again. And again. And again. And again. Until the thrill becomes blindingly overwhelming. You can’t see anything else.
Then you stop…abruptly. In that brief moment of clarity, when your integrity suddenly reappears and reminds you of who you were before this “drug” began surging through every vein, every fiber; you realise it wasn’t the person, but the actual experience.
Yet still that gentle urge remains, begging in faint whispers to take another hit of that thrill; another injection of pleasure. For old times sake. Some submit. Some are strong enough to abstain.
Relapsing is forgivable. Relapsing is understandable. And, if you don’t acquiesce, it can make you stronger.
"She smiles, I smile She walks, no she glides softly by me changing night into day She opens her mouth to speak, and so sounds ring in my head She speaks, and I want to dance to her rhythm She moves ever so gently, increasing my desires, As I place my arms around her waist, Hold and squeeze unto me, I want to melt into her body, and discover the base of her warmth Her beautiful black body that, no human mind could ever conceive She's love She's truth She's real, as real as the stars that shine in the heavens As real as the sun that bathes her body, As real as the moon that glows and the birds that sing and the rose That blossoms in spring for she is that rose And not just any rose, But a black rose, Black rose stands tall and stronger than any other plant A black rose, that stands as creator, of nations of Black rose That never loses her petals, and blossoms all year round Black rose, Sweet rose, Thornless rose Eternal rose Please look my way, Please look my way Please look my way Black rose"
I never seem to have enough time anymore. Every time I turn around another month has snuck past me and another year has slipped through my fingers and I feel as though I haven’t done the things I planned to do. Call a friend. Write on someone’s wall. Go out for drinks. Party…like I used to. Travel. Play. Read. Write. Sit…quietly…for ONCE in my life.
The fast forward button of my life is stuck. I need to figure out what to do to stop feeling like I’m hurtling ahead and missing everything around me. More days off? Less time talking more time doing?
I know what I have to do, I’m just scared as HELL to do it.
…in the comfort of warm arms and acceptance, I feel safe to admit that I’m really happy about the beginning of a new month. March was lovely, but it was also taxing and busy. I’m hoping April brings more resolution and tranquility. I want to spend my days basking in the instances of happiness and peace, rather than analysing every waking moment.
1. to yield (something) to the possession or power of another; deliver up possession of on demand or under duress
2. to give (oneself) up to some influence, course, emotion, etc
3. to give up, abandon, or relinquish
4. to yield or resign (an office, privilege, etc.) in favor of another
He asked me if I would surrender to him. Of course, my knee-jerk reaction was to tell him no. Absolutely not. My guard is so high up, I can’t even see over it.
No, I will not give myself up to you. No, I will not abandon or relinquish. No, I will never yield to you.
The word “surrender” is so incredibly intense to me. You can’t partially surrender. It’s 100% all or nothing. I’m not ready.
In a moment of honesty, I will admit that I think I will surrender at one point; but only to the right man. He wants to dominate me; he’s made it abundantly clear. Now, can I allow it? I claim to want to be submissive, but can I actually do it? I spend my days making decisions for myself; holding the reigns and controlling everything I do. This will be a huge test. Do I trust him enough to “surrender” to him?
This experience will be a lesson for me. A teaching moment. He is the personification of intimacy and vulnerability, my two biggest fears. This will be extremely interesting.
I signed the petition for Trayvon Martin a while ago. And while the petition is helpful and shows how many people are supporting the cause, it still doesn’t bring the comfort and resolution that we all are looking for.
The fact that a petition is even needed is the most frustrating part. A child was murdered. Why do I have to sign my name on something in order for this crime to be investigated? I don’t have to sign petitions to get brown boys selling nickel bags of weed locked up for 10-15 years. I didn’t have to sign a petition to approve the Stop-and-Frisk tactic practiced here in NYC, which pretty much targets brown faces. And I damn sure didn’t get to sign a petition to allow Oscar Grant’s murderer, Johannes Mehserle, to be released from prison after serving all of 45 minutes in jail.
We have a history of Trayvon Martins… when will just being human be enough to be treated as such?
Trayvon Martin has been a lump in my throat for the past month. I can’t swallow it, nor can I effectively express myself. I just read and read and read and watch and read and read and listen and read and tear up and read and read and get angry and read and read and feel scared and read and read and feel helpless and hopeless and frustrated and heartbroken…