My mother always told me that boredom is a choice. It quite vexed me as a little child to hear that after I just yelled out how bored I was feeling. To say the least, I am still vexed. Today, I am still rocking in the same boat, more now than I have felt in a very long time. I wake up at noon, have a cigarette, have brunch and then sit to wonder what else is next. To give a bit of a background to my slow routine, I am freshly out of college, freshly being used lightly in this case. I finished school a year ago so now when I say it out loud, the term freshly is quite expired.


Earlier this week I had my first internship interview for the course I studied in school and to say the least, I just went through the motions. I was not prepared for the effort it took to get out of bed, shower and leave the house all before eleven in the morning. While I was taking a shower, it took absolute willpower to not back out from going to that interview. It was a lot of willpower that is for sure.

The interview went well. I am still waiting on their response but I am hopefull. Hence the waiting game.

Save My Soul.

Trigger Warning.

‘’How do I begin to set out to the world this painful reality that even I aren’t sure I have fully acknowledged? Most nights, I am uncertain of whether I have the reality of a tomorrow. I can’t seem to decide if seeing the night through is my main goal or whether I am just being dramatic over my emotions. There is this unbearable need inside my head that tells me that nothing is right, that nothing I feel or do can or will make anything right.

For the past two weeks or so I have been fighting the reality of the fact that I have been feeling suicidal. It has no longer just been fleeting thoughts anymore but solid assurances that I no longer can decide on whether life is bearable enough to be lived. I have thought through it so many times, I have questioned myself on whether it is real in both my heart and my head. It physically aches inside me whenever I think that I could finally be ready to let everything go. It is a very unbearable burden to carry because I have found no means or way to tell this to anyone. I am convinced that either no one will believe me or they probably won’t know what to do.

How do I begin to explain this to anyone when I myself haven’t entirely come to terms with this frightening realization? How do I put this into words to anyone else when all I truly feel is shame over even feeling like this? I say this with absolute resolute, the only thing that I am certain about in the midst of all the turmoil going on inside my head is that I have absolutely no idea what to do or where to start dealing with these feelings or these thoughts of suicide. It scares me not knowing how or where to start. So yeah, that is right where I am.’’

The above text was written by a very desperate, sad, despaired and most especially depressed girl. I can’t say with certainty that any of those damning feelings are gone yet, or better yet, I do know where they are. They are retreating to the back parts of my mind now that it feels a lot like I have a bit of amour against them. When I read those words above, I remotely can’t entirely recognize the girl who wrote them. She looks and feels a lot like a hollow shell and it is terrifying to think that at any one point I was this girl, I am this girl. The emotions feel like a vague memory, it has the vagueness of a sketchy dream that only holds bits and pieces of what is to be recalled of it. I wish all the memories of that pain could be erased but some of it is marred on my arms as-a-result of trying to drain it out. The pain is stuck deep inside, deeper inside than the mere blood in my veins. The scars in my hand are just a reminder of a very short-lived relief that didn’t ever quite feel like relief at all.

There is a very stark difference between being alone and being lonely. My depression is always certain to make sure I feel the best of both worlds, at least in regard to those two aspects of isolation. The most singular of the two feelings is when your entire being is encased in a fog of loneliness. No sense of reassurance would convince you otherwise of the fact that you are absolutely alone and beyond lonely. This time around, it dawned on me that I wasn’t intentionally choosing to be lonely apart from the intentional choice I made to be alone. It took all the energy I had in me to have any conversation I might have kept up with during this time. I can say with certainty that I have not spoken to the few people in my life to whom on occasion have seemed to retain some parts of me as their friend.  The looming darkness is all that encases you, it is all I could think about. I was entirely convinced that nobody in my world would find a solution enough to save me from the dark pit I was in. I felt nothing beyond the scariest darkness known to my mind.

I feel like it’s important I make this fact clearer, depression is not just a bit of sadness. It is a lot more than even I can express. It is for sure something I still don’t think I have the full grasp over in regard to how vast of a feeling, an emotion, a concept, a thought, a sensation, an enlightening and a whole lot more. Depression is also quite invisible. It never is something graspable to the naked eye. For me, it is very suffocating. My mind never feels like it has any space to breathe, it feels like the only space I can afford to think is in remote gasps of air. It feels like it would resemble a lot of what I think it feels like to drown. The panic, anguish, despair and the complete lack of hope for rescue sounds a lot like how my mind is right now. Sally Brampton, the author of the memoir Shoot the damn Dog wrote in a very precise manner what it is like to experience the depravities of the mental fuck that is depression. She describes its most corrosive aspect as despair and catastrophic. She continues to elaborate on how impenetrable and unendurable it is.

I have experienced suicidal ideation before but never to its full potential as it was this time around. I knew I was deep in the gutter, submerged under when I couldn’t quit thinking of just how peaceful and pain numbing dying would feel like. When the thought became a permanent fixture in my mind, I knew there was no way around this. I didn’t want to be alive anymore. That awareness became the dawn of a new twisted kind of sorrow. I recall on some nights crying so deeply and feeling the pain and anguish so physically from knowing that I was lost in myself. I was lost in my hopelessness and my mind had resided itself to no longer living but to completely quit existing. To a degree, I thought if I hurt myself enough, it would ease that ache even just a little bit, enough to satiate it. Dull it down. It didn’t quite do it. It led me to commit my first suicide attempt. I remember the night vaguely but I recall the intent behind the pain I felt that night. I recall the finality to my thoughts when I placed the razor to my vein. I remember the soaked tears in my sheets from my wet face. It was a pain I can only describe as purely indescribable. 23rd of October,2021 I decided I didn’t want to live anymore, at least not in the state of mind that I was in.

I can’t say with absolute resolute that I don’t want to not live anymore. Am alive now, still in despair but alive. I’m on antidepressants currently so it is all I can hope that along the way, I find it easier to want to stay alive. A lot is still yet to be done and I can’t say for certain when any of it will be done. I still have struggles that play a major role in making it harder for me to fully get the help I need so it is all I can do but trying live a minute at a time. It has taken me nearly a month to write this and I’m okay with that. Writing and reading for me take quite the hit in periods of my depression so to an extent, I am proud I got to be candid about what it has and is still like for me to live with this unbearable monster that lives inside of my head. 

Letter to 30 year old me.

Dear Mercy,

With a cigarette in my mouth and a glass of water in my hand, I’m writing to you what’s on my mind because we both know, a lot of it tends to easily fly itself out of my mind and that my thinking capacity tends to slow itself more than that which I can retain. This isn’t like those wishful letters people write to themselves telling about how much they hope for the best for you. No, this isn’t a love letter to you and I don’t expect from you then to believe it ever would have been a love letter. Here now, especially in the matters of love, I hope you’ll have unlocked those secrets that remain a mystery to me on what truly loving oneself means. I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of loving the ever living being that is. I can’t promise you that you will either. It’s come to my knowledge that I feel love for everyone else before having found out if I can ever deem it worthy to reciprocate the same said love to myself. I call it a mystery because it seems hell might freeze over before I can tap into whatever valve that others have, to show just an enough amount of care for myself. Who knows, maybe you’ll have gotten better at it or maybe you’ll still be searching through every crevice for it. I personally ain’t even searching for it myself, just in case you might not recall. I seem to have found contentment in life’s little pleasures, asking for something more grand would be pushing my luck a little too far. Love is too grand for my old little soul.

It’s only a guess of mine but hopefully you’ll handle things better than I do. As of now, it’s still a wager on whether you’ll live to exist by the time you’re thirty. Don’t be doubtful of the fact that I do wanna get to meet you at thirty but as of now, a month away from turning 23, I can’t make you the promise that you’ll be alive. Our demons just don’t guarantee that far, even when they are less stirred and more quiet. You’ll know them as well I do for they’ll not have left you then. Be rest assured, you’ll carry those fucks till our last day. Or better yet, you could surprise me and you’ll have gotten a hold of the rails on those demons and you’ll have found a way to coexist with them but as for now, they are still very much there.

As I said at the beginning, this isn’t a letter to wish you well. If it were, it would mean am more hopeful for a future than I let on. Can’t tell you much about the smoking though. That I’ll just have to leave it to the fate of time and see if I’ll have stopped trying to kill myself slowly with every cigarette I take. The question on whether I do it for the soul purpose of dying, I don’t really know. My subconscious is aware of the damage I can’t seem to stop inflicting on myself hence my feelings of guilt. At thirty, I do apologize prior for the possibility that I’ll have given you lungs worse than those of a fifty year old smoker. As I said earlier, I’m not big on being kind to myself. Hope you’re not too hard on your past then, it wasn’t our fault for not choosing better. Today I made what I’m sure will eventually be a broken promise to myself that I’d quit smoking the minute I’m done watching Peaky Fucking Blinders, (p.s Have a rerun marathon on them, you’ll have surely forgotten how good of a series that was). That’s the sadness of it all, being aware of my mistakes but never taking initiative to right those wrongs. I never seem to know better even when I should.

With my mind having lost its train of thought, I still take it to consideration that you still probably don’t like to read long posts so I’ll summarize this here… If you do get to live to see thirty, my wish for you is that you’ll have at least accomplished to finish school till your Masters. That’s the only thing our mind is good at, being a good psychology student. Make those who need to be proud of you not regret giving up on you. Love them and pray for them. Prove to them that even despite the demons that haunt us like the dementors from Harry Potter, we still got a little bit more going on for us in our so ever fucked up mind. If you do get to do this, I promise to tell you just how proud of us I’ll be. This isn’t everything I wanted to say but it is everything I can say as of now. When I thought of doing this, know that I’ll be glad to meet you. I’ll be glad to have taken all the antidepressants in the world if it means meeting you at thirty. I’ll slit through every vein to survive getting go see you, even if it means we’ll die right after getting there. Don’t weep for me when you look at our battle scars, just let the boy then who’ll be rocking our world kiss them and never forget that we are strong in the best way we knew how. I know you’ll probably find our walls still as high as those of a castle but know that I kept them up so I could keep us in, we are not to taint anyone else apart from ourselves. That’s my only hope for you. This is where I stop. Hopefully, I’ll get the honour of meeting you the author and psychologist that you’ll soon strive to become.

Sincerely yours, Dawn.

“Breathe girl, Breathe…”

Why does it feel so hard to do that simple but exhausting task…

Should it count that maybe I’m out of breath, out of will to live, out of options to choose from… Is it why I feel laboured just having to exist…

“Goddammit Breathe Mercy, you need to breathe…

If not for yourself, do it for your sister, for you dad… ”

I can’t understand why I just won’t breathe …why don’t I want to breathe easy… do I want to breathe at all ?

I expect this doesn’t make sense to anyone, welcome to the wagon, it quit making sense to me long ago…

Am I breathing yet. I’m still in pain so I guess I’m still trying…

Everyone needs me to live, I need to breathe instead… I won’t live if I can’t breathe, right ?

Once again I ask, why can’t I breathe, why I’m I lost at it…

I’m thinking too much again, no surprise there… If I could breathe as easy as I think, I’d have no chance of dying, I’d probably begin living…

I don’t want better, I don’t believe there’s any better… My mind knows it, that’s why I can’t breathe, I don’t believe in it.

One can only breathe if they believe they can and maybe, that’s just it for me…

I don’t like breathing anymore, it hurts to breathe, its exhausting.

I’m tired…

but I’ll breathe, for everyone besides me.

Weeks later, I am where I thought I wanted to be. I thought that if I got here I’d be better. I walked into it blindly but with hope that some light would be shed into the darkness that’s been my home for so long. So here I am… So what next…?

It’s been hard finding this niche that drives me to write. It’s hard enough that I can’t force it even when I am in desperate need to let out the turmoil that currently goes on in my head. I no longer keep track of how long it’s been since I wrote, I just know its been long enough. I’m in limbo right now. My state of mind is unknown. I guess it’s part of the new feeling that comes with taking antidepressants. Can you believe it? We are at antidepressants now… I have to latch on meds for help in dealing with whatever goes wrong with me. I still feel like I don’t know exactly what that is but maybe progressively I will find out what plagues me.

So here I am, five days in since I started on my ‘happy pills’…Truth be told, I don’t feel so happy or nice to say the least. I know I’m not supposed to judge them so soon but it’s inevitable not to. I feel like shit right now. I’ve been doing my research on the precise medicine I was given and guess what, I’m not sure if they are meant to help me, or get me quicker to being suicidal. I have never been suicidal before & I know that might not seem to be the case due to my self harming ways but they don’t mean that I want to end my life. At least for me they don’t. They just mean I survive painfully enough to want to live. I don’t expect everyone or anyone for that matter to understand that. Recently actually, I have come to experience stigmatization in a form I never anticipated. It took me off guard since it was from a family member who I don’t blame for their lack of understanding on my struggles. I guess I just never fully anticipated ever being stigmatized over something I have absolutely no control over.

As I’ve mentioned before, I feel like shit. Day one on my meds, I was high as a fucking kite. I got so drowsy, lost every sense of coordination & balance .I was knocked out in a couple minutes. My body was adjusting to the foreign entity in its system. With the exact type of medicine I am taking, it’s meant to take care of the depression & insomnia. I don’t necessarily consider myself an insomniac, I just have a terrible sleep pattern that is inconsistent. Day two, I opted to skip on one of my pills. I’m meant to take two in a day, morning & nighttime..but on the occasion that it’s too strong for me to handle in the day, I can take one pill before bed everyday. Now to day five, I am sure I am depressed which I’m not surprised since its a side effect of the medication. I know, I’m confused too. The medicine is meant to help me cope with the said depression, not add on to it. I wish I could understand remotely what is going on but I don’t . All I know is that, I’m five days in with this antidepressants & I feel a tad bit worse than I was before. So yeah, I’m not gonna throw in the towel & quit taking it, no, I’ll wait it out and see how things go. Maybe it gets worse before it gets better.

I feel extremely hyper aware of my problems right now.. Not just mentally but even those that are happening beyond my mind. It’s devastating feeling this helpless and not knowing where to start. Nobody ever tells you how lonely depression makes you feel, it won’t let you bring anyone down with you because it’s quick to remind you that its your problem, no one else’s. Its crippling & isolating enough to have you convinced that nobody can nor will understand what you are going through. I have never felt more alone in this world than I do now. The stigma, the shame and everything else attached to depression is the weight on my shoulders that I’ve gotta carry. So you know what, I’d never wish this on anyone. Nobody deserves to have their mind as their biggest fear.

Tonight I’ll probably be sleeping late cause I’m meant to be studying right now for a paper I have tomorrow but here I am,… not exactly doing that. I’m okay with it though I’m highly anxious about flunking the said paper… Like always, I’m here without a precise reason other than I just glimpsed at a previous post I uploaded a while back and it made me nostalgic about writing. Sadly though, as I have come to realise, I’m most inspired and aesthetically artistic with my words when I’m the most broken & downright shattered… It’s ironic really. Feeling this sense of nostalgia doesn’t only mean I miss just writing… nah, it carries the demons that are my inspiration to being that aesthetic while writing. I’m just a paradox like that. I am fully aware I shouldn’t want to feel like this but.. but.. that’s just how I feel. I want to close up & shatter in the self pity and the depression. It’s just that warm blanket that I just don’t know how to let go of.This sense of nostalgia is so deep rooted in me, I jump at any chance to shut down and wallow in my own pain. It’s crazy how a part of me judges people who are far more deep in their depression, anxiety and any other mental illness. It seems ridiculous when they can’t seem to pick themselves up from their pain & turmoil when it’s probably not their fault that their pain is stuck in their minds and it’s really all they know. I’m a hypocrite to wanna feel that kind of pain when there are others who’d do anything to get out of it, even if it’s just for a day. I’m a self sabotaging hypocrite who doesn’t deserve to have better days, at least not until I truly feel ready to embrace those better days. For now, I keep breaking down the slow & steady effort being made by others to get me to a better place mentally.Self sabotage feels like its in everything I do right now… In the type of music I listen to OR search for. It has to match the mood I constantly want to feel and when I’m finally drowning in my self made pity party, I have the right tune to match. In the books I read, to the posts I view of Instagram or twitter ..there’s just gotta be something to slowly take me away from the sense of normalcy I’ve tried to be conform to. I can’t not stare at the little scars on my wrist that scream louder everyday that I did this.. that I put them there. I shouldn’t want to see anymore of them but I sadly do. I shouldn’t want to have a reason to cut but I twistedly do. What does that say about me… If that I’m not just a hypocritical fuck up of a human being. I wish I could say it is a part of me that is unconscious of my self sabotaging ways but I wouldn’t be writing this if it wasn’t in my conscious mind. Let’s just call a wreck, a wreck… Sometimes the truth is all we have and in this case, me being fucked up is a plain as it can be.I probably should be scared that I’ve gotten to be more aware of my triggers in the last couple months. It’s not at all to imply I’ll purposely put myself in the line of fire just to get burned but I might not make the effort to not get shot. I wish I could blame this ‘lack of effort’ on being tired of fighting my demons and just not having enough armor to fight but that would be a white lie if I may call it that. In such a battle, armour should be your motivation to have better days that are less heavy & scarring; armour is seeing your family not constantly worried you’ll tip over the edge and drown in your pain…I have that armour, I guess I’m just holding it long enough to not necessarily die from the darkness I’m attached to but it doesn’t save me from wanting to feel engulfed in its shadow. I just don’t know how to not want that ache & shatter that has me embracing the darkness and liking it a little bit more than I should.My inspiration for this post was by a beautiful but sad song written by Sasha Sloan…Too Sad too Cry

So the first month of the new year is over and this is what I have to say for it. That was utter shit!!! Like Seriously. Despite the fact I can’t remember much of what’s happened over January, maybe since there wasn’t much happening, this is the write down of things that took place over the month that have me feeling like my life is a major piece of shit.

1. This girl has had one to none sex action. Yes, goddammit I said it. I got needs and sex is one of them. Am I embarrassed to say it, slightly yeah but who gives a shit. I’m trying to start being confident enough to ask for what I want and here’s my first try at it. I need my occasional dose of dick or else I’ll snap with the pent up frustration coursing through me .
PS. I’m not being comical about this one ,I’m damn serious.

2. I’m having a beginner’s life crisis. I completely and utterly have no idea where my life is headed. I prior wasn’t really bothered by it but hell, now I feel like I practically don’t know shit of where I wanna be in the next six months after I’m done with school. I’m internally panicking here and don’t no jack shit on where to start. What on earth do people do after school, probably get a job but that’s not what I want. I know I wanna continue with school for my degree but since when do things ever go my way, so that’s a maybe. I’ve recently started questioning whether I’m even in the right course, this steming from my not so very stable mental state. Can’t even get my own mind to think straight, how am I honestly supposed to help anyone else think right….Are you seeing what I mean,,,,…serious begginers life crisis. I turn twenty two this year & this is what I’m having to deal with…🙆🏾3. January is known around to be the worst financial month cause people are broke on not so funny levels. This was that month for me. I hate not having enough money, just like any other normal human being. This time round, it just wasn’t the manageable kind of broke, to top it off with every other life crisis I have going on. I just couldn’t with this month, couldn’t cut me some slack.

4. For this problem, I only have this much to say. Men/ pubescent boys are nothing but utter SHIT!!! No sugar coating it, I’m saying it as I feel it. This is for every single reason the men in my life have given me a damn grey hair. I wish I could cuss them out more for their lack of emotional understanding & just downright cluelessness of their shortcomings as men, as spouses, as friends, as humans & as significant others. So this, this is for all y’all men who just ain’t being good enough right now and still don’t have a clue. PS. Please read this specific paragraph in Ricky Thompson’s voice. He would surely do this justice and I wrote it with his voice in mind.

5. Probably the last of my problems that I can recall felt too real in January, is Kobe’s death. This was just the cherry to the mother fucking cake that was the month of January… To say the month ended in a tragedy would be understatement cause this was just on a different kind of level of misery. Still very much is; too raw. Kobe’s and his daughter Gianna’s death really took a toll on me. It was a trigger for me on the loss of my mama and I was just a wreck at the beginning of this week. It’s crazy that it’s just been a week but my emotions have me feeling like its been longer. I cried on hearing of this death & crying is the one thing I don’t do. It felt like a flood had been unleashed & I just couldn’t feel strong at that moment. In a week, I mourned for a total stranger and his family because I know what that kind of pain they will continuously feel for the rest of their lives. It got so real for me that I relapsed on my self harm. I just needed to curb the pain & I did it the only fastest way I could before it swallowed me whole. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Kobe and Gigi for through their death, we connected.
And so, there you have the run down of my not so nice first month of the year 2020. I have no bigger hopes for Feb, I just want the relief of not feeling as vulnerable as January had me feeling. No more deaths & maybe a little bit more money. Men will always be shit so there’s not much that can be done about that. I’ll probably have the beginners crisis for a while, till I can figure out what’s next for me. Can’t say if I’ll be getting any sex anytime soon… The universe just could decide its no dick for me this February, who the fuck knows…

I’m going to try be brief cause whenever I have something I wanna write about, I slightly loose focus and the beginning of the blog throws me off a little every time. So we are in a new year, yeeei!!! That’s me being as enthusiastic as I can possibly get. But despite my bummed out funk, I do have a few things that I’ve chosen to pursue over the course of the year. I’ve probably mentioned before how clueless it gets for me to understand the concept of self love. I can’t exactly say I understand it but I’m choosing to quit looking at it like some sort of math equation with a more fucked up solution. So I choose to decide that whatever it is I’ll pursue to do that will bring me any remotely good, nice fuzzy feeling, will be my form of self love.

For starters, I just had this wonderful idea to go on a date with myself every once a month. Dress however my mood fits & just go have something that will appease both my mind and belly. I will set for a day every month to accommodate myself and whatever needs I feel I have over that specific period of time. This will allow me not to have multiple anxieties over what to wear, how much money I’ll need to spend, whether my date will be on time and whether I can get to wherever the date will be, all just because I’ll have the ball in my court. It will be just me & I’ll be fine with that. It won’t matter what time or place I chose to have this date but what will matter is that I’ll find worth in being able to simply let go and feel content by myself.

As brief as I’m trying to be, one other thing I want to pledge myself to put on hold is getting a tattoo this year. I believe I have had my fair share of tattoos over the past three years and taking a break from getting any more will allow me to quit dwelling on the heavy emotions that are on most times my muse on the said tattoos . This does not at all mean I regret any of the tattoos I have gotten, I treasure them immensely because they are a part of my story & history. All I’m choosing, is to put on hold getting any more tattoos over the year and just rather cherishing those I already have on me.

I really don’t have much I want to expect from the new year, I’d rather not put pressure on myself & on the year as well. I know it sounds like a cowardly move but I really just want a quiet year without too much sorrow, too much pain, too much heart ache and with just enough happiness to keep me going. Until I feel ready to tackle the world and throw at it every dream and wish I have, I’m choosing to let the world guide me and take it a day at time. Happy New Year 2020.

P. S Just a quick reminder, this year we don’t take trash sex, no trash foreplay and definitely no manhandling of tits.✊🏾

I love it how after such a while I’m able to get my writing niche back simply out of listening to country music or listening to a new song that touches my very deep rooted heart. I wish I knew where I’m going with this , I’m more of following the flow of my thoughts other than a specific notion. Sometimes I think I just find my relevance in the world when I write & after I’m done, it amazes me that something so articulate and raw can come from my mind . Yes, I just gave myself a pat on the back… revel in it and move on.

So, I’ve not really thought about the fact that the year is about to end until now & it gives me the need to reflect on what has taken place over the year. For starters, if I could give this year one general term to define how it’s been, well, wavy would suffice. I think I’ve felt every possible feeling over the year and it’s been a tidal for me. Can’t say I’ve had the easiest of times but I can say I didn’t die so I guess that counts for something. Honestly, I don’t remember much about earlier in the year which is sad since I do somehow recall that being the remotely less painful part of my year. I recall somehow feeling content with what was happening… well that’s just until the true nature of my mind took over like it always does.

Earlier then I felt a sense of freedom from a bond that meant a lot but had turned toxic. It was an adjustment but a necessary one that wasn’t at all easy. I had a tough time letting go of a toxicity I had become quite accustomed to. A second ago, I was just thinking how I tend to always turn my relationships ‘special ‘to me and I pour out every darn effort in my body so that I can’t ever have to feel less than enough for the person with whom I’m in the relationship with ,whether casual or intimate. I go into every relationship whether a friendship I don’t want to loose or a romantic one which I want to treasure, I go at it with my walls put up high but with open arms to welcome you into my own personal fort. That ‘speciality’ I look to turn my relationships into is the toxicity that I am just now realizing I bring about. That raw, true & deep way I hold people I care about so close to me is what always turns out to be my downfall because I never want to give them a chance to need someone else other than myself. I never want to feel inadequate for them, therefore I seek to be special to them, I seek to always have their attention so I can feel needed & wanted. Now that I can say it, it sounds truly pathetic & sad really…

Maybe if I’d have had my ‘I’m enough’ tattoo placed somewhere I could see it, I’d finally have a head start in believing the damn statement …I guess I’ll just have to always struggle with wondering if I’ll ever be enough for anyone. I’m not having a pity party for myself, it gets exhausting most times. So yeah, that’s probably a fair warning to people to not allow me to feel any sense of attachment to them since I might just have you under my ‘special ‘ people’s list.

Apart from that, I remember sometime earlier I thought I was happy, or at least had the illusion it was happiness. Can’t recall exactly what brought about that illusion but it was nice while it lasted. Right after that, I spiralled down and learned that a razor could do a lot more than just cut paper… Sardonically. Being the damaged person I am in my mind, saying that sounded funny to me. I learned that the depths of my deprived mind go as far as that. I think overtime, I came to terms that thinking like that is just the beginning of a very dark venture. Not to applaud it but it’s me accepting that capabilities of falling further aren’t such a farfetched notion. I wanted to drown but not to die but to see if I could find the calm in the middle of the storm. I wanted to float deep beneath the water cause it seemed less chaotic.

And finally, in the last phase of my year, it has been interesting. I feel like I had a little bit of everything, the good, the bad, & the raw. I got hurt, moved on, started a new venture that is scary but I’m taking it as a leap of faith. Now what I simply want ,is to close the year like a child on a Christmas morning. With those I love & who love me without needing me to be enough or worthy…cause they don’t have much of a choice. I wanna end the year with a happy heart and a sense of peace of mind.

How Black Do You Feel? ✊🏾

Recently I have become more aware of the black culture and it’s dynamic that goes way back centuries ago. This was more or less brought about from watching the tv series Blackish which is hands-down amazing. It’s not just funny but also quite motivating and inspirational especially to Black Americans. It’s able to bring out so many diverse aspects that distinguish black people in America from the white folks. Watching it really got me thinking about being black but not just for those living in the states but for me as an African, what exactly being black means to me.

Let’s be honest, being Black here isn’t much of the big deal because that’s exactly what stands out about all of us. It’s what unites us as African setting aside all our cultural differences. The colour of our skin is what makes us black Africans. For black Americans,its a constant struggle for them to feel equal and not undermined just because of the pigment of their skin. Thank God, racism in Africa isn’t something as rapid and fast evolving as it is in America .It’s quite admirable how much they fight for their rights as equals in the states and they are completely deserving of equality because their colour shouldn’t be a defining factor for any sort of degradation towards them.

Now here in Africa, what divides us might not be the colour of our skin but it’s other things that are still just as petty. For example tribe & gender among other countless things. I’m not here to rant on how much we suck for stooping to levels so low we banter over something as meager as what tribe we are from. I’m here to trace back what makes me uniquely black as an African. To be quite honest, I’m only now becoming aware of how much my Blackness matters to me. As a child, I wasn’t raised to be aware of it or conscious of it. I was raised quite the opposite. I was raised with the mindset of a completely urban culturally woke sort of American sense of thought and culture. I was raised to know I wasn’t completely meant to be African, let alone Kenyan. My mama always aspired to have my family and I move to the states at quite a very young age and a lot of my childhood had an American aspect incorporated in it. From the way I was dressed, to the way I speak and communicate (I’m sure now most of you can tell why I talk the way I do 😁).It went as far as to how I grew up and how I perceived the world. I don’t mean to say I regret how I was raised, on the contrary, I wouldn’t change it for the world because from that, I wouldn’t be as intellectually smart and aware of life as I am now. I probably wouldn’t know how to express myself through blogging like I do now. I’m sourly grateful to my mum especially for wanting more for me and my sister and if that meant not being completely aware of my African self, so be it. I’m learning it now anyway so it’s a win win for me.

So now, I’m trying to pick up the small things that I proudly acknowledge that make me African, a Black African .One of the things that really stands out quite a lot is the countless ass whoppings I got as a child… This I can honestly say ,if your mama or dad didn’t whip your ass as a child, a part of you cancels itself off as an African child. Ass whoppings are completely African. It’s sort of a crucial rite of passage to adulthood because that’s the only way discipline ever got through to me and all the other African children. Grounding kids is what I refer to white people shit🙄. Circumcision is another very distinct African cultural practice that is carried out in so many African countries. In previous years ,it was for both genders but now it’s reserved for boys as a rite of passage to young men. It’s regarded as quite degrading for a young African man to not be circumcised. Young girls were mainly nurtured by their mothers and vice versa for the boys. In the African culture, there were gender distributed roles for the females and males that are common across many different African cultures and communities. All this and more is what stands us out as black Africans. I’m gradually being more aware that I am grateful to have something that I’m able to refer to in relation to my culture as not just an African but as a black African. It allows me to feel proud of where my origin comes from. It’s gives me a sense of ownership and belonging. Being Black is a blessing, it’s a chance to be unique and special. How Black do you feel? ✌🏿