a new year is upon us and it’s been 18 months since some of you have sat down with the writer version of myself. Unless you-yourself is a writer or creative, I doubt I can come up with a reasonable excuse for my absence. When you last knew me I was single, depressed, and lost at life. I don’t know that I can say much has changed.
It’s a merciless feat to write the personal trials and tribulations of your life. It becomes even harder when your voice doesn’t belong to just you. People will stretch your voice to the tiniest of murmurs when it comes from a group of marginalized people. My words were challenging what it meant to be a whole, strong Black woman. I was creating a map to an emotional labyrinth of the darkest arenas of my life and retracing the paths with each reader. Rarely, was my writing or opinion accepted with open arms; I was labeled the lonely, love-hating, angry Black feminist who wanted her sadness. I know how dangerous it is for Black women with the thoughts and dreams I have in this society⎯no one protects you. At the same time, I had to scarf down the vehemence and exhaustion that came with the Sandra Bland’s, Freddie Gray’s, and the defense of Heathcliff Huxtable. The destruction of the gift of not only Blackness but womanhood. As a depressive, empath (see also: member of the X-Men) this was dangerous for my psyche, so I stopped writing. Life while becoming bountiful was only growing harder as I tried to ignore the tool the uni-verse gave me to add abundance to the world.
I read over 75 books. Still, I became a recluse so that I didn’t have to explain to my inner circle how fatality loomed over my day-to-day. I accepted a promotion. Yet, I created a conflicted workspace, where I continually battle(d) with my own moral compass. Am I adding to the problem that I so badly want to fix? I fell in love, a challenging, growing, safe love. But, my insecurities still tell me it’s slowly seeping through my palms. My bond with my mother became as strong as welded steel as the abandonment of my father’s void grew to fill the Grand Canyon. I beat 2014’s suicidal thoughts, only to loss two people to its suffocation. I spoke to God daily with fears that he never heard the whispers of my thank you’s as clearly as my cries of agony.
My life is a seesaw of duality. The only way to control the picture is to write words that paint the vast oceans of complexity and cast sunshine on the shadows of dreary emotions.
This year I write for you, her, hurt, healing.
Life, in all of your beautiful madness.