How can life feel so good but so bad at the same time? How can life take you so high only to snatch you so low? How can I be so damn smart but so damn dumb?
I don’t have it in me to be funny or even clever this morning. This hurt mandates writing with 100% honesty, and even as I’m writing, I’m not sure I’ll post it. Not because I’m afraid of being judged, but because people love to take your lowest point and extrapolate that to define you as a person. To individualize you as your mistakes. To create an entire story about your life from social media posts and rumors from those supposedly loyal to you, instead of calling you and listening to your words. It’s not fear of someone knowing my errors; it’s knowing they will CHOOSE to never see you as more.
You ever want to scream “Hear Me!,”“Be There For Me!,”“Know That I Cry When I’m Alone Just Like You Do?”
I know my life looks like I have it all, that I got my shit together. Trust that I fought and studied and failed and struggled and failed again to claw myself to get here. So I will not diminish myself and say my life is not as great as it seems. My life is good. God has me. This is all His doing with my faith and perseverance.
If you ever needed immediate help, who would arrive first?
A Black Woman
If your answer was anything other than “3,” you are not ready for this site and should go read Yahoo Personals or something.
There is something about Black Women. Call it #magic. Call it being formed and cultivated in deep, rich African soil. Call it the resilience of lasting through centuries and centuries of attempts to eradicate us from this Earth. Call it setting trends from the motherland to Compton yet earning no recognition. But a Black Woman has that…. She just is…
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.” ― Stephen King
I didn’t want to write today because I am an emotional mess this morning. I’m honestly trying to tie myself together with the brute strength of my anger because if one tear falls, I’m dismantling and some shit just isn’t worth having to be rebuilt over. The positive thing about pain is that the more intense it is, the less energy one has to lie to themselves and others. Pain is honest. It overwhelms anything and everything else. Emotional pain becomes physical pain. You’re gasping for breath; abs are hurting from heaving; head is aching. That pain demands release. You want to scream, punch through cement walls, cut yourself just to draw the pain somewhere else. What better time, then, to open Word and bleed all over the page?