WOMAN’ing: Ch 69 – The (re)Tired Red Cape, Part V of V.

You know why this is Chapter 69? Nothing to do with sex. Everything to do with no matter how you slice it or what way you turn it, the results are the same.

I NEVER intended on being Superwoman.

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Never.

But once I decided to adult, I was immediately outfitted for my red flowing cape that would hang off my back no matter what outfit I put on. When I wear a dress, there is a long, flowing cape behind me. When I wear a suit, the cape is blowing in the wind and sometimes wrapping around my pants legs near the thighs. In sweats, my cape looks like it doesn’t belong but it’s still there riding my back like a cliché phrase about monkeys. And when I am naked, there she is: my cape. My big ass red cape, hanging from neck as if it were sewn into my skin.

Am I to never depart from this role of superwoman?

What’s funny about this title, is there are countless songs dedicated to the independence of women, particularly black women. For some reason, black women have to make their independence known to the world but the dosage must be in small teaspoons at a time. We wouldn’t want to emasculate the men or intimidate other women. We also wouldn’t want Jill with the Stringy Hair to feel like we were coming for her space right? So when we go to the club dancing to I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, and songs that fit that culture of music, we must make sure we only spell it out once so as not to offend others. Lol. Superwoman – the title that nearly every black woman has but no one really wants.

Folks think we want to be superwoman and that is simply not the truth. We were not built to maintain life and all of its ups, downs and mediums, all the stress and trauma, the good and the great, alone. I don’t believe that. I believe it’s possible to never spend your life with someone else. I believe it’s possible to try love and decide for yourself that you are better without it and that’s ok. But I also believe that we were made to have a partner. The fact that pickings are slim and partners, true PARTNERS, are few and far in between has made more women Superwoman than ever intended to be. We have to be responsible for EVERYTHING. EVERY DAMN THING. We are not just head of household, we are the head nigga in charge and for those that don’t like that term, sorry. That’s the way the saying goes . .  .

“**yelling at maximum lung capacity*

I’M TIRED OF BEING SUPERWOMAN DAMMIT!!!!!!!!!!!

We are the preacher, the teacher, the mother, the daughter and sister, the wife or girlfriend and for some, the side chick (you may not like a woman’s choices but  that doesn’t mean she isn’t out her making other Super fucking decisions). We are the  bread winners, the cooks, the maids, the stress relief, the emotional beings, the love leaders and the dream catchers. In addition to all of this, we must be responsible for goals, dreams, spirituality, teachings, education, orgasms, and manage any mental health issues or problems we may face, all while spending up to a week per month bleeding and trying not to be pissed off about it.
WoooMFinSah.”

Nothing stops when we have kids. It doesn’t stop when our cycles have us bent over the toilet trying to vomit up our mistakes of the last 3 weeks. Nothing ends because we have a bad day or are struggling through another bout of depression. Nothing stops for us – we must keep going.

I know, I know, all of this is true for men and women, white and black.

Welp, I’M TALMBOUT BLACK WOMEN TODAY!!!

While I do believe that women of all races are tasked with holding the world up on their shoulders, it’s no secret that black women are expected to hold the world while flying through the air without dropping a single thing, all while looking good for our flip floppy ass men. If you are a white woman reading this and find yourself offended by the idea that your privilege prevents you from being spoken for in this particular blog, then I advise you not to return here because there is more where this comes from and I can’t tell you when I will vent my black life opinions and experiences and won’t hold them back for sugary words and friendly comments. Besides, if we were being absolute 100 about it, what it means to be a white superwoman is a completely different definition than the black woman’s experience as such, AND someone is always looking to cape for a white woman whether it be white men, BLACK MEN, society, the community, etc….. A white woman’s superwoman cape is always at the dry cleaners and she never takes it there herself. A black woman’s cape is always attached to her MFing back.

We are the ones that seem to be continuously pushed to the bottom of the totem pole no matter how hard or fast we climb. Our men turn their backs on us at the drop of a white tear, jobs act like they don’t see our qualifications despite our continuing advancement up the education meters and journalists try to refute any good information released about us at every opportunity to click-clack their typing fingers.

I had another blog that I started writing on this topic but decided to start over from scratch after a viral FB thread that I scrolled upon. By now, you may have seen it and might even know some of the women commenting. I don’t at the present time know the origin of the thread or what brought about the tearfully white comment but a precious and privileged white woman left this in a black women’s comment section: “I wish I could have been born a black woman because you all are so strong”, or some derivative of bullshit like such. The post has gone viral because of the eternal dragging that she received, but the comment and the subsequent responses got me thinking about the title of superwoman and our addictive disdain of such.

Superwoman Can’t Die…

…Because if she does, the rest of everything that has been dependent on us for survival will fold and not many of us will chance that. Either we have to be taking care of the kids or going to work or working on our schoolwork or cooking and cleaning or tending to our men or finding out they are cheating and caring for our own feelings or caring for ailing family or marching on the frontlines or pushing our not-for-profit or having contractions while signing paperwork for keys to new buildings after burying close family members and remembering to feel beautiful inside and out. Much like a run-on sentence, there are no breaks and or breaths. We push through and plow unbroken grounds in search of ourselves all while trying to maintain our professional and personal lives. Sure, as I said earlier, this is nothing no one else hasn’t experienced. No, you don’t need to be a black woman to go through this. But as a black woman, I guarantee the Superwoman title is exacerbated by a thousand knots. Let’s use that FB comment I saw for example, which you can find here. One of the commenters shared some screenshots from a black man that inboxed her separately asking if “all white women were considered ugly” and how “in his opinion, most of them look better than black woman, who look like dogs” or some other type of animal he referred to us as.

Wait –

Bish what????

We can’t even stop to take our fucking worn down heels off before we have to stand back up, cape blazing as usual, ready to defend ourselves and our sisters because some flagrant ass nigga thought it necessary to socially degrade us as a whole while casually forgetting that his blanket statement would also include his mother and any other black woman in his life. But I don’t know, some black dudes act like they were pushed out of Jill With the Stringy Hair’s snatch. FoH.

And for that, we must be on at all times. We must always be in charge of who we are. If we don’t command and demand our respect and for that of our sisters, we will be disrespected at all costs. You don’t get the title of Superwoman because you get up and go to work every day. You get it because YOU are work…every day. It takes work to go beyond every barrier set in place to be the ending factor. Superwoman has to be dedicated to herself in an unforgiving way that opens up the valley for her ascent. But she’s hardly ever traveling alone. There is always family, friends and lovers in tow. . .

We are grinding for everyone at once to a point that we don’t know if we are putting ourselves first or last anymore. At the same time of our Super Grind, we are watching our sisters be killed by the police at a rapid rate. We are holding names like Sandra Bland and Korryn Gaines close enough to our hearts that we can feel their final breaths. We stand in the front of the protest lines with signs and grief and strength unfounded because we refuse to sit quietly while our men are hunted, our children are unprotected and our women and girls become easy targets for police assaults and murders. It’s a weight that sits on our hearts relentlessly and even when our emotional hope is drained, we still stand in resilience and solidarity with each other. This is why I say this isn’t about white inclusion. Sorry, not sorry. White women will never know what it’s like to hold the house up, keep self together and watch our families be ripped apart or worse, to be on the burying side of a racist system that supports the hunting and killing of black people. This is a daily occurrence. There are instances that happened last week that we may never hear about and those women, those black superwomen, will experience their losses and grief alone. They won’t have the nation marching and begging for rights that should be a no-brainer for every human. Even when our home lives are in an uproar, we still find time in our stress to care about someone else and see to their needs. 

Superwoman can’t die. She can’t pass away quietly in her sleep or take a vacation indefinitely and leave her calendar book at home. Superwoman must always be on. If not, who will? If we don’t get it done, who will? Who’s going to take the overflowing trash out the door without us having to be a reminder or do it ourselves? Who gets the furniture moved and the rooms changed for a fresh feeling in the house? Who will fearlessly climb up a southern flag pole, snatching down the offensive confederate flag all while knowing the repercussions of doing so will be grand? Black women, in particular, have this Superwoman thing down to a science. When we do ask for help, we have about five to ten minutes maximum as a grace period to allow for it to start to get done. After that time is up, we toss our cape in the wind and fly to solve the shit ourselves.  Recently I saw this meme:

Recently I saw this meme: black-womenIf this isn’t a perfect description of superwoman, I don’t know what is. I almost want it tattooed on my arm but I never wanted the title of superwoman to begin with.

The Title We Never Signed

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Photo Credit: Roberto Nencini

Superwoman is a misleading title that none of us signed up for. I didn’t grow up with my head in comics and I was never a fan of Superman or any of the other Marvel heroes. The closest I got to that type of stuff was enjoying the Thundercats theme song but even still, I never watched the show. On the flip side, I never expected to get married, birth two kids and live in a suburban household with the perfect Ken-doll looking husband. I didn’t grow up with adult expectations and no one ever really tried to implant anything on my psyche. I just grew to know that one day, I would be able to do whatever  I wanted to do with my life and I was looking forward to it (adulting per a teenage mind, smh). I did a mad dash out of the house at 19 and never looked back. But in hindsight, I’m certain I wasn’t looking forward either or else I may have noticed the big ass red cape standing in the way of the door that I would have to put on in order to exit.

I came flying through these Indianapolis streets, cape blazing, weave blowing with crooked smile on my face in attempts to save the world from itself. I offered up every saving grace I could muster from a couch for flagrants to sleep on to my credit for niggas to fuck up. At one point, I had two apartments in my name, neither of which was home to me anymore. Saving people is what I grew accustomed to doing until I counted more losses as a result than wins. But my never-ending flight through the sky was far from over.

My sister has been a single mom for 20 years. She worked her way up working customer service for a pizza company to earning her MBA and becoming a senior analyst at her company. In addition to that, she’s a professional accountant, an Uber driver, computer savvy to the highest degrees and has done all of this while raising a daughter alone. My mother is an only child, much like the daughter she birthed. She has been a caretaker since I was a junior in high school. One after another, a sick family member would make their way into our lives and deem my mom responsible for their well-being until their death. She has been fixing meals, running errands, going to doctors appointments, talking to hospitals, doctors, insurance companies, washing, cleaning, bathing and caring for as many as six people consecutively over the past 21 years. Let that marinate: TWENTY ONE YEARS. She did all this while going through her own health crisis including but not limited to breast cancer that, at times, left her hospitalized on several occasions. All of this took place while she was raising a daughter. As I wrote about in a previous blog, my aunt has struggled with depression for as long as I could remember. Her depression was intense and she would spend days in the bed sleeping or melancholy in spirit. Although she was a married post office retiree, she was expected to hold the house down. She paid the mortgage, the bills and since my uncle couldn’t read, she took care of anything that came in the mail and all things in between. My uncle, although a very great uncle to me, was not a great man to my aunt and definitely not the head of household. Still, he treated the home as if it were his and like she was a squatter. It’s not a lifestyle I could condone for myself but my aunt handled her business, through her depression and a relationship that was detrimental on herself. She may have seemed weak to other folks but as an adult woman, I can see how thick her cape actually was. #CapeStrong. My grandmother was the second oldest of five living children. I’m not sure where her amazing strength of life originated from, as she seems to be the only one of her siblings with the tenacity and the resilience that she possessed. She was blessed to love and be loved several times in her life. I know of three men, one she was married to and two who were long-term mates, who had her heart but not her mind. Each of these men passed away and while I was not around to meet my grandfather and see my G-Mom’s strong will, I can only imagine it based on what I have seen: she never grieves. Not the way most of us do. When the last love of her life, the man I refer to as my grandfather, passed away somewhat suddenly (no disease…he fell and hit his head), my grandmother never let anyone see her cry. No tears were shed at the funeral and just like all the other friends and family I bid farewell to alongside her, she was stoic in her demeanor and always found a reason to flawlessly smile. I’ve written in blogs about the day I was leaving my house a few years back and saw her outside crying. Her tears were so huge I could have stepped inside of them. I will never forget it because I had never seen it. I saw her try to wipe them in enough time for me not to notice, but I did. I often find myself thinking of that day and wondering what caused her tears. Was that day a culmination of life??? …a climactic moment of weakened shoulders hoisting a tired red cape?? She has Alzheimers now and truth be told, I don’t know how she could not have it. How could one store as many emotions away as she did and be the matriarch to her family AND her friends and it eventually not wear her thin in some way? I think being superwoman stole my grandmother from us. 14054582_1059928167431556_446721301327248467_o

No one signs up for this invisible role of impossibilities. We aren’t numb, non-humans who fly across the sky without catching a breath. We aren’t superhumans and we aren’t God, although each of us has the presence (IMO) of God within. To be super is to be excellent. Glorius. Splendid. Marvelous. These are all synonyms associated with the word itself and I don’t deny that they fit every black woman I’ve ever met. But it’s hardly a round-the-clock situation. I belong to a group called The Healing Circle, where women post their prayer needs, vent, uplift, cheer up each other and more. It’s a safe, sacred space on FB (can you believe it) where women have gotten to know each other simply through trying to empower each other throughout the day. I see first hand through this group that every day isn’t a great day. Some days are mental game changers and others seem like finales. There are moments where we have nothing but questions and feel undesirable to even ourselves. Our gears get tired, our immune systems get weakened and we struggle sometimes through bouts of depression, anxiety, and panic. Superwoman, by comic definition, would never experience these things and therefore she would always be able to fly with ease. There is no trouble that scares her backward and there is no past that she just can’t get over.

But in the real world, our past effects our current decisions, our hearts are bruised and at times broken for extended periods of time and we are in and out of confidence depending on who we are and where we are in life. Times get hard and we aren’t detached from how it makes us feel. Things need to be done and we aren’t in the position NOT to do them. #FuckItIWillDoIt. We are in the process of forgiving, understanding and moving on, on a daily basis. Four out of four women are trying to forgive someone right now for some type of transgression. I made up that statistic and I highly doubt I’m wrong.

We don’t want this fucking cape yo!!!!!

We don’t. We have earned our crowns but these capes are overrated…yet so necessary. If not us, then who? After so long of caping for thyself, it becomes hard to let go of the ropes. Trusting another person to take of things the way you know you would can be such a stressor that it’s just more simple to BE superwoman at all times.

We don’t want to do everything ourselves. I have proven it to myself, my family and the world that I can handle life. I can make a way out of no way. I can sleep without electricity until I get paid, I can humble myself and talk to Citizens Action Program to help me with winter assistance. I can swipe my food stamp card at the grocery proudly. I can weather the stressful storm of unemployment and I rock THE FUCK out of interviews. I can work for Goodwill and Target for minimum wage during my maximum 30s. I can swindle, scam, scheme and finagle my way wherever I NEED to be. I can and I will maintain my household at all costs. There is no question about that. Now I want some help. At nearly 38 years old, after having been on my own for nearly 20 years, I officially want to retire this ugly ass red fabric that is weighing my back down and I want someone to help. I want some contribution to these bills. I want to be able to buy myself something without taking from something else. I thank God that I no longer need to ask and give my uterus up in order for the government to give me assistance, but even if that weren’t the case, I don’t want to do all the talking. I need someone else to call the plumber and the mechanic. I want some help washing dishes because sometimes I let them pile up too much.

I have two dogs and when it’s vet time, I need help dammit ! I want to not have to pay for my own entry, drinks, and parking; I want to be treated like a Queen by my man. I want my friends to give friendship that is truly unconditional and in return I seek to provide the same. I want them to reach out to me when I’m struggling and can’t do so for myself. I want to let them know that I am thinking of them when they think they are all alone. And everything that I want for myself, I want for every woman who is battling this superwoman role. It feels good to accomplish stuff that people think you can’t, but after so many accomplishments, sometimes, you want to kick back and relax.  There is an ever growing list of expectations associated with bearing this title of super. You become EXPECTED to take care of things and to have it all together. Sometimes tho, you fucking don’t want to ! You want to stop being the caretaker for the day and stop feeling like you can’t grieve your losses. You want the bills out of your name. You want help raising your child. You want a loving ride home from the hospital and you want get well soon flowers hand delivered. This isn’t about having a man. This is about not doing every damn thing ourselves, all the fucking time. That help can come in many forms…companionship is merely one.

Even superwoman needs a day off.

But if history has taught me anything, it is that our role as Superwoman is immortal.

Eternal.

It is forever.

Superwoman can’t die.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t often want to retire our tired, red capes and just be women. 

 

~j

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WOMAN’ing: Ch. 25, F*#@ It, I’m On One – Pt IV of V

It was the night of the Michael Jackson and Prince ICON party at the Vogue…I had bought tickets weeks prior and was stoked to attend the party that would include live performances, lots of music from both artists and their musical friends, as well as a huge dance floor to party the night away. I got cute. I wore a tutu blue jean dress with some cute hand gloves and put my hair up in some funk-driven style. It was my guy and I’s first time going out to this type of setting and we had plans to set the dancefloor on fire. We arrived and were able to make our way to the front of the stage just in time for one of the many dope performances planned for that night. I saw a few people I knew and gave out hugs in between getting myself ready for a long night of sweaty foreheads and  tired feet. My guy stood behind me as the artists began to take to the stage and prepare to sing. I stood in front of him looking at the stage when I started feeling dizzy. I’m a smoker and thought maybe it was from that and would subside in a minute but it didn’t. It progressed forward with the dizziness moving from my head to my eyes and then I started to sweat profusely. It hit me so suddenly and so hard that it was almost hard to deny. I stood there trying to see if I could tough it out but at the point that I could feel the sweat running down my head (mind you, we had just arrived about 10 mins prior and had not done anything but walk from the door to the stage), I knew what time it was. I hesitantly turned to him and said ‘I need to go outside, I’m having a panic attack.’ He didn’t miss a beat or ask any questions; he just turned and came out w/me. I walked as fast as I humanly could from the stage to the front door. More people had arrived so the crowd was thicker and I was moving so fast, I didn’t really know if he was still behind me or not. The band began as soon as I got to the front door but I felt like if I stopped, I would drop dead. Literally those exact thoughts.

We got outside of the venue and I walk-ran to a picnic table in front of a sushi restaurant that sits next to the Vogue. I sat down and could barely see anything. I was so dizzy and scared and sweaty  and all I could think was ‘I need to be out of these clothes.’ My guy was there and I could tell he was scared but at this point, my breaths had shortened and I was dry heaving for air. I unzipped the front of my dress to let some air get to my body, no longer concerned with anyone who might see me. Logic time had passed; this was me trying to find my safety net. I felt like I was dying. I am not sure what dying feels like but that is my best guess. As I struggled to get a whole, relaxed breath, my entire body became drenched in sweat. I’m sure I was shiny because I was so sweaty from head to toe and I was shaking from the inside out. Nothing about me was put together and I could not find my footing. I was terrified and so was he. He sat with me, holding my hand while I continued to try to just catch a whole breath. About ten minutes passed before he asked if I wanted to leave; I said yes. Party was over before it began. He had to walk to get the truck and I could tell he didn’t want to leave me but I told him I was ok. When he disappeared into the dark, I cried as best as I could. I think I cried so I could see if I had ANY control over anything in my body. I cried because I was scared and worried that I would be dead when he got back to me. When he got back with the truck, I got in and we went home. I had the window rolled all the way down, face towards the wind and the seat leaned back. The panic attack was starting to subside but it felt like if I moved or blinked too fast or hard, it would resurface. It was the first panic attack I had since 2010 but since it wasn’t my first panic attack, I recognized the symptoms and was able to remove myself to a ‘safer space’ (loose term) until I could get home.

As we come to the last two blogs of the WOMAN’ing series, I had to take a minute out to discuss mental health issues. I am not here to be a doctor in literary form and not only do I not have all (and in some cases any) of the answers, I also am not sure of all the different types of mental disorders that people suffer from. I do realize this is not solely a woman’s problem and that men suffer from many of the same things I have discussed throughout this series, however, women are expected to be emotional yet in emotionally in control of ourselves. We are expected to be the nurturers and the ones that bring the ‘love’ aspect into things but are also expected to be ok. We are expected to not need help, professional or personal. We are expected to have this side of us together, when in fact, all of the stimuli we receive in trying to be everyone’s everything often has negative mental effects on us, therefore exacerbating any mental deficiencies we may have or worse, creating new ones.

I have had a pill bottle full of depression meds for two years now. When I moved, I considered throwing them away, but they now sit in my office as a ‘break open in case of emergency stash’. I have never taken meds before. I got them in the middle of 2014 when I thought I was going to lose my shit. I have never so much as twisted the bottle. The weird thing is when the doctor handed me the pills, I felt some sense of relief having told someone that I was going through a severe depressive storm that I was not yet able to pull myself from even with the tools in hand. Having him hand me those pills that I knew I would never take made me feel good because for the first time, I had told someone that could help me that I was depressed. I don’t particularly want my personality to become dependent upon depression meds to be able to make from hour to hour so I’ve never taken them but I did find myself on a lightning end to my depression. I am going to speak very candidly from this point forward on three different things regarding mental illness:

  1. Depression
  2. Anxiety/Panic disorder
  3. Mild/Severe Personality Changes

Shall we?

Depression is not an Adjective:

Growing up, depression was not something that I was not privy to. My aunt suffered from depression from the onset of her mother’s death when I was like 5 or 6 years old through current. I suspect her home life with an emotionally abusive husband did nothing to help her through it. I would hear her talk of her racing and scattered emotions and since I spent a lot of time with her, I would see her go through them sometimes. She would sleep through whole days and wake up not knowing if she was at the beginning or end of the week. I assume she was doing a lot more crying than I ever knew of, but her face always told a story of weariness and tire. She looked emotionally spent when she wasn’t in a good mood and I know now that was part of the depression but as I was growing up, as much as I understood, I still didn’t. It wasn’t until I realized I was battling the same type of mental demons that I fully got the impact of depression and how debilitating it is. While on the outside, it looks like ‘why doesn’t she just get out of the bed’ or ‘why do you stay’ or ‘why won’t you ‘ yada yada yada. Everyone outside of the window has all the answers for someone else’s life but few for their own.  My first conscious dealing with depression was in the early 2000s when I was, much like my aunt, in an emotionally abusive relationship. I do not blame him or the relationship for my depression; it was just part of the saddening motivation. People use the word ‘depressed’ so flagrantly. It’s been as whored out as ‘woke’ or ‘overstand’ or some of the other words that lose their meaning over time because we have removed the true definition for them in our conversations. Depression is not a fleeting sad moment. It’s not someone passed away and you’re grieving. That’s called grieving. It’s not you lost your job and now you’re stressed. That’s called stressed and there might be some sadness associated with it, but tears and sad faces don’t equate to depression. Depression is in your brain. It’s the overwhelming sense of sadness and even fear when you get a promotion and everyone is cheering you on. It’s the death of a loved one that renders you unable to continue; you can’t get out of bed, you can’t go back to work, you can’t be bothered to talk to other people. It’s you existing solely in your emotions, whatever they are (they aren’t always sad). It is physical. It is being down on yourself about everything from a simple catalyst. Depression can be triggered but it need not be. It is a silent creeper that is relentless in its pull on your coattail. Depression simply put is a beast that can’t be resolved by someone coming over and making you laugh. It isn’t helped or cured by someone telling you that you don’t feel what you feel or you are kidding and lying to yourself.

While society still struggles to know how to deal with depressed people and learn constructive, healthy ways to address and assist them, depression gives no  fucks and the flippancy or unbotheredisms of us as a people tend to further an individual’s depression higher up the charts. It’s dangerous to say you are depressed when you are just sad.  Sadness is a part of life and for some people, so is depression, but the two are not inclusive of each other. The danger of using those two words interchangeably lies in confusing people into believing that depression is as easy to suffer from as apple pie in a white family’s oven. It’s not. Depression has it’s chosen ones and I do believe that it can be developed as well (not just the way your brain was wired at birth), but it’s not what occurs when you stub your toe and can’t get over the pain so you lay down and don’t move while watching tv. Depression wants solitude, silence, loudness, movement, tears, anger, fights, help, hugs, phone calls, shouting matches, more tears – depression wants EVERYTHING and yet nothing helps until it does. It doesn’t always have a ‘sad’ face and sometimes, you know you are going through another bout simply by your physical reaction to things. I have no ‘answer’ or solution for depression and curing the mind and heart of such a dangerous place. But I do know we need to stop just tossing it out there as an adjective. It’s not a way to describe how unhappy you are at the moment. It’s a mental imbalance. An emotional meat-grinder. A growth stunter. Depression is not an adjective. We have to be responsible for our language because it creates cultures and beliefs that sometimes aren’t true.

Stop saying you are depressed when you are sad.
Stop telling people they are just sad or ok when they say they are depressed.
Stop being dismissive. It just creates a wider funnel for depression to drown the sufferer in.
Stop using it like it’s candy. If you aren’t depressed, that’s great. If you’ve never suffered from depression, that’s great. Don’t pull yourself into a storm you don’t understand because it’s a disservice to those who do get it.
Depression is not an adjective. It’s a legit illness.

Anxious for the Panic Room

I still remember my first panic attack. It was at my mother’s house. We were standing outside on a warm summer day and both me and my mom were standing at the back of my stepfather’s truck when this  rush of sweat came over me just like at the Vogue most recently. I stood as long as I could until I had to go sit on the porch steps to catch my breath. I tried to act like nothing was wrong although I was completely terrified because not only was I profusely sweating, but now I was dizzy and my heartbeat was racing. I went into the house, laid on her living room floor and prepared to die as I cried and begged God not to let me pass this randomly on my mom’s living room floor. Clearly, I made it. But it would take talking to my friend at the time to help me make sense of what happened and even then, I still didn’t believe it. Not until I had another one and began to read about panic attacks.

On the soul food series, Terri suffered from panic attacks. They attempted to address that silent stressor but when I was watching, I couldn’t understand it. I never understood it what was going on with her or why. After I became in tune with my own, I went back and rewatched the season w/Terri’s attacks and what a difference a panic attack makes. Shit! I completely got it and truthfully, that is EXACTLY how I felt. Watch this ten-minute clip to see the randomness and the accuracy of panic attacks, at least from my experience:

That is a legit interpretation of panic attacks, even down to the way Bird reacted. My guy was similar in reaction….while he didn’t sing old church hymns to me, he was scared and tried his best to offer comfort and bring me down. He told me in the days afterward how frightening the situation actually was. I am not sure why my panic attacks started. They aren’t frequent and sometimes  there are years in between them, but when they happen, THEY HAPPEN!!!!! Listen, all over the web you can find articles and pages dedicated to panic attacks, what to do, why they happen, etc, etc.

This one is pretty well detailed in the symptoms.

That fear of dying is so real. You literally feel like this is the end and OMG why is it ending like this of all ways?

Of course, stress, whether internally (your own personal stress) or external (adopted stress of loved ones), can bring on an attack but when they will happen is anyone’s guess. The unpredictability coupled with the fear associated with panic attacks keeps me on edge when I find myself sweating or feeling nauseated or dizzy. Most times it’s nothing, but the fear persists just the same. The last attack, I tried the methods that are often suggested including trying to stay mentally calm, taking deep slow breaths (which is hard when your breath is stunted), getting air but I can’t say how much they helped.  There are anti-depressant meds you can get to help with easing the frequency of attacks but they don’t stop them completely and to be perfectly honest, I’m a bit over the idea that everything can be solved by a little pill somebody created out of who knows what. Finding the route cause of your panic attacks would be the greatest hope one would have for fighting back and I’m sure there is some type of natural supplement that could assist. I don’t have them frequently enough to have invested much energy in combating them, but if you are reading and aware of some natural cures or something aside from popping pills, drop it in the comments !!! Talk back <3

Fuck It, I’m On One

 

I have only tickled the fancy of the surface with this blog. Mental illness issues are abundant yet they are shunned and whispered about. To me, this portion of my journey through my womanhood includes being honest with myself about who I am and how that affects me in positive and/or negative ways. Being honest with yourself means owning up to your mental strengths….and weaknesses. It doesn’t matter if you have an IQ of a genius or daily struggles with bipolar disorder, owning your mental space is what will allow you to continue to grow. It’s what allows the necessary help get to you even if that’s a depression prescription that you never take. But somewhere tiptoeing on the axis of womanhood, there is a silent creeper that affects millions of women but we hardly see it as news or hear it about it in conversations.

Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD) came into my life about five years ago when a dear friend found out she was suffering from it. During the beginning days of her period, she would get irritable and jumpy. What would usually be a simple argument would be like WWIII and anyone could get it !!! She was given some meds to take and I can’t remember if they were birth control pills are anti-depressants, but with her emotions being an absolute mess on a monthly basis, she tried them. I think the results fell in the middle of the spectrum. In the blog prior to this, I talked about the effects of aging and how I feel about it. I wrote about how my period has changed over the years and become an untrustworthy (although reliable) reminder of my womanhood every month. One thing I failed to address was PMDD and how it suddenly appeared as part of my PMS symptoms. I am self-diagnosed so there is room for me to be in error on this but I’m about 100% I’m correct. Real quick, cause you know I love definitions:

Dysphoria – A profound state of unease or dissatifaction. Dysphoria may accompany depression, anxiety or agitation.

Out of nowhere, over the last 3-4 years, I noticed a change in my personality that occurred at the exact same time every month: during my period. Let me back up first. When I a teenager and even throughout the majority of my 20s, I didn’t suffer from any PMS or sickness or mood alterations when I had my cycle. It was business as usual on all other fronts. The closer I got to 30 and then afterward, I started to develop PMS symptoms and cramping which I have charged to the game as aging. But these last few years, I noticed something else. Something new. Something a bit more dangerous. My attitude: tolerance, patience, conflict resolution – all greatly affected and down in numbers. In other words, I have none of those things. My tolerance and patience levels are zero and my conflict resolution is sarcastic at best. Now whatever you have imagined it, quadruple it and that’s me barely “able to can” as Awesomely Luvvie would say. I have screamed so loud that I’ve become hoarse. You want to talk about uneasiness?? Lord Jesus, I can feel myself shaking internally and I know it’s time for everyone to hit the deck, she’s about to blow !!!  Then the next day, I’m looking and thinking back with embarrassment like ‘who the fuck was I?’

My friend and I aren’t the only sufferers of this. I mean, there are enough of us for them to concoct another lab pill with a commercial attached (but be careful on taking meds because the symptoms could be as small as a rash to as final as death..lol). One day we were talking about it and how people who don’t and have never experienced it don’t really understand how heavy and detrimental the symptoms can be. Men of course totally don’t get it and with both of us, it showed up so late in life that people are looking at us like ‘well you weren’t this way just last year.’  Yeah well, DUH MF !!!!!

If you add PMDD on top of a nervous and mental system that is known for panic attacks and a depressive nature, there is no telling what you might get. I once had an ex tell me I had personality issues. I had another tell me that I go from zero to a hundred really quick and then my currency seems to think something along the same lines. Everybody can’t be wrong, but that doesn’t make them right. I wonder how much of what we experience in life effects us in our menstrual cycles? I recently obtained a therapist and will have my first appointment with her soon. Something that I have wondered about in regards to personality & bipolar disorder, as well as PMDD, is do the people on the other side of us take our mental issues seriously enough to attempt to NOT trigger them?

Here’s an example: Accountability is something that is big to me. I am not always in the right and while criticism of myself may be hard to digest at times, I still understand that I have to be responsible for the things I say and do and how they make other people feel. Even if there is something mentally different about me, I still have enough ‘norm’ about me to know that I have to respect how I’ve made folks feel even when it’s bad. For me, a person holding themselves accountable is HUGE so when you avoid accountability or deflect (which another pet/personality peeves), it has the ability to instantly take me to 100 depending on what time of the month it is (and sometimes NOT depending on that at all). I’m an only child and so was my mom so I didn’t even grow up with cousins my age. There was no one else to put the blame on when something was messed up. I’ve always had to be called to bat for what I pitched out so it’s a hard pill for me to swallow when I see someone can’t be accountable for the things they’ve said and done. So again, I go back to the question of triggers.

Are the people on the other side of us taking our mental issues seriously enough not to trigger them? Are they being accountable? Are they deflecting? Are they being condescending? The list goes on and is based on individuals but me accepting that there is something different about how I am mentally and emotionally wired, be it once a month or daily, is also me saying to you if you plan to stick around, please try not to toss gasoline on an ever burning flame.

I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone but me.

But it’s definitely something I’ve wondered more than a handful of times. Mental health is hardly addressed enough and especially not in the black community. Those who have mental illnesses or suffer from anxiety or depression or PMDD or [insert illness] need the assistance of our loved ones as much as we need doctors, prescriptions, and the rest . . .

That is greatly important and I can’t begin to stress how much so in one blog. We don’t don’t need to be coddled and treated like babies. It’s not that. But if we acknowledge an illness, please don’t tell us we are lying or tripping or need to ‘take it to the altar.’ Those of us who believe and trust in God have already done that and this is the part of faith where you WORK. We don’t need to be patronized or made fun of but rather that you are cognizant of words and triggers and actions that create funnels for depressive or manic episodes and reactions. If you already do that, then keep up the great work !!! 

In the meantime, if you suspect (or know) that you suffer from of the aforementioned or other mental illnesses, please seek the appropriate help for you. Trust your gut and your instinct. Talk to someone in confidence and if possible, seek counsel. I was recommended to the Christian Theological Center which has a sliding scale for therapists according to your income. Mine is about $30 a session.

Click this link for their information.  

Again, I didn’t write this blog with a bunch of answers and suggestions. Simply my story as I inch my way closer to 38. I hope somewhere in this, someone else becomes free enough to be open with themselves first about their mental illness, deficiencies, and issues.

I’m still the shit regardless of whatever makes me less than perfect. I love the fact that imperfection is something I cannot achieve because I truly feel like (at least on my good days) that I can accomplish nearly anything I set my mind and heart to. Perfection seems to hard to obtain so it’s better that I am flawed in the ways I am. It also allows me to empathize with folks.

I wish more people had that same empathy and understanding. Although this series is called WOMAN’ing and about being a woman, men suffer mental illnesses just as much as women. And our society is too full of people who don’t know how to nurture us appropriately.

May the high horses they ride in on catch a broken leg. Hashtag PutEmDown. 

Blogtrack:

“I had a one-way ticket to a place where all the demons go
Where the wind don’t change
And nothing in the ground can ever grow
No hope, just lies
And you’re taught to cry in your pillow
But I survived

I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m alive
I’m alive
I’m alive
I’m alive
I found solace in the strangest place
Way in the back of my mind
I saw my life in a stranger’s face
And it was mine”
~Sia, Alive 

 

 

WOMAN’ing: CH 40, Bullies & Bullshit, Part III of V

Remember those metallic vertical blinds that came out back in the late 90s? You know the ones that looked really snooty and cost a lot of money; there used to be a store that specializes in those blinds in Lafayette Commons (a former popping area of the Westside of Indianapolis).  Yesterday I drove past a house that still had those types of blinds up. It caught my attention in the same way they used to when I was a teenager….well unless you count the fact that upon seeing them, my initial thoughts were ‘they STILL have those??!!!!” Nonetheless, it instantly took me to a nostalgic place. My aunt had some – hers were metallic gold and faced just enough sunlight to create a blinding glare when the rays hit them. I loved them. I remember when she first got them installed. I was quite mesmerized and had promised myself that when I finally got out on my own, I would have some of the same blinds. I hadn’t decided on silver or gold, but I did love the way the gold accented her dining room both in and outside.

She had plans on getting more. I remember her pointing to the living room windows and talking about how she had planned on getting more. She wanted some that had a design going through the middle in a different accenting color. That never happened. I would guess myself to be about 14 or 15 when her blinds were installed and I was excited to see her house get outfitted in these expensive looking blinds, but again, it never happened. To this day, those gold blinds still cover her sliding glass doors as the only metallic in the house.  When I drove past that house yesterday and had that quick run down memory lane of metallic blinds and my aunt’s house, it hit me: that’s part of aging.

Having all these grand plans for the home you live in that never pan out seems to be part of growing up as an adult. I’ve done it hundreds of times for each place I stayed at. The last house was supposed to have an office/prayer room that even got as far as having the room blessed only for it to sit idle with nothing in it until I stored someone’s new bed for them (that was ultimately left for me to keep).  But sometimes, life happens. So with that, welcome to part III: Bullies & Bullshit.

 

Bullshit:

Sometimes –

Wait. Lots of times…..

Hmm…

MOST times, I have hair on my legs. Lots. The good thing is I don’t grow excessive amounts of hair in places I don’t want it (or even places I do), but that does not equate to me not growing hair in places I don’t want it. Lol. Starting with my legs…somewhere after age 30, my silky smooth legs became a hot spot for hair growth. By about age 34, I started to take conscious notice that I had enough hair on my legs for it to be  visible and unattractive (to me…this is not coming from a societal standards place. I simply don’t want to rock unnecessary excessive hair and that’s ok with me). The problem with this is I didn’t always grow hair on my legs. I never shaved my legs  growing up or in my 20s and the few times I did, it was just to see what it was like. So I have this ‘my legs don’t need shaving’ mentality and I rarely remember to take a razor to them. So again, most times, I have hair on my legs. Lots.

And I still wear skirts, dresses and rock high heels with a model walk, unapologetically.

In my late 20s, two lonely but belligerent pieces of hair started to grow beneath my chin in a place dark and quiet enough not to be easily noticed by most folks but I knew they were there. I would yank them until they were gone. Pluck them out. Snap them off with fingernail clippers and at times, play with the longest one because it confused me how it grew so long, thick and fast when the top of my head seemed to struggle bus it’s way through my life. But I digress. I also have two chin hairs.

Lastly, in the last year, I noticed a new tenant on my body. Another hair. On my face. This one more visible than the chin and my legs put together in an army. It is right above my lip. Like a lone mustache hair. It hardly lays flat and it is visible. My guy has seen it and laughed at me. I was embarrassed of course, but not for long (he don’t care). But it’s there. And the same treatment I give to the chin hairs, I dish to this one. I snatch it out with an attitude while thoughts of ‘how dare you grow on my face’ circle my head.

Hair.

Hair growth is a part of aging that I had long seen in my family but never understood it as part of the process. I believe I thought the women in my family who had faint mustaches and chin hairs was due to a flub in their DNA; not something to do with how many birthdays they celebrated. Turns out, I was wrong. While I know it’s quite normal for women to grow hair anywhere (seeing as though we are humans and that’s what human bodies do), that doesn’t make it any less irritating to wake up from your 20s and notice some random, permanently growing hair in a shiny suit, dancing and waving a checkerboard mark towards it’s friends from the cliff of your chin.

This is bullshit.

Aging, while fun at times, eye-opening and full of epiphanies, laughter, tears and cheers, is bullshit.

Reasons why aging is bullshit sometimes:

I’ll be 38 in about two months. That’s a hard pill for me to swallow emotionally because I don’t ‘feel’ 38 but then to again, what does 38 feel like? I remember turning 25 and not feeling this great big difference although  I knew there were some subtle changes that would take place. At age 25, you are officially of the age where people can’t turn you down for alcohol, clubbing or cigarettes. You’re grown. But what is hardly said about 25 is that is the age where life kicks up a notch and goes into high gear. I am now an age I consciously remember my mom turning. When you are a kid, your mom feels old. You know she’s older than you and because of her authority and wisdom, 30s, 40s and 50s all seem like one big, old age. But as a nearly 40-year-old woman, I understand that not to be true. I feel young in many ways and like the things that happened in my 20s just happened a handful of years ago. I mean, nothing seems like I should be about damn near 40 !!!

! Except this hair. All this unnecessary hair…..

But that’s just part of it.

Some of my aging issues:

Black DOES crack!!! Just ask my black ass back and my black ass legs which crack randomly throughout the day for no reason. Why is stretching so important now when I used to get out of the bed and go all day and all night with no stretching and no problems. I’m heavy!!! How come I haven’t been able to do a push up in forever or pull myself up on the ariel silks? Once upon a time I could!!!! Why does my left leg randomly hurt like it needs to pop but won’t and so it stays in this suspended state of OUCH all fucking day!!!!???? Why does my stomach hurt for no reason sometimes? I hurt my toe on a trampoline and it stayed hurt for  THREE MONTHS!!! Was it broken? Shit. WTF? Why have I started loving flats more than heels (but still buy heels just the same)? Why does the new music sound like TRASH and the old music is what I bob my head to? I’m still shouting No Limit from Master P while yaw bumping and grinding to Usher’s attempt at staying relevant.

 

Aging does something to you when you really stop to see how fast time has gone, where you are in your life and your goals and what concerns you have today that you didn’t have last year or five or ten years prior. 2016 has been one of the biggest years of death that I can recall in my life. Some of THE greatest celebrities that I always thought to be immortal passed on this year, but it didn’t end there. Animals that were family staples at my mom’s house went over to the rainbow bridge this year – one cat, one german shepherd who was still young for his death.  Growing up, my mom and stepdad kept a house full of people playing cards, listening to funk music and hanging out. I used to want to be able to hang with them but of course, I was sent to my bedroom. I would fall asleep on the weekends to the sounds of laughter and cards smacking the tables. In addition to that, my grandmother hosted card games at her house. I used to ‘work’ those card games, bringing the players plates of food, coffee and pop so they never missed a beat or lost their seat. They’d pay me in dollars and quarters. I couldn’t hang out in the basement with them because I was too young for the cussing, the gambling, and the excessive cigarette smoke, but man do I have hella memories from that time period and used to love going to my grandmother’s house. I would fall asleep to the sounds of 5 Card Stud arguments coming through the bedroom vents.  My uncle owned race horses and I spent countless days hitting the road with him and my aunt so they could sneak me into the track. My life has always had a sense of G-ism in it. LOL.

Those were the days.

I’m 38 now ….well, I will be in two months. The card games at my grandmother’s house stopped a long time ago. The people whose faces I can see right now in this flashback are gone. About 95% of them have passed over. My grandmother doesn’t remember most of their deaths. She’s alive but suffering from Alzheimer’s and living with my mom. The most self-sufficient woman I know can hardly recognize me when she’s talking to me most days and looks to be in a world that doesn’t include the current us in it. When she laughs and smiles, I can feel warmth take over my heart. I just want to see her do as much of that as possible. My uncle is in a rehab facility where he now lives and I haven’t seen him for at least two years. My aunt stays w/my mom as well and doesn’t get around well physically. I often wonder does she consciously realize my grandmother has Alzheimers because sometimes, it seems like she just doesn’t get it. The horses are all dead and gone, the sound of the gunshot signaling the horses to run is a distant memory. My grandmother’s basement is silent. And my mom’s living room……

Man……

This year saw Ramon, Cobb, Duff, Tony (stepdad’s last living brother), Uncle Willie and several other  people who were staples in our front room, go be present with the Lord as they say. Ramon and Cobb really hit me. They were two of my stepdad’s closest friends and helped him build the house that he and my mom live in today. It’s hard to believe either of them are gone for good. I’ve attended very few funerals – but I’ve experienced a lot of death hitting my family this year and truthfully, the years preceding it. All of my stepfather’s brothers are gone.  Some of my good friends have lost their parents. My mom is battling her own fight again and my stepfather has started to slowly break down as well. It’s hard to watch. Hard to believe and crushing to think about. This is aging. This is bullshit.  You can’t get older without getting closer to your own death and that of others, but how often do we think about that?

Bullies:

My period is a bully. A big 3Oclock High (a movie) bully in a long flowing dress with strappy sandals that are too damn high to be walking in. My period is an asshole. It has no loyalty. No set date. Just a time frame that it’s expected and it usually drops the week before.  I have read several times from women online shaming each other about asking for tampons, having period accidents or anything related to coming on your period and needing to clean up on aisle ten. I wonder what type of bodies do they have and how can I purchase me one? My period lack of loyalty almost always leads to a surprise because it’s not supposed to be here until next week. My period’s extreme heavy flow has lead to me running out of tampons but because of the judgment I’ve seen other people receive when asking another woman for a tampon, I will leave work and go buy one before I ask for help. And that’s a shame. That’s bullshit. That’s some bully shit too. Ugh….My mood, which used to be unaffected by PMS, has now seemingly turned into PMDD or whatever the initials are for CRAZY MF WHILST BLEEDING !!!

I abhor my period and love it at the same time. It reminds me of my strength and abilities as a woman but it’s so bothersome and irritating. How about it show up for one day, serve me the inconvenience and then leave? No? Ok. What used to be about three to four days is now closer to a week, full of attitude and always a problem.

SN: I have no issues talking openly about being a woman and having a period because at damn near 40 years old, if you have issue w/the fact that I’m discussing this, then not only are you on the wrong blog, but that is not my problem. That’s part of aging too – no longer giving a fuck about sparing EVERYONE’S feelings.  If you don’t piss off someone, you probably need to work harder anyway.  * shrug *

The aging process really teaches you a thing or two about bullies. Well, maybe not so much about bullies, as much as it teaches you about how you will deal with them. In your 20s, you might be quick to jump bad or fight someone but as I inch my way closer and closer to 40, I have no patience for that. I have no space in my head for the stress of bullies. I pray for them and mostly, I pray for myself to handle the shit gloriously. So far, so good. I cut people off, move on with my life, apologize when I’m wrong and take my responsibilities as necessary, but I will be damned if I get bullied around. Folks will try you. The older you get, the easier it is to spot when someone wants you on their plate. But at this point in my life and aging process, if someone wants to eat me alive, they better be prepared to get poisoned as they chew. I have venom that is only activated when I am in between the jaws of someone else’s life and once that happens, I can’t be responsible for what is said or done.

Which is a great segway to my patience at this age: I’m not sure I ever had the gift of great patience, but I know it wasn’t always this thin. I’m actually working on bettering it. Currently my patience is like the movie thinner.

Does anyone else find themselves losing patience with people (or maybe it’s just with bullies and bullshit) the older they get? I will snap on you. I will pop off on you and I will say some things that hurt your feelings but you know why?

Let’s think about stats real quick:

The reason I bring up these statistics is because by the time a woman is nearing 40, it is highly likely that she has been a victim of SOMETHING, whether it be domestic violence, sexual assault as a child or assault as an adult or one of the many other crimes that people are eager to commit against women. While no one wants to walk around and play or feel like ‘the victim’, there are effects that come along with having been treated to a particular type of behavior or assault. Trust and patience are two traits that get hit the hardest. For me, I’ve had my share of shit happen to me. As a result, my patience is thinner at 38 than it was at 30 and much less than it was at 21. My trust in others is a lot more skewed and my expectation of being disappointed or hurt is the highest it’s ever been. It comes out in my actions, my words and especially my arguments. If I have lost patience with you at any point, my responses to you might stem from some of these areas, but not in a ‘carrying baggage’ type of way. Everything a woman has with her isn’t baggage. We are constantly being shaped by our experiences and surroundings and our personalities take the biggest hit when it comes to transgressions done to us. The older a woman is and the more she’s experienced, the less likely (unless she is heavily grounded in the Lord Mon-Mon) she is to play the nice role for an undetermined amount of time. I have learned that I have triggers. And when they are pulled, shots ring.

It probably shouldn’t have taken me this long to realize that, but it’s true. That realization led to me obtaining a therapist. Aging allows you to be honest with yourself in a way that begs the question: do you need someone else to talk to? Someone unbiased?

My answer was yes.

I’ve noticed the people I know tend to have one too or at least not be against it. Aging gives you the keep experience to know what you can handle and what you can’t and the closer you get to 40, the more you should know. Matter a fact, I think most women need a therapist by age 40.

Mentally, I feel good about turning 38. I’ve never really had any beef with aging. I’ve always thought it to be an honor and not a guarantee so I’ve embraced every age I’ve ever turned. This one will be no different although when I speak the three and eight as one, it feels ….odd.

I still feel like I’m a young woman. I’m an old head to some. A ‘G’ to others. But to my grandmother, I’m still young Kendria. She calls me a baby. My aunt calls me a baby. My mom calls me chicken. To my family, I’m still the same little Ken. If it’s weird for me to be aging, what must it be like for THEM!!!!???? I’m the kid they raised. I’m no longer working poker games, listening to living room get-togethers are whispering that the horses are going “buggity boo” with their hoofs.

Now, I’m working. Living. Trying my best.

Learning my passions daily and the reasons my gift was gifted to me.

40 will be beautiful, but I must master 38 & 39  to make it there. What are you doing to master your age right now? What are you doing to make yourself better this year than you were last? I always view birthdays as a new year. WOMAN’ing has always been about not telling anyone your age. I’ve always broken the rules as a woman. Always.

I’m Kendria ‘JY’ York and I will be 38 on January 23, 2018.

This day seemed so far away 20 years ago. But it seems like yesterday that I thought that. My ovaries are almost dried up and my period will be on her way out soon enough. My infertile issues are permanent but I never let it take me off my square. I’ve found blessings in other people’s children. Mentally, I could be better with a lot. My patience and my tongue can become razors when I feel fucked with. I am a highly sensitive person (HSP) with a teaspoon of undiagnosed bipolar traits and mild depression. I suffer anxiety, introversion and panic attacks sometimes. Most times, I’m together. I take no medicine, lean heavily on prayer and trust  God to send me to the right therapist. I am scared of cancer with every passing day. I have always been high risk and I’m now of the age of mammograms.

There are words and things that never mattered before that matter now. I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder where the time went while plucking asshole hairs from my face. Recently I gained ten pounds and have not been able to see myself the same. I’ve been low on my reflection and in between feeling dangerously close to going back to 200 lbs, which is not good on me, I’ve also been feeling less than ….beautiful. BUT-

On the flip side, I have found more beauty in my face and my struggle than ever before. I accept that everyday is not a flawless feat and sometimes, I have down moments. But I know my truth. I have learned how many qualities I possess and I allow myself to feel DOPE AF, no matter what anyone else has to say. I try every single day to be a better woman today than the days before. Sometimes, I win. Sometimes, I lose. All the time, I keep going.

This is aging.

Or at least,

my experience with doing so. My aunt never got the rest of her metallic blinds, but I got my office. Some things aren’t meant to be and some things are. Aging will show you which is what. As a matter a fact, aging will show you what is important to your overall happiness, and how far you will go to obtain it.

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~j

“I look in the mirror and I see this old lady looking back at me, but I have no idea how she got there”

~Cher