Kendrick Lamar Knows Best...

SuperAuntie Isn't So Super, After All.

Three little girls. Two little boys. They have a few things that correlate. They are cousins, born to 2nd generation Jamaican parents. The main correlation, they call me SuperAuntie. I wear my cape for them at all times. Even through the 18-hour work days, sickness, missed birthday parties, etc. They continue to believe I'm great. Thank God for the innocence of a child. I don't know what I would do if they knew the truth.


I stopped dealing with my anxiety.
I stopped dealing with my depression.
I stopped showing up to my therapy appointments,
I stopped take my medication.
I stopped believing good things can happen to me. 


Their parents have no idea. My siblings, we aren't close. My parents, love them, but this isn't something that can be "prayed away." Mostly my fault, because I'm skilled in building a wall greater than the one in China. Letting people in is an anomaly. Anyone who gets through the wall ends up being destroyed. By a warrior who, in reality, is weaker than a torn ACL. My friends, they have some idea, but I don't bother telling them more than I need to. Who needs a black Debbie Downer? Why am I this way?

Maybe because my "dad" preferred to stay with his wife after cheating on her with my mother. 
Maybe because I don't attend family functions knowing my attacker will be there sitting with everyone laughing, with them not knowing he ruined a 12 yr-old's life for three years.
Maybe it was my alcoholism.
Maybe it's the reoccurring dream of  me driving into my neighborhood lake and no one around to save me.

Yes, this is heavy, but it's also my reality. My early 20s were a scene from Sing About Me...the death in question...my soul. Void of any feeling of remorse for anything I'd done.

I ruined relationships. 
I ruined opportunities.
I burned every bridge possible.
I ruined good people.
I, in turn, continued to ruin myself.

I was broken.

"I should've kept the baby. But then who would protect her from the evil of the world? Who would ensure she would never be raped and abused like her mother was?"

A part of me still is.

Sitting in a room, Indian style on the floor, just you and the bottle. A set of keys. A phone with a note. The fifth is finished. The pill capsule is empty. Are you getting in the car? Is this the final ride? Is this how you end it all? The final selfish act, do you go through with it?

When Riv came to me with this idea to write about our journey, I instantly said yes. It's time. It's time to tell. It's time to reflect. It's time to recollect. It's time to rebuild. It's time to rejoice.

Breakthrough.

 Someone is going to read this; because pieces of it will be her story too. It will resonate with her, and she will realize she isn't alone.

I pray whoever this reaches to, you CAN make it. You WILL make it. Because God never left, even in the darkest hour.


It's going to get better because I say so.

Come away with me, follow my struggles and help me celebrate in my triumphs.

We gon' be alright.


Peace,

The Ethnography of a Disaster

There is weariness that weighs heavy on your shoulders. It shows up everywhere, clouding the brightest areas of your life. You carry it to work and unpack it at the end of the day. It doesn't fit anywhere comfortably. It makes its presence known and isn’t easily tended to. You’re tempted to ignore it but left to its own devices it becomes another monster entirely: a kind of tired that even sleep can’t cure.

It creeps into the quiet corners of your life. You don’t even notice it at first. It's a sly life mate. It knows all of your sweet spots, tucks you in at night, wakes you gently in the morning. It’s polite—never interrupts and cleans up after itself. It becomes something you can trust. Fitting perfectly into the places you forget to dust off or shake out, in the hidden places you never bother to look. And it almost feels like the veil is lifting. You can almost see the sun on the other side. Until you can't.

I’m just tired.

I slept.

And woke up the next day.

Not the plan.

Not enough pills.

Only days earlier I was kicking and screaming, thrown over the shoulder and beating the back of a man I didn’t know, who had probably saved the life of the man who had raped me. He took me outside and waited to put me on the university bus back to my dorm.

I don’t know how to live anymore.

My friend, who had been at the party with me, tried her best to calm me. She reminded me of the things I’d already overcome and the things I had yet to do. She recalled my success in the face of a justice system that was more concerned with the future of a man who admitted to his violence, a school that cared only about their reputation, and a world that blamed me for my own violation.

You gotta pull it together.

There are as many responses to pain as there are people who endure it. For me, my work became my coping mechanism and it's gotten me pretty far. I'm a full spectrum doula, a sexuality educator and trauma consultant, and I own and operate a self-care/intimacy boutique. I've worked with amazing people and done some pretty amazing things. And, in the process, built up one hell of a guise. If you keep busy enough, most people don't notice the mess that is your own life. If you're helpful enough, most folks won't bother to check in on you. And the facade remains. Until it doesn't.

My summer began with one goal: secure fifteen new education and consulting contracts before the end of September. I sat with a friend, we developed a plan to reach our goals and to hold each other accountable. And I broke down. I had kept myself so busy helping other people heal their trauma that I hadn't even properly processed mine. My impulse was to pile on another project. Maybe it was time to start that intimacy podcast or revisit that doula opportunity at Rikers.

Maybe it's time to slow down.

"The work" will always be there. There will always be another training to give and more students to teach and survivors to support. What's more, there will always be days that the tiredness sets in. And that's when the real work begins. It's a struggle and that may always be the case. There may always be a part of me whose initial reaction is to overcompensate with work. I'm striving for a healthy balance and this summer will set the foundation. I'm going to get my contracts, I'm going to launch my brand, and I'm going to take care of myself in the process.

Evolution is deliberate. Irreversible. It’s only goal, beyond your survival, is to ensure that you thrive. To get you to your highest self.

And I will get there.

Eventually.