Fighting Stigma Feels Like:

It began with forgetting little things.  I could not recall what I ate for dinner the other night.  It took me a minute or two to sort through the fog in my head and excavate the memory from my delusion.  I stopped writing in my favorite new planner; it was splashed with bright watercolors, and successfully cajoled me into a spinning black hole of perfectionism.  Three months in, I decided to rely on emails and text notifications instead.  I missed out on many assignments, due dates, and opportunities after that.  I scrolled through social media and desperately smashed like buttons, excessively dished out comments in need of an immediate response.  I selected Facebook emoji’s without actually reading posts because I was desperate for interaction, for a sense of consistency, for security.  I was not safe or comfortable in my own head, I was slowly dying.  I still am.

It grew to forgetting big things.  Like the concept of time.  A week would go by and I would think of things as if they happened only a day ago.  I would lay in bed and suddenly forget that five hours had gone past.  I would feel my body aching from sitting still for so long and wonder why.  I’d miss big meetings by accident because I thought they were scheduled for another time.  An entire day passed me by and I was on my back staring at the ceiling but never really looking at the ceiling.  My energy was consumed by imaginary scenarios, mostly tragic, most of which resulted in my untimely death.  Getting up was a full time job.  I felt tired walking a mere five feet to my bathroom.  Tired in the shower.  Tired putting my clothes on.  Tired trekking to class after sleeping for 13 hours.  This was draining me.  It still is.

As a child, I was an attention seeker, the oldest, and the most spoiled according to my mother.  Spoiled because of my need for her to overcompensate in other areas of my life.  To replace what she was incapable of giving me in those moments; safety, security, and comfort.  I wanted material things.  I wanted reparations for the emotional neglect and verbal abuse I endured throughout my adolescence.  I admit, at times I was extremely ungrateful, narcissistic, and rude.  But now I realize that those were all defense mechanisms, I was protecting myself in the only ways I knew.  By building a wall of hurt so high, I was unable to empathize with or care about anyone else.

When I was around thirteen years old, I thought I had the worst life in the world.  I thought my family hated me.  I thought the universe revolved around me.  I would be an asshole just to feel bad about it later and hide in the bathroom committing hate crimes against my flesh.  Punishing my wrists, thighs, and lower legs for my bad behavior.  My mother would sometimes catch me and angrily rebuke me.  She even kicked me out once because she believed I brought demons into the house.  She’d yell at me to pull up my sleeves, inspect my arms, and threaten to send me away to a “crazy home”.  She invaded my privacy and brought personal issues that I thought were between me and her, to church.  I had people coming up to me to pray for me, mentioning things I didn’t know they knew.  I felt betrayed.

I never realized how much my mother’s actions (or inaction) toward my issues impacted me later in life until I found out she started going to therapy.  All of a sudden words like “anxiety”, “depression”, and “bipolar” became a part of her normal vocabulary and I didn’t know how to adjust.  Once again I felt betrayed.  Something she looked down on me for obviously needing is now her saving grace.  When she spoke about her therapist (and recommended them to me) I’d fake aversion in a futile attempt to appear resilient and mentally strong, something she never thought I was.  Every time I think of telling my mother the truth, I’m embarrassed by my inability to be as strong as she is.  I’d think of the times she’d comment under her breath about how she was never weak enough to think about suicide.  I was putting on an act for nobody, I was only hurting myself in the process.

I don’t really like to say I have depression, I don’t know if I have it or something else.  I don’t like to say I have anxiety either, but the amount of google searches and “Do You Have ____?” quizzes point me to these two terms every single time.  I’ve never gotten professional help.  This year, I’m closer to seeking help more than I’ve ever been, because I’ve finally reached rock bottom.  Not hit, reached.  I’ve been waiting for all of my problems to pile up, to explode, so that I would have no choice but to go.  That’s what it takes for me.  I risked my own life letting all of my stress, pain, and past trauma build up like insurmountable debt because I was too afraid to take initiative while I was in a clear headspace.

Each episode becomes worse and less easy to manage, yet I convince myself that each time would finally be the last.  I try to stick it out, thinking I just need a good monthly cry.  But the breakdowns began to come weekly, daily, sometimes more than once a day.  Still I convince myself: I’m strong, therapy and meds would make me worse, I don’t like waiting rooms, I don’t like speaking because I stutter, going to therapy means I have to make a lot of eye contact, if my doctor is white I’m doomed, if my doctor is black they still won’t understand me.  These are excuses I continue using to this very day.  It wasn’t until I found myself calmly searching through my parents’ collection of prescribed medication that I realized I was in danger and needed to snap out of this mindset immediately.

I’m happy that the black community, and society in general is becoming more open about mental health and things like therapy.  But I don’t think people truly understand that there are still many of us who have to fight and win our own internal battles with stigma before we even take that first step.  In all honesty, I’m proud of my mother for taking her first steps.  Our relationship has blossomed since the days of my childhood, and it is only me who holds onto those spoiled memories.  I have no reason to blame her or to continue to direct my anger towards her.  It’s time for me to move on.

I wish I could end this with a happily ever after, an inspirational message that encourages you to get the help you need.  But I know how it feels, I’m still going through it y’all.  I’ve read posts like this before, liked them, and shared them, only to return to my bed and cry.  All I can say is don’t give up, take advantage of this moment.  If you’re reading this and struggling with stigma, insecurity, childhood trauma or all of these things and more, I hope you don’t wait to reach rock bottom like I have.  I want to warn you, to scare the shit out of you, whatever it takes to get you out of bed, to get you believing in your ability to change again.  You don’t need to cling onto the remnants of stigma to protect yourself anymore. There are plenty of great people out there waiting to meet you, going through the same thing as you, yearning to help you succeed.  Not everyone is out to get you.  Your dreams and goals are waiting for you.  There are creative projects, ideas, and plans swimming inside of you that cannot reach their full potential until your mind does.  Don’t get in the way of yourself.

And if you’re reading this and happen to know someone going through a tough time, support them.  Even if they don’t want to get help just yet, support them.  Bring it up gently, but don’t overwhelm them.  They know what they need, they just might be fighting right now.  Protect them and nurture them along the way.  Offer them your company, your touch, or whatever thing that makes them feel better even if for a split second.  That could mean the world to them.  You don’t need to be a savior, you just need to be a good friend.

This message is for me as much as it’s for those who might be reading.  I may not have gotten to where I need to be yet, but I’m almost there.  I’m not really a big fan of rock bottom; it’s time to get out of here.  And if there’s one thing I do know now, it’s that even the rocks will still catch your fall.


Small Talk

I don’t speak just to fill up empty spaces.  My words are not brittle drywall or cement capable of being worn apart by unwelcome intruders.  My words are not temporary, so why should I treat them as such?

I wonder how many hours of our lives we spend making small talk.  How much time has been wasted on the condition of the weather, as it literally speaks for itself in front of our faces. How much energy has been spent pretending that we are miserably tired and burdened with extremely busy schedules?  We are busy enough to make small talk though.

Why do we like to fill in empty spaces?  Why are we so afraid of silence?  What is so terrifying about letting the air around us speak? The air that gives us our life, our power, and ironically, our own voices.

Dear Shape Shifter 

Your skin slides like silk, spills sweet like wine

Sheets of gold, folded

Your stretch marks merely shadows

Indicating what once was solid

And though you frown at your reflection

Reality knows the truth

That you are only gazing down

At a mirror that kneels before you

So shift your perception

Reclaim your rightful throne

Lift the weeping child from your seat

Begin to feel at home

This body cannot breathe

Unless you reap the tears you’ve sown

Only you have watered this garden

Only you have seen it grow



You got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy iss-

The door slammed shut. Or did it gracefully close? Did he close it? Did he slam it? I don’t recall memories and words as well as I do emotions. The past will always exist to me in blurs but I have learned that my emotions are crystal clear and crisp as day. I am an empath, a feeler, a ponderer, an action without words type of girl. So when I say he slammed my great-grandmother’s front door shut as I silently stood at the top of those steps, he may not have actually slammed it. But it felt like he did.

My father is a shadow figure in all of my memories. I don’t recall his face, his voice, or his touch. I don’t recall thinking about him that much. My father was a shadow, even when he was present in my life. It was easy to ignore him, to forget him, but I was quickly reminded of him every time I looked at my reflection. A fusion of two, a collision of pasts, a merging of lives so different they couldn’t last. Was I a product of love or lust? Am I a carefully forged mistake? Or am I merely a reminder of my mother’s fate? I am her mistake, her destiny.

After that door slammed shut, nothing changed. My father remained a shadow and out of herself, my mother created a false oasis for us to reside in…until she found God.

What Keeps Me Alive At 2am 

Her poetry resides in her pain

And what a dangerous place that is to live 

She can only make sense of everything 

When she’s aching from within

Joy brings writers-block

But when she cries, prose flows like tears from her pen

And those wounding words that haunt her mind 

Have now become her very best friends

Bitter kisses transform into songs that ascend from the tip of her trembling tongue 

Brutal thoughts leave bruises on her intellect and loneliness leaves scars on her lungs 

Her poetry resides in her pain 

And sadness invites a comforting calm 

Enthralled by her light, a short lived haiku 

No one notices when she’s gone 

With Eager Nails 

I pick apart pieces of me until I fall apart.  

Excavating flaws 

Sleeping in filth 

Wrapped in sheets of shattered guilt

Scabs begging to heal

But with eager nails I pick and peel

Dig and peel

Dig and kneel to worship everything else

Except for myself. 
I pray to gods made of the dirt that I lay in

And I speak their many tongues

I taste and I bite

I chew your words but refuse to swallow your pride

– selfish me I am always at the beginning of sentences even though I am too busy writing scripts for everyone 
You broke me before I broke me and 

I wish I did the breaking first because then

I could’ve swallowed the truth in your words. 

But instead, I chewed on them with wrath. 

I spit them out instead and watched them waste away in a deep void of resentment. 

You were once a new wound.

Brand new but you hurt me like a bitch 

And tried to heal too quick

A wound that I was never familiar with, never had closure with. 

So excuse me while I kneel again  

And peel and pick 

With eager nails. 


As I lay here wrapped in the comfort of my sheets

I ask myself:

How is it so easy to forgive everyone else, and why is it such a challenge to forgive myself?

But then I remember that these thoughts themselves…are in essence, the beginning of my release.