Flawed and Perfect

I am a villian, sometimes. I’m direct, honest or completely disconnected. I hate when a muthafucka is always the hero or innocent victim.

You changing in phone booths? You Clark Kent? Soaring through the sky but can’t save yourself? NIGGAH PLEASE!!

It’s not even human to be perfect. So I hope when I wound, it’s with respect and good intentions. So the conflict is an opportunity to not only heal but deepen our connection.

Vibrating low, villian to villian. Forced beyond apathetic indifference I wound with pleasure. And no regrets.

If you’re going to take a side, know that there are at least two.

I believe in revenge and reparations. I support and will aggressively re-enforce boundaries. I believe in cutting off cycles of negative destruction.

The cause of death is birth. Impending death does not change my position. I move in clarity with thee intent of a clear conscience. So I can rest in peace whenever my day comes.

Mental Health

I said I’d write more about mental health. Sooo

One of my things with my mental health is I’m Black. Today my psychiatrist asked what’s been up.

I explained I was extremely depressed and suicidal. Then manic. Manic looks like a lot of energy. Depending on if it hits like joy or great sadness determines how I navigate.

Outside of dating woes I don’t get the restless, lonely sadness high energy. That shit is excruciating.

I usually get joy mania. Like, I think I can do anything. I’m curious. I sew. I paint. I draw. I write. I am not as introverted. I can’t sleep for days. Then I crash and sleep like 12 hours.

My psychiatrist asks if I’ve done anything reckless. If I’ve had lower inhibitions. If I’ve slurged… Sometimes during mania I have bought $25 worth of stuff from the dollar tree. Once I ordered four Barbies. One was $70 and I considered returning her when I came down… but I didn’t spend my rent or bill money. I wouldn’t. This doesn’t mean I’m not having mania… Buying four dolls even if I can afford it was excessive, compulsive and… I don’t do drugs. I barely drink. Soooo I couldn’t go on a Coke binge. I was raised during DARE.

The way I feel inside may be comparable to how people diagnosed with bipolar disorder feel. It just doesn’t manifest that way because I’m Black with less resources.

My family knows I struggle with my mental health. Still they say things like, you’re too old to do xyz or anything mental. They treat me like I’m choosing to behave or react this way.

Sooo for my life what I am doing and my failures are treated like I’m on drugs. I’m sewing doll clothes and recycling my clothes which they think is horrible. They pity my parents. They treat me really bad when they aren’t being dismissive.

Which is probably why although mental health challenges run in my family, no one talks about the none sense things they do. Which by the way makes me crazy.

This blogging is about me… so I won’t discuss other folks by relation or name. But one person spills fluids everywhere and never cleans it up. If you point it out, they’ll lie and say they must have missed some when they cleaned up. Knowing Gawd Damn well they didn’t clean up any of it.

In fact, I’m constantly being gas lit. I’ve tried to resolve this by cutting destructive people out of my life. The down side is, dysfunction loves dismissing facts for familial connection.

I shared all that to say, in my family I’m a crazed maniac. The scale I’m being measured against is warped. I’ve been homeless in a city with tons of family in houses with several extra rooms. I’ve been homeless during winter. So I can’t afford to be too crazy, because there is no one coming.

So when my therapist asks have I gambled, had risky sex or made any other decisions that are harmful, I’m frustrated. Feeling overwhelming joy. Thinking and feeling invincible for days when my Dad has stage 4 cancer. When I’m broke. When everyone blood related sees me as a waste of life is the very definition of insane. Lol…

Still, he says, I don’t meet the criteria of mania. Lol

Hair Porosity

We need so much information to take care of our bodies. I have high porosity hair. This is why my locs air dry in an hour. It’s also why it absorbs everything I put in it. It’s dope and annoyingly expensive.

It’s dry even when I saturate it every day. I’m going to research diy recipes for leave in conditioners. My current leave in is $13 a bottle. Which my hair can drink in two days and still be dry on day 3.

Knowing is half the battle I guess.

Missing You, Shirley

There are not enough soft places, people, to catch us when falling. To lift us broken.

I am not one. Not a soft place. I am shards of glass. Distorted images of selves held in calloused hands careful of fragile ends pretending to be fearless

You knew. And I am selfish for wanting you here so the world will be a bit more tolerable.

Even in Pretend USA

I hide from the real world on my doll page. Today someone posted a beautiful doll and noted she had normal skin. Because racism doesn’t exist (I know, sucka, I’m pretending. Dang!) in this world.

“What is normal skin?” Someone asked.

“I don’t understand either,” I chimed in. I’m giving the benefit of the doubt. There is scaled skin, raised creative skins, and nonhuman colors.

She hasn’t responded. Other commenters responded with examples from her other posts. Normal equals white skin. This means any other skin tone is abnormal… Yep. What year is it?

Juneteenth Freewrite

I celebrate Juneteenth all month like I know my ancestors did. Grinning from ear with new hopes and dreams. Claiming love ones sold away. And crying at impossible, come true. A miracle for sure. I laugh loud, and cook whatever I have just like they did and remember who I iz. What this country did. Made it illegal to be me, made it illegal to read, made it illegal to dream. Then I move like I can do anything… cause I can. Cause of them. 500 years. My mama nem, saw the end of post slave laws. My great grandmamas and grandmamas, and my mama fought. 1965. 1965. 1965. 1965. The generation that fought for civil rights is still alive.

Then we thought we had a real victory. We thought it was a dream, to be among folks who didn’t see our humanity. Abandoning how we survived, how we thrived. America killed King but didn’t admit it til 1999. Assassinated Black Panthers sleeping in their beds. President Hoover laughed, said them niggas didn’t learn from Malcolm X. Then America hid our glory, hid our story of how we made it over. We like the enslaved, not knowing they was free, never even heard of Juneteenth. Then it was Michael Brown gunned down and left uncovered in the street  like discarded strange fruit. And Trayvon Martin stalked and running for his life, for daring to walk hooded in the rain at night… Neighbors heard him cry out for his mama, but they still put him on trial for his own murder. This is why Black Lives Matter. Let us morn fathers resigned to surviving. Cornered broken and fighting because only daughters were protected.  Let’s this end the resent between the sexes. And our need to be like our oppressor.  Juneteenth is a love letter calling us, calling us back together, to respect our elders, honor our women and take back your manhood by not seeing your mother and sisters as sex objects bought and soul to the highest bidder. Stop saying she’s a gold digger because she has standards and dreams bigger… beyond struggle. Love is not suffering. Love is not submission. Love is freedom. Love is believing we have more opportunities to be us. Whatever us be.

Happy Juneteenth


Mimi’s Josiah

A Healing Poem With Your Grief

Welcome, SUN, to earth and life and dreams.

You are a new soul on repeat repeat

You give your grandmother love and purpose to be.

You are her heart

To beat to beat to beat to carry Mya’s absence over a softer beat over a softer beat. To beat. To beat. To be.

A reason to be with her grief.

Mimi, mother now grandmother

Maybe, a tiny reason to be to beat to be to beat a little joy a little joy with your grief, a little magic with your grief, a new love with your grief, a new song with your grief,

A new love to be in, another chance to believe in- life at her meanest, still offers a little hope with your grieving. Finally, a little sleep.

A tiny peace with grief. a reason for staying, when all you can think about is escaping your soul’s aching grief, a little chaser for the bitter tasting flavor of feeling forsaken, an ease to the tension between you and the creator, someone to pray for, a little favor you didn’t know you needed a little victory when feeling defeated, a little healing for your spirit’s bleeding, a little happiness that’s not fleeting

A life with new meaning, A little sweetness with the bitterness of your grief.

Free write dedicated to my friend, Mimi Sanders who lost her daughter unexpectedly. Who misses her baby daily. Whose other child made her a grandmother. New love one’s are new reasons to be. He does not replace her baby but the pain is on repeat over a softer beat. A little joy with her grief.

Animated Tarzan Movie

Years ago, I fell in love with the animated Tarzan series. I feel like someone in my family watched the old version.

This 2013? Tarzan is so implausible. He over powered a silver back gorilla. Jane fell in love? Class says never.

I laughed way too hard at the wrong things. It was entertaining. I also think Iron fist is modern day Tarzan. Except he’s trained by monks instead of monkeys. SN: “monkey” looks weird.

I liked the ending. I’m going to see if I can find the series

What are you watching?

Moving Forward

Looking back.

I’m researching and writing again. Not with the same fire. Sometimes I’m afraid of my power. Sometimes I’m not sure I have any.

I’m in the process of finishing two books and starting a new one.

My last bòok release was a disaster. Two of my friends had to talk me out of my house.

I’m having anxiety and flashbacks to that day. I need someone to hold my hand.