And it’s more of the same


I’d like to think that I am totally faultless when it comes to the woes that weigh my spirit down from time to time. I like to pretend I am a martyr while I quietly wallow in loneliness. But I am not. I am not faultless. In fact, I find myself in familiar places of disappointment because I keep investing my time, my good nature, and my spirit into the wrong people, places, and thing. Faultless, I am not.

I rarely find the time to write any more, but I need to write more than ever because I started a writing project and it culminates by the beginning of next year.

Inspired by a series of events, I thought my writing mojo had come back. Maybe it was the extra dopamine flowing back in March, April, and May. Now… not so much.

Now it is more of the same. I only have one period of time to write, fast and furiously. It is in the morning after I do all my morning chores. And I dare not get up earlier because when you live with a chronic illness, you dare not miss any sleep. And when I am alone, with no agenda, no calendar items, no meetings, I lay down in my bed or I lay down on the couch, I turn on the television and I cry. Sometimes I cry because I’m happy I am still alive. Sometimes I cry because I am having a hard time. I feel the deepening pain of having to navigate middle age life alone with no romantic partner or physical helpmate, while it seems my some of my Black and nonBlack counterparts have help and have the emotional and fiscal capacity to enjoy a better life because they are benefitting from systemic racism and the colorism hierarchy. Sometimes I cry because it’s a great way to unload all the -isms I’ve endured and absorbed since the last time I cried. … But I don’t write. I don’t write a single word when I am left to my own devices. I need to create the habit and turn that around. It seems I only write when I am overflowing with whatever emotion that is currently consuming me and readily locks itself onto my passion to write.

A part of me is scared that if I start to write and I start to cry that I will have a mental breakdown again and I will never stop crying. Other parts of me seem to be at odds. Do we write our feelings and feel a deep release. Do we write our feelings and fall down a deep emotional pit of pain that it took me 40 years to climb out of… will I forever be trapped in my words.

And moreso will I only be seen through my words and it be the only escape from the invisibility I have always felt deep in my heart as a Black American woman.

So, yeah. And it’s more of the same.