Day 14: The Gift of Consistency
My mother’s voice rarely echos in my head. I connect more to my mother from just carrying out my own existence. However one thing I will never forget was her telling me that,“love is not control”. To me this felt applicable not just when connected with men but also myself. In this moment, I am exhausted. Nothing in me wanted to write today. I can’t control it, I can’t force it. And when there is nothing to say —say the truth. But when I made a promise to myself that this Journal is a daily discipline, I meant it. I promised myself the gift of consistency, so even if that means I get up here just to say I’m tired and I can’t today but I just wanted to check in— its all in service to myself.
Night y’all XOXO
-M
Day 13: Unwoman
What a word. How do you even define it? Of course the phrase was coined in Margaret Atwood’s, The Handmaids Tale, but the reverberation of the word just transcends so strong. It hit a spot in my own shame that I once carried — being born “barren”. | Pause. | (I use quotation marks with intention. I claim no such thing, “my diagnoses’” are just mere words from the mouth of a white man with no real power.) My ovaries are small, I’ve been told. Whether or not I have eggs, they’ve questioned. Only time will tell..
I do not have a period. She never came for me. I thought I got it once growing up. I saw the faintest few drops of what I thought was blood. I called my mother and she said, “Congratulations, you’re a woman.” Of course I was proud and eagerly awaited the next. But she never came for me. Primary Care Doctor turns to Specialist. Everyone knows but none of them really do. “It was likely something you ate,” one said. Years later, there was a period of about two weeks where my parents waited in suspense to find out whether or not I was fully a girl. Androgen insensitivity syndrome or, AIS.
My parents marriage always remained a mystery to me but I knew something was going on. Queer Theory was a foreign and unheard language in my Christian household. And I wonder how my father in particular would have adapted had the diagnosis been correct. My mother was born awoke. She understood that we know not the mysteries of God. That his thoughts are not our thoughts and thus the potential for how His love could take shape was boundless. Two weeks with the Gender Identity of her first born only worked to deepen her curiosity of the Divine.
My latest label, Premature Ovarian Failure. I have no period because I am in menopause. Supposedly. I couldn’t tell, faucets work just fine… At 25, still, she has not come for me. And where I once felt obsolete for baring baby-making hips and curves with the possibility of a childless future—unable to fulfill my “biological purpose” and “womanly duties”. “I was supposed to have”.. today I say, nah fuck that. If we are gonna keep it real, theres nothing pleasant about having a monthly cycle. From what other woman tell me, it can be a fucking nightmare. You poor poor, normal woman. You have my sentiments. I can’t imagine. Like I literally cannot imagine. Doctors tried. They really did try. Estrogen patches, progesterone pills, birth control. I can’t get with it. I just can’t. I’ve never been able to get on a routine with medicine and especially ones where I feel at a lose of control. My faith is that strong. I believe with all my heart and the hearts of my future children that they will be mine and I theirs.
Having children has been a lifelong desire. Lifelong. Not having, isn’t an option—Even if that just means adoption.
Day 12: OMG, that was rape.(Trigger Warning)
Muscle memory is a motherfucker. It’s been a long day for me. I got up at 4:30 this morning to finish up my lesson for class today. Class let out at 3 and its wind down time. Hit all the lights. Gonna take a nap before dinner time. I’m laying on my couch —now pay attention because the position matters— I’m on my back with my left arm (next to couch) up above my head on the pillow. My knees are bent, my legs open and my right hand is resting on my stomach. I’m beginning to doze off. It all happened so fast. I’m tossing and turning my head and when I turn to my right side (facing away from the couch), 2 waves hit me, one right after the other: the urge to masturbate, followed immediately by a sick pit in my stomach and disgust. Curious as to where such a feeling would spring from, I sat with it and let it play out. Like blurring vision becoming clear, I tried to find the root.
I was back in my loft. The first one. Laying just like I just am now on my infamous white couch. I see pants unzipping and red plaid boxers walking toward me. And then suddenly, theres a penis in my mouth.
Muscle memory is a motherfucker. I had forgotten all about that night. And it’s just now knowing what due to age and experience (and it not being my only) that that was rape.
I let him watch as I touched myself. The only company I invited were eyes. That nigga put his dick in my mouth. The sad part is I wasn’t informed of my human rights and went along with it, just to not ruin the moment and waited till later to say my peace. And peaceful it was. Casual was the accountability. I don’t remember what all was said, I just remember it started with “Oh..”. But even then, all I could express was that just wasn’t what I was trying to do. I did not have the knowledge to say, “No motherfucker you don’t do that. EVER. TO ANYONE..no matter what past you shared.”
Don’t worry about me, I am fine. Now that I’m so far removed and so settled its just like.. damn (smh). But it’ll never happen again thats for damn sure — shoulda bit the shit off.
Damn, don’t y’all hate when you go to listen to some music and you got a Deadphone?
Day 11: Pulse Check
Ya’ll. I almost got, got. I almost did. I was just this close. I am 11 days into a venture for which I see no end in sight. On day 2, I discovered a new feature on the Squarespace site, “Analytics”— game changer. There was a shift in me. A shift in the vision. My wheels started turning.. “Great. I’ll be able to track my numbers every day”. Numbers. Fucking numbers. So many are just trying to “Do Numbers”. More. More. More.. It almost got me. The fantasy driving so many of our lives — what could be if I had a huge following? Or if the “right person” saw this. I almost forgot why I started doing this in the first place. I almost forgot my one and only audience—me.
I have had writers block for the past few days. Granted. just yesterday I began teaching for the semester with 3 sections. Nevertheless, writing is me. It was my mom. It’s in our code. I don’t get block because this is my freestyle. This is me in the booth. When I have writers block that tells me that I am forcing it and potentially lacking in authenticity. Being tailored and manipulated by vanity. If I do it for you, then you lose me. And I lose myself trying to figure out which part is me. Trying to fit the role of my own ideation of what will keep you enthralled…All for numbers. I have not made this subtle attempt to succeed the union just to join the ranks of conformity and internalized commercialism. I know my worth and my worth knows me. I am tired of promotions. I wish I could go a day without someone trying to fucking sell me something. Ads everywhere. My God, what is real anymore. If all is done with the intention of personal gain then how will we ever break free.
I swear this tiny piece of real estate in the vast space of web to be my safe space. Consider it my home. So, while I love you with heart and soul, these are not for you, these are for me. I’m just having a dialog with myself, and I am inviting you in. You are welcome, but remember, it’s not your house, it’s mine. If monetization enters the dream dies. Who am I if not my authentic self. How can I be my authentic self if I concern myself with how many site views I get. Yes, I appreciate with everything in me when people are interested in what I have to say (at any capacity), but I don’t want to feel like I am trying to come up with the most evocative things to share everyday with click-baiting titles. All awhile trying to top the day before. It’s too much. I could feel a shift from this being a passion and a privilege to a job. No ma’am. Not I. Not here.
Anyone else sick of the fake shit?
Day 10: Being in love again
I made myself cry today. Stevie Wonder’s, “Never Dreamed You Leave in Summer,” came to visit and with it the scene from Poetic Justice —flashes of her smile when she was with her man before he was murdered to months later when the wounds had scarred over. I couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming. I put me and mine in their place. The thought was so unbearable my hand flew over my heart. Then I thought about how over the holiday I watched my girlfriend have a literal panic attack because her partner didn’t answer the phone for 20 minutes. In the moment I swore she was just being overcome by anxiety and emotion and being dramatic but the more I stared off into space interchanging their bodies with ours, the less control I had over my own. My own feelings worked to validate hers within me and I realized what it was I had seen.The Notebook came to mind next then I began to shuffle all the great love stories that were made so by their tragic nature. Then old people in real life who lose their spouse of 40 years then die 6 months later. My ever-present bliss had been overrun by my rabbit hole of a mind and sunken in sadness to the depths of the love I had for him.
In terms of loses, I took my moms passing like earning a girl scout badge—came, saw, conquered. That had been the hardest loss of my life and “beating it” felt like I had made it through the worse thing that could ever happen. A mother is supposed to go before a child (preferably not as early as mine) but I had yet sit with what it would feel like to lose my person. My PERSON? MY person? — DEVASTATION. Tears couldn’t be stopped. And then, the prayers begin. LoRd PleAse pRoteCt mY mAnN.—quite literally crying over nothing. But at the same time crying over something. My something. The something that I had always wanted and tried to force with the wrong ones for years on end. I got with my ex by performing an ultimatum ritual. PAUSE. Honey listen. If you have to coerce the man then he’s just not for you. His response to my take it or leave it? “I mean I guess we could try it.” — worst part is I got what I wanted.
Eight years later and I had yet to love another at such a depth, until now.. just deeper. Eight years ago my now person was present in my life with my then person. I didn’t look his way and turned the opposite direction when he looked mine. Time grows love like water grows trees— all from a seed.
Day 9: Endurance Mantra
“Prescription: Say aloud until you mean it. Say aloud until you believe it. Say aloud until its downloaded.”
The road ahead is uncertain — So I keep moving forward.
The road ahead won’t be easy — My diligence will reward me.
The road ahead may wind, be steep, be icy, unpaved or slick — I know from where I draw my strength.
One Foot… On to…The NEXT.
Can you do it? — Yes.
Can you do it? — Yes.
Can you do it? — Yes.
Can you do it? — Yes.
Can you do it? — Yes.
Can you do it? — Yes.
Can you do it? — Yes.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
Will you do it? —I will do it.
Will you make it? — I will make it.
Will you see it to the end? — Yes. Amen,
It’s MINE.
I pray your strength and success all 2022
-M
Day 8: Bathtub Ministries. (Water ASMR)
A special good morning to myself. Washing it all away: the stress, the grief, the sense of abandonment. Raw and uncut.
Singing myself to peace.
Day 7: And on the seventh day.. she rested.
I want to thank everyone who has supported this effort of mine. The idea came out of the clear night sky just as the New Year was on the horizon. I enjoy this correspondence and have some ideas in mind in order to make this experience even more interactive. Were are all gods (with emphasis on the little “g”). I have created a new heaven on earth for myself and today I will rest. Be back tomorrow.
Ciao.
-M
Day 6: The Beholder
It’s after 10pm. My hair is disheveled, lips are ashy, eyes low, DND enabled. I wrapped my feet up in some chemical peel footies and had just gotten cozy with a book when unexpectedly, my person, FaceTimes. I answer without hesitation but immediately attempt to conceal my imperfections with illusionary tactics. Holding the phone at a more “flattering” angle, manipulating the lamp light to my left. All awhile moving to disrupt the visuals as I secretly hunt for my gloss. Tie my hair up. Edges are a little fluffy, oh well. Okay, I’m ready. Full frontal to the camera. I can’t keep from staring at my little box in the corner — but looking only makes me want to look away. While my head is turned I remind myself that my small screen is his large and that perhaps this angle isn’t the best either — I’ve gained some weight recently and am now concerned with my extra chin fat. I am running out of options. The conversation is carrying on but my mind is entangled in another. I just couldn’t get over within myself just how insecure I was. Within minutes I received confirmation. Unprompted he said, “You’re so beautiful”. Even though it was exactly what I needed to hear, I couldn’t look at him. With my head turned away, I shared my appreciation and was honest about how often I don’t feel it. This only lead to a watering of compliments. Upon consumption, each word was sweet on my palette, but upon digestion lost its potency in the acid, ever-present.
Each part of me is borrowed: shape from my Granny, waist from my Auntie, build like my Mama. The skin of my eyelids and under my eyes are darker than the rest of my face. This was passed down from my honorable Grandmother (not the same as Granny) and only becomes more noticeable as I grow older. And while I wouldn’t recognize her gorgeous face without her darkened eyes, its a share of the inheritance I struggle to relish in.
Now, in this moment, as I reflect upon my perceived imperfections, I have been insecure about almost every aspect of my body at some point in my development. I hated feet growing up, and although now I appreciate that I have “pretty feet”, the sentiment extended to my own. I avoided sandals for years until well into my teens. I have always been shapely. And only thickened with age. I have been disgusted by cellulite in my legs and butt — I wore short publicly for the first time since adolescence in 2020. I have hated on my arms for being a handful (without grabbing any bone). My thighs for being dimpled and lacking in muscular structure so that I appeared knee-less. The shape of my eyes for not being symmetrical. The entirety of my life I’ve held contempt for my teeth for being small and spaced. (I could go on but this is getting out of hand.)
Throughout my life I have made every attempt at dismantling my own fairness and yet.. I am still BEAUTIFUL. No matter which aspect of my physical being is under scrutiny by my own self, I am STILL BEAUTIFUL. Don’t get me wrong, the capitalization is not an attempt for me convince myself, because as I mentioned, I know.
I think we all struggle with a level of self-acceptance. And when it comes to the standards of beauty, to the beholder from without, it is reduced to a matter of fact. No matter what she felt on the inside the world would never sign off on calling someone with the features of, Beyonće, ugly. Even if she truly felt she was ugly there would be no way of convincing her she wasn’t. There are two beholders and the other is in the mirror.
So which is it. Is physical beauty in fact or feeling?
Day 5: Twinnem
I have a question for you. A rather intrusive request.
What is it like to be you?
How does it feel in your being to host yourself.
Do you have a relationship with yourself?
Are there one of you ,or two? —(If you understand what I mean by that, perhaps we could get tea.)
Am I the only one who feels like they host two of themselves within their body or brain? —Your default answer could be that I am crazy; followed by my immediate discreditation and that is more than okay.
—We’re all a little mad here.
The scariest movie concept I have ever seen was Jordan Peele, “US”. Of all the things to fear while existing: animals, people, natural disasters, goblins, ghosts and ghouls, the thing I fear most is myself. Once on a shroom trip I stared in the mirror just to see if my face would change into something or someone else. Luckily for me my spirit passed the vibe check. Nevertheless, a fucking doppelgänger? Evil Jimmy? A physical representation of my self-destruction? — Hard pass.
But then again, maybe it would be harder to fight your demons if they weren’t already inside you. A fragmented sense of self helps pass the time by. Two is company. Why are people made to feel crazy for talking to themselves? I mean, do you not think? Deja sent me a video of a woman who said she doesn’t have an audible voice in her head. Silence. Nothing. She reads words with understanding and not to herself.. (-The nigga was too shook to speak-). I cannot define another’s experience but only be awestruck in fascination. I hope she finds this one day and answers my above questions because, sis, we would love to know.
Part of my love language to myself is to be flexible with filling as many roles for myself as I need. I’ve been on my own since I was 20 and my biological adaptation was to fragment myself in an effort to stay sane. Did that sentence undermine itself? Perhaps sanity is in the mind of the possessor.
I feel crazy all the time. By definition I am not.. As I am typing, I’m realizing that my sense of crazy is just insecurity welling up.
What are you insecure about?
.. I don’t know. I guess I just want to do the right thing.
How can the one who asks the question, answer it? See, a touch mad.
Vulnerability is crucial. We must find a way to all come to agreement and normalize not just some of our experiences but ALL of them. Empathy will set us all free. There are not 7.8 billion unique beings. If we think about it we all have more in common than we differ. Are we not a species? It’s all in the heart and in the mind. The borders and barriers we place for ourselves in our minds manifest outwardly with ripple effect. To refuse empathy on the grounds of differentiation? It’s absurd. I stand firmly on keeping it a buck, especially here on my own platform. I have no shame, I have no reason to hide. I have no fear of opinion. Why? Myself and I had a conversation and we said fuck it, I got nothing to loose. You have no idea how sharing can help set another free until you do it. When all you’re doing is just trying to figure it out and navigate your way, the last thing you should be worried about is what a motherfucker has to say about your relationship with yourself.
You are not crazy.