This Haunted House

Last night I told a friend that I was haunted and maybe that truly is the best way to describe it.

I don’t think I ever came out. To be fair I was forced out in an effort to force me back in but at that point the damage had been done. I spent another year in denial until I moved to Germany where I found the space to reinvent myself. I found the space to figure out how to be myself.

In college my life was a limbo. My entire life up until that point felt that way but college is where it all came to a head. Back then I referred to my sexuality as a spiritual stronghold, my battle with the flesh. People who knew were proud of me, proud that I boldly took a stand in the face of the devil for the cause of Christ. Proud, whether they knew it (whether I knew it) or not, that I hated myself. What they didn’t know was how often I cried. Every night. Not for days, not for months, but for years. I prayed God would make me different. And I did all I could to prove to him that I wanted to be different. There’s a joke among my friends about how many life groups I was a part of back then. Tuesdays, every other Wednesday, Thursdays and a few Sundays out of the month. I was a youth group leader, a small group leader for my campus ministry, I had an accountability partner and a mentor, I volunteered for the church nursery and babysat for a military family in the church whose husband was away in Afghanistan I believe. And of course, I read my bible. Morning, day, and night I read my bible. I even kept one of those pocket sized New Testaments in my backpack to read in between classes. I was giving, I was kind, and I was faithful. And with every life group, every moment I spent giving time to someone else, every scripture I recited, with every single day I had the audacity to inhale God’s clean holy air I wondered, “will this make me whole?”

It didn’t. And I did what every Christian does and I chastised myself. It had to be because I was self seeking, only looking to God for one thing, or my prayers weren’t genuine enough, or I didn’t truly accept Christ into my heart when I said that prayer, I wasn’t bearing my cross. Something, I don’t know what but something went wrong along the way cause you should be fixed by now. That’s what I told myself, you should be fixed by now because it’s been over fifteen years.

I’ve known since I was five. Grasped that it was an abomination or at least a really really bad thing God didn’t want you to be around six. And I lived the rest of my life to uproot the terrible thing deep down inside me that I’d found one day playing boyfriend and girlfriend on the school playground. Sometimes I wish I’d left it there, buried in the sand for someone else to find.

Caribbean families, I won’t say they mean well, I’ll just say they repeat what they are taught and act on what they believe. Needless to say, there were things said to me, around me and about me that informed my self perception. Made me afraid of myself, of the opinions of others what they would do to me if they found out. There was a constant nitpicking of the way I dressed and carried myself, reminders that I was too masculine in my appearance and way of being that always made me feel there was an ideal type of woman out there and I just didn’t make the cut.

So growing up was hard. Honestly, I don’t think I grew up. I just spread and dripped all over hoping I was the spilled milk God felt was worth crying over. Maybe he would clean me up, pour me into a cup where at least I’d have a shape. I’d have lines that went someplace, and a form that wasn’t a shapeless void.

College is where I thought that would happen but things weren’t always so cut and dry. Although I was a hero of some sort for denying my sexual desires, it still put Christian people off to even know the desires were there. I remember opening up to a friend and later that day she requested I stop hugging her since she felt it would be a temptation for me (it wasn’t). Others would find a way to add it into unrelated conversations to ‘see if I was still dealing with it’. I once applied to be a counselor at a christian summer camp, and after a horribly invasive interview in which the male interviewer kept asking sexaully inappropriate questions he decided I wasn’t fit to serve at the camp because I needed to wait until God totally healed me. I’d like to add that he accessed my contact information from my application to send me a Hallmark card with his cell phone number in it to call him ‘if I needed prayer’. And things like that happened often. You could sense there were people around you ready to exploit you because there was this ultimate sin you had looming over your head and it was far worse than anything that they could ever do to you.

And that feeling of exploitation wasn’t just with Christians.

As I said, college was a limbo. The world really is your oyster on those campuses. You can be anything you want to be.

But then again you can’t be.

Christian students were mostly popular among themselves in a world growing ever more liberal. I can remember getting into debates with professors, classmates and friends about my faith and the audacity I had to be open with it, share it even. That came with the territory and I was proud of myself. I still am even now as someone who doesn’t identify with any faith at the moment. I’m proud that I was willing to stand up for anything and be hated for it. But there was a weird aspect to it when it came to being christian around queer and LGBTQ+. Especially those who could tell I was struggling with my sexuality without me saying it.

As we’re learning, the queer community is becoming a more inclusive environment in the way that it recognizes the plight of certain individuals over others. For instance, the push now to protect and advocate for black trans lives who are brutalized and murdered every day. Causes that were still swept under the rug a few years ago by the very community that owes much of it’s liberation to Marsha P Johnson and Silvia Rivera, two trans women of color. But like I said we’re learning, and there are actions of love I’m privileged to see now that I wasn’t privy to then.

Queer people/allies weren’t as kind to the closeted folks, especially the religious ones. There was almost this infatuation with calling them out, bullying them into admitting something even they couldn’t understand. There wasn’t much patience or love, no genuine understanding that we’d gone years believing something about ourselves is deplorable and our opinion wasn’t going to change over night. It wasn’t going to change by them hurling backhanded words of sympathy like ‘You’re suppressed’. There was one young lady in particular who had a crush on me back in college. One night in my car she opened up about it and I naturally rejected her and it turned into a barrage of words exclaiming why my religion was a farce and it was the only reason I continued to live a lie. I realized then that all she wanted was my affection. She didn’t care about me or what it might cost if I were to come out. She just wanted to be right.

A lot of people at that time did. And I’m sure a lot of people who knew me back then look at me now and think ‘told you so’. And you did. You were right. All the berating and closet shaming all for the benefit to say you were right. It’s bittersweet to watch the love poured out to those questioning and afraid to come out because I wish I’d received that.

I wish the queer community knew back then that I felt like a monster. That it wasn’t as simple as letting myself explore my sexuality. And it didn’t feel simple with people bashing you for not being ‘proud of who you are’. Insulting you and grouping you with those who persecute the lgbtq+ plus community, not because you did, but because you dared not validate them or yourself. Which yes, is its own form of persecution, and the language of the bible has been used to justify deplorable acts against queer people no matter how softly its been recited but not everyone who’s a Christian is a persecutor. And not every restless growling thing locked away in a closet is a monster. I had reason to be afraid, to hide. There were costs to it. Traumas I’d inflicted on myself that couldn’t easily be solved by coming out. The amount of times I slept with a man to see if he could fix me. Laying there disgusted and disassociated from my body. And after several attempts and still feeling nothing going to the gynecologist and telling her ‘I don’t know, I just think there’s something wrong with it’. At 20 something years old, laying spread eagle on a cold surface thinking a gynecologist could fix my vagina. Coming out wasn’t going to make things easier, it made things harder. After a church and community I’d loved and considered my family disowned me, let me know I was no longer welcome and took it upon themselves to make and spread a church wide email about it so that I was shamed by handfuls of people until I finally just skipped town, after all this there was no comforting hug awaiting on the other end.

Just an ‘I told you so’. Just the vindication that you were right. I’m still wary of these people. People who are so overjoyed to see ‘how open minded I am now’, who could care less the hurt it took to even reach this place. People who knew what happened, but never asked if I was okay. You were just satisfied in being right.

I wish christians knew back then that I felt like a monster. There was so much vehemence towards sexuality, the posts about how gay people bring are the cause of just about every calamitous event in the world (Sandy Hook massacre or 9/11). I remember the Sunday service I attended after gay marriage had been legalized and for nearly two hours the pastor lamented on how the hearts of men were waning cold, how we needed to protect children from homosexuals and use the church to uproot their evils from the world. I remember going to the bathroom because I was so afraid for anyone to watch me cry. Watch the guilt that washed over me even though I’d yet to act on a single desire. The same guilt that washed over me everytime one of my friends got married and I knew deep down that would never happen for me.

I wish I could have articulated back then what it felt like to be a monster. What it felt like to always be somebody’s monster. The internal isolation, constant lingering of feeling alone was nearly unbearable. I lost myself. I lost myself trying to please Christians, my family and even God. To quote ‘Queer people don’t grow up as ourselves, we grow up playing a version of ourselves that sacrifices authenticity to minimise humiliation and prejudice.’ I did that. Played so many versions of myself that as an adult woman I spend more time trying to unpick the parts of me that are real and the parts I fabricated in order to protect myself.

So when I say I am haunted, I don’t think it’s just the pains and traumas of my past that follow me, it’s these versions of myself. 5 year old me, 12 year old me, college me crying at the altar for the fifth time that week. The me who stood up to an entire congregation but fell apart the second she got home. The me who blamed herself for a whole year after and continued to believe I was the cause of their hatred. The me barricading herself in a closet, and the me clawing at the door to pull her out. The me who just wanted someone, anyone to listen. The me who wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t a monster. I’m haunted by every part of me that yearns for love I didn’t know to give because I had no clue where to find it.

I’m haunted and that’s the best way to describe it.

But I’m okay. Really I am, despite how all this may sound, I really am okay and being haunted isn’t inherently negative. I’m dealing with it all, expressing as opposed to suppressing. Loving each phantom as she appears, loving her until she finds rest. Growing. Actually growing into something with shape and form.

I’m okay, I just wanted to get it all out there. Say it and be heard.

P.S., please do me one this one favor today;

Love Yourself.

Have You Ever Considered That Maybe Negative Nancy Was Bored?

You know what I wish?

I wish that when the mind was left idol, it didn’t immediately wander to negative thoughts.

Or is that just me?

Today I had a mental decompression of sorts where I just recounted the memories and thought patterns that have passed through my mind in the last five days. These past five days happen to be days where I have very little to do.

And you know what I realized?

Got damn I’m negative. I mean really negative. And if I don’t have any immediate unfortuante happenings to ponder on I just conjure one up from the good ole depths of memory. It half way convinces me that I’m still harboring bitterness towards these situations even though I know I’m not. I just like to grumble and be a pain in my own not as firm and thick as it used to be ass.

My grandpa is like this. My grandpa lives with my parents, has all his financial and medical needs taken care of, he’s going blind so most physically laborious tasks are taken care of for him, his family is always around him and those that live in the area come to visit. He can still see enough to walk down the street and stand on the corner as he likes to do, and most of the neighbors know him so if he gets lost they gently walk him back to my parents house. Pops has nothing to worry about, but guess what?

Homeboy still complains. He’s a massive complainer at that.

My mom always says it’s probably because he doesn’t have much else to do. Which in its own right is a bit sad. I’m persuaded that humans were made for some form of productivity and creativity and it’s when we’re unable to do that that we lose ourselves. Or we never get the opportunity to find ourselves in the first place.

That’s probably why our 20’s is so shit cause most of us are out trying to find our purpose but in the short run of it we’re actually just trying to find something to do. Which is about where I am right now.

I worked on Fashion Week (shout out Chloe Rosolek Casting) I’ve been able to accompany Miss Jason on some of the filming nights for the upcoming Season 2 (YouTube Jason’s Closet, it’s really quite lovely) and here and there I go out to read poetry. Other than that I’m home unless I make a trip to Trafalgar to scope out museums or take a walk to Waterloo bridge. And that gets boring to be honest. Taking a walk through the park, cooking a new recipe, reading a book, painting (although that’s currently my favorite thing to do), and even, dare I say it? Writing.

It all gets boring. Honestly I just want something to do. And yes, get paid for it.

But that’s besides the point.

My real question is why do we (or maybe just I) resort to mumbling about nonsense when our minds are idol. It literally takes more effort to think positive or neutral thoughts and I just don’t get that. I don’t get that its a reality we’re all aware of because how often, especially in bad times have you heard, ‘I know it’s hard and a bit cliche to say but look on the bright side. Or at least try to.’ We suck so hard at being positive that even our advice about being positive sucks. Honestly, I hate when people tell me that.

Mostly cause it doesn’t help. If I knew where the bright side was my pupils would be glued on it.

But you know what did help, decompressing. So without further ado here are just a few of the useless thoughts I’ve been having lately

5 years ago a tow truck driver made an illegal turn and almost hit my car. I tried to move out of the way but it didn’t help. He managed to move the truck without harm but perceived my moving as trying to get him to bump my car for insurance money. Before speeding off he said ‘I know you want a new one, but you ain’t gettin one on me bitch’. Petty, but I went to dinner and had a great evening that night.

I paid 50 pence extra last week because I was too lazy to walk to the neighboring store that I was convinced was cheaper. They are. On everything.

My flatmate mixed peanut butter in my Nutella jar. The nutella has been done for weeks.

There was a small error with a magazine that published a poem for me and the artwork I submitted with it. They very graciously rectified it and apologized. So tell me why was I being salty all by myself? I think I was expecting them to be difficult and they weren’t so I didn’t get to sprinkle my salt anywhere. Moving on to number

Any issues I’ve had with people I’ve lived with in the past, definitely turned those over

An email I needed to send on time that never went through even though the receiver said it was fine.

Forgetting to turn the lights off

A girl I was seeing in the past who blocked me. Granted I ignored her for months because she was toxic.

None of this stuff is relevant, some of it may hold a few residual bumps I need to examine further, but only examine. Not dwell on until my neck gets stiff. In the end it’s all meaningless and has no effect on my day to day unless I allow it to, which I do for no other reason than being bored.

If you find yourself in this space, write it down. Write these crummy little thoughts down and take a second to reflect on whether or not they’re worth your mental investment. Then write down some things you’d like to get done, maybe it is finishing a book, doing laundry or taking a walk in the park. Write those things down and check them off as you get them done, or maybe at the end week write down what you got done. And when you finish that list title it ‘Accomplishments’, because that’s what they are.

I know I said they’re boring and its valid to feel that way but in the back of my mind I know I’m intertwining my worth with my work (one of capitalism’s greatest tricks). If something I do isn’t leading to what I perceive as a big achievement than its meaningless busy work and I’m useless. I slow down on doing anything, in that way making myself bored, sit on the couch and end up entertaining myself with any minute mishap that’s ever happened to me.

It’s a cycle. One easily caught in. I’m not going to tell you to think positive or even avoid thinking negative, because like I said, there may be something that needs a closer look. All I’ll say is be conscious of where you allow your mind to roam. It’s not a thing that should be left to wander on its own. And for my babies in the 20’s with me, don’t be afraid if you’re in the stage where not much work is coming your way. This period will probably benefit you in the long run as a time of self discovery, learning new skills blah blah blah, you know what I’m going to say. Its redundant to hear but it’s true.

I’m here with you friends. Cheers to less negative thoughts and more being proud of every accomplishment.

That’s it for now, as they say, but before I go just do me one favor,

Love Yourself,

AFS

Life Update

I write this blog the same way I lead conversations: I always forget to introduce myself.

Or give an update on how I’m doing. I talk in circles about random topics, ask loads of questions about how everyone else is doing then at the very end someone, or a few someones really, always come up to me and say,

You know I didn’t actually get your name.

Then they mention how they have no clue who I am or what I do. It’s kind of my thing. I’m reluctant to small talking about myself but good for relaying all the heavy stuff if you ever make the mistake of asking me how I’m doing on one of my low days.

So in keeping with that tradition, this blog is full of traumas, sad days, confusing periods, rants and the likes, but there’s little about me. If I’m being honest it’ll probably remain that way but I figure for now it wouldn’t be too out of character to let you in on the small happenings of my life.

First things first, I’ve moved. I left Germany and now live in London.

Quite a shift I know, and honestly I didn’t see it coming. I imagined myself staying in Germany for at least a few years, but hey, that’s life for you.

To be frank, I left because of the increasing hostility towards minorities in Germany. There’s only so many times you can be spit on and called a nigger before you decide to call it quits.

So I did. I ended my relationship, quit my job, packed my bags and took a 13€ flight to London (yes you read that correctly). The relationship had soured for me long before it ended, I was growing tired of the 9-5, and as I said, Germany just wasn’t the place for me anymore.

Why I chose London brings me to my next update: I’m pursuing modeling, acting, writing, and creative direction full time.

Yes all at once.

I’m more so hoping that one opportunity leads to the next. Though as I’ve seen in London, it’s not uncommon for the local hit DJ to be simultaneously modeling for Vogue while preparing for a photography project of theirs to be showcased at Art Basel after having just released a music video they directed for Blood Orange.

That’s quite literally the life of one of the friends I’ve made here.

Needless to say, if there’s anywhere to pursue becoming a rocket scientist and a horse surgeon at the same time, London is the place to do it. But really I wouldn’t have come had it not been for a series of opportunities that miraculously lined up for me. I’ll say more about what those are once they’ve come to completion, just know good things are on the horizon.

But even as good things are within my reach I won’t sugar coat the toll this sudden shift in location and occupation (or lack thereof) has had on me.

I’m afraid. I worry. I doubt. I look back even though that’s not the direction I’m going in. I’m trying to turn all my hobbies into a career while having no formal training on how to go about that and that scares the shit out of me, as in I frequently take shits because of how anxious I get thinking about the logistics of it all. I’m still battling depression, making amends with my past and how dramatically my life has changed. I still question and over think every set before I even take them. Travelling doesn’t change your circumstances, just your scenery.

Top it all off I’m the new girl all over again.

In a bigger city where the hustle and bustle easily turns into stabbing your best mate in the neck to stay ahead of the curve. London is a beast, don’t let anyone tell you different.

Despite this, despite the dark days, I’m happy here. I love it here. I’m stationed in the south in a high rise that over looks what seems like the entire world. I’m writing everyday, meeting someone new every other day and trying to stay on top of my budget in between. I’m afraid yes, but hopeful. Very hopeful…at least I try to be.

That’s all for now, as they say, but if you could just do me one favor

Love Yourself

AFS

Birthday Boys and Birthday Girls

Its 5am and I’m walking home with a stranger whom I’ll soon call a friend.

I’m told to talk and mingle with different types of people but I don’t have much to say, other than,

Hi, I’m Jai.

I’ve kissed so many cheeks tonight.

Flirted with so many uninterested women tonight.

Rode in so many UBERS I didn’t pay for tonight.

Went along with every next move made for the night while pretending to be interested in plans made for tomorrow.

I took a walk on my own to a park around the corner and fell asleep on a bench. Made my way back about half an hour later to a crowd that seemed unphased by my arrival so probably hadn’t noticed that I had left.

It is better to be a fly on the wall than a wallflower because at least the fly can fly away.

But I am on my way to the next venue without the person I came with to the first. No one seems to know whose house this is but I manage to find the bathroom on my own.

There’s a comfortable chair here so I sit and decide to enjoy the show. A few conversations I might remember later and a few one liners I might turn into a poem.

Thank you to the ones who made sure the new girl didn’t get left behind, next time the UBER will be on me.

It won’t be. I never know where we’re going.

I never know who I’m talking to but he’s just said his birthday is tomorrow and she’s just blown out 21 or 24 candles.

Happy Birthday. I guess this whole night is for them.

London nights come in a drunken haze and my exes jacket keeps me warm as night turns into day.

You’ve got a lovely voice and lovely eyes too. You know where I live better than I do, you walk me home even though I tell you you don’t have to. My buildings just there, I don’t have your number but maybe I’ll text you.

I lay down in bed, I close my eyes too.

I know tomorrow is coming, even though I don’t want it too.

AFS

‘Hair’itage

My last name is Stephenson.

It’s probably a slave name. Or the name my ancestors adopted in order to adapt to their surroundings. I don’t hate my last name, I question it. Who is it? Who am I, really?

I remember back in Uni a black girl sitting next to me in class and becoming excited. Attending a predominantly white institution, women like us were far and few in between. So in an attempt to establish comradery, I complimented the name I saw printed on her student ID tag.

“Ngozi, that’s a beautiful name.”

She looked at me, her eyes exasperated, her lips curled only to a half smile but still patiently replied, “Not Nuh-gozi but Nnn-gozi, nnn, from Nigeria.”

That ‘Nnnn’ being unfamiliar to me began the introspective dissection of my past and present.

After that encounter, I coudln’t shake the slight notion of shame that shrouded me. I, being raised in America, could recite the English, the French, the Italian and even the German alphabet, but I had not the slightest clue of how to phonetically pronounce and recite the Igbo alphabet, or any alphabet belonging to an African country for that matter. And there were people, black people all around me who knew their names. Their real names. They knew where they’d come from. Yet I had this name, this name I knew was not my own. A name that fooled most white employers into thinking I was white until I walked in for the interview. A White washed privilege.

And I had something else.

This hair. My hair.
My hair that my mother kept relaxed up until I was eighteen and moved out on my own. Before then it was long and reached well past my shoulders. People, especially black people, rarely complimented my dark complexion, truthfully they taunted me for it. And they rarely said much about my facial features except for “You look like a man.” But my hair, oh my hair to them was my saving grace. It was my glory.

“You’ve got pretty hair,” they’d say.

Never that my hair was ‘good’ because despite its length, it was coarse and dense unlike the silky strands that flowed from the scalps of women who claimed to have Indian in them. Nevertheless, my hair was pretty and I learned early on that is was one of my better traits.

Still, I was curious. Every month just before I was due a fresh relaxer, I wondered about the kinky new growth sprouting from the root like weeds in a manicured garden. I wondered what would happen if less effort was made to them but instead they were permitted to thrive in their natural habitat?

My counterparts were less enthused by this concept. Whenever this tiny fro made a guest appearance I was met with, “Oh yea, you need to keep that mess permed, you got that real nigga naps grade of hair.”

No one was calling it 4c back then.

Even so, in spite of my mother’s disapproval and right in swing with the wave of black hair naturalism that swept across black America, I cut my hair. I remember that first rendezvous between myself and my new reflection. How long I lingered in the mirror, gazing at the foreign woman who had what seemed only to be half a millimeter of curls jutting from her scalp. I remember thinking,

Oh. How ugly.

Quickly I tried anything to alter my current state of ‘hairs’. Dr. Miracle’s Gro Oil, Wonder Gro, Doo Gro, hell if they sold something called Please Gro I would’ve bought it. But of course, in due time I learned. In due time I loved.

So let me take you back to the beginning.

My last name is Stephenson. It’s a patronymic form of the name Stephen derived from the Ancient Greek word ‘stephanus’ meaning, crown. I don’t know specifically who they were, my ancestors, but I like to believe there was intention in the choosing of that name. Royalty.

They passed down to me this melanin, this nose, these hands, this face, all of these like precious relics reassuring me that yes, my body is indeed a temple. And they gave me something else.

This hair. Their hair. My hair.

Like a signature, a beautiful marking that adorns my head saying,

“We were here. We are here.
So anoint your head with oils of castor, coconut and jojoba. And do this in remembrance of us. When you comb your coils be gentle, always be tender with your hands because life was not always so tender with ours. Wash, rinse, moisturize. Baptize yourself in all that is required to maintain your Garden of Eden. Honor it. Offer it, like a sacrifice of praise upon the altar. An outward expression of gratitude. This is true and proper worship.

And as you reach back… we will reach forward”.

As always, do me this one favor today.

Love Yourself.

AFS

The Dissociative Properties of Blackness

The Rules :

When Using Public Transportation

When sitting on the train, always remember to remove your hands from your pocket so they can see you have no strange objects or weapons and so they feel assured you won’t pickpocket them.
Pretend not to notice if they shift two seats away from you or opt to stand up when you sit down. Giving eye contact will only make them uncomfortable and put you in the position of the aggressor
Keep books, phones or small snack items in outside pockets or in hand as to avoid opening bags and arousing further suspicion of your purpose on the train that day.
If you wish to stand, stand by the back doors or near the exit doors, never stand over them even if it is crowded. And when they stand over you peering down at you the whole way, disregard it and don’t look up (See 2. For why)
If a drunk or angry commuter verbally berates you, do not fight fire with fire in these situations. Present yourself as a pacifist or otherwise let those around you come to your defense. Do not show anger.

When Walking at Night

If it is you and one other person who is not a minority walking along the street, make every effort to be the one walking in front.
If you are behind, give them space. The repeated looks over their shoulder is because they are afraid
Walk on the opposite side of the street if possible
Do not suddenly break into a run or light jog to catch your bus/train. Know when and where you need to be and be on time.
If you are waiting for the night bus sit two seats away at the stop or stand on the far end as not to arouse suspicion
Wear gloves during the winter and keep your hands from your pocket
Do not assume they feel safer in groups, the rules still apply

General Tips/Advice

Always tip at restaurants. It will save the next customer of African descent from having a rude waiter who assumed they would not tip.
For those who are of Caribbean descent, find a way to make that known in a conversation. It will remind them of the places they’ve been on holiday and they will be much kinder to the you now that they see you as exotic
Do not show that you are offended when asked what part of Africa you are from
Be ready to explain yourself and every move you make
When shopping, it is helpful if you walk in and first ask a store representative a question about a product. It lowers your chances of being followed significantly.
Save small coins to pay for bags at the grocery store or any shopping place. They do not assume you are being environmentally friendly when you bring your own bag.
Do not be the first to bring up the topic of racism, otherwise you will be seen as complaining or unable to get past it
Do not be surprised if even White Liberals write off your experiences as just ‘Berlin Life'(or wherever you live). Only they define your experiences. Only they define racism
Smile often
Speak formally even in casual conversations
Above all, always be aware of how your actions, words and overall appearance makes those around you feel. Be aware of your surrounding. Do everything in your power to present a subtle, more refined version of yourself as to make them more comfortable in your presence.
You may remove your mask when you are home or privately amongst your own.

These are the rules. Well actually, these are just some of the rules to abide by as a black individual living in predominantly white spaces. They apply almost anywhere. You are constantly aware of them even if you choose not to follow them. You are constantly aware of new ways to improve your circumstance that require you to become a lesser version of who you are. And you are constantly aware that this is what enables you to survive.

But at times, even the fight to survive becomes a quiet surrender. A dying of self.

I’ve found myself in this position lately. Surrendering myself so much so that I begin to lose myself. And it isn’t until lately that I have become aware of the dissociative properties of blackness. I have been aware and followed some of the rules of being black in white surroundings all my life, but I have always had a community to go home to where I can safely remove my mask and disregard the rules.

Berlin is different.

The community of those like me is much smaller and more divided. I have one close black female friend as opposed to eight. There are few places that cater to my physical and mental needs. To my surprise, the Afro German community is harder to fit into. It’s not necessarily that there is a lack of solidarity, it’s just that language, culture and the black experience of being Afro German versus African/Caribbean American separates us. What I’m realizing is that I have never had to experience what it is like when you can’t remove the mask. What it’s like when the comforts of home are scarce.

I have never dissociated until now.

The best way I can describe it is feeling you’re in a bubble watching life happen around you. When I’m in that space, my voice becomes unrecognizable. The words I speak sound foreign. My body moves not as I will it to but as the surroundings demand. And when I get home the mask becomes less of a mask but more like skin grafts disfiguring who I am. Distorting the image I see when I look in the mirror. Days and weeks go by and I’m unaware of it. I lose motivation to write, to read, to create. I feel as though I’m performing an act at all times but the curtains never close. I feel as though I am reciting words from a novel that was written for me and not by me. I feel…but I don’t feel. Anything.

It is a strange and very real phenomena that happens slowly over time.

In becoming aware of it I have gained, but also in that I have lost.

Today I left an interracial relationship because of this but let me make it clear that my partner was not toxic and I am not against interracial marriage, dating, and procreating (I don’t care to debate how this makes me less woke, in touch with my ancestors, or not truly black). In any relationship you have two people coming from various backgrounds and upbringings and you find a way to exist in each others spaces. In my previous interracial relationships we were able to find this common ground, but in this one we were just too different. And the differences became more apparent the more I became aware of my dissociation and the more I came out of it. It was no longer enough to have a few things in common. It was no longer enough that I was able to cross the bridge over into their world because of how often I had to do it in my daily life. They attempted to do the same but it is a hard process if you’ve never been put in that position before. On top of that there were major cultural and personality differences that separated us outside of race. In the end, it was the end. And that wasn’t an easy decision to make. It isn’t easy leaving a person when you become accustomed to the routine of each other. But they understood and respected my needs. As much as it hurt (and still hurts like hell), I knew in time I would only dissociate from them further and further until the relationship had soured and I grew bitterness towards them for things they couldn’t control. I left while there was still love to be had and memories to be cherished.

And I’m proud of that decision.

I’m proud of myself as I come into my own in an unfamiliar surrounding. As I no longer sacrifice myself for the comfort of others. As I create space to exist here, and welcome others to join me. I rise and inhale my blackness like black coffee grounds brewed in the morning. Slowly my voice returns to me and I recognize the words I hear when I speak. Slowly I am becoming myself again.

I want it to be known that in no way am I shaming Berlin neither do I regret my decision to move here. In many ways Berlin and its people have awoken me from a slumber I fell into years ago and have helped me unravel the many facets of who I am. But these experiences are real and persist just about everywhere in the world, and I want to shed light on it.

I hope these words enlighten those who want to understand and comfort those who understand all too well.

Most of all I hope today you can do me this one favor,

Love Yourself,

AFS

P.S.

To You,

To the one who loves strawberry ice cream on hot summer days.

Thank you.

For hearing me. For listening to my voice. For validating my feelings, emotions, and experiences. For attempting to find solutions and outlets for me so that we could mend the relationship. And for accepting that the only solution was that we go our separate ways.

If life is ever so kind as to allow our paths to meet again, whether it be in friendship or love

I’ll be standing at the crossroad with a bouquet of tulips in my hand

Waiting for you

The Things We Learn: Wounded

So I was low.

Really, really low.

It’s not the lowest I’ve been by far but it was pretty low. Navigating German bureaucracy while broke, a bit lonely, and still figuring out how to give my artistic projects more momentum is a burdensome full time job with no pay.

But I’ve learned a few things and I want to share them with you.

The first lesson has to do with friendship. I’ll give a heads up now that this is the least light hearted lesson out of the bunch but this past week has been nothing short of a miracle and there were people that reached out and situations that seemed to find resolutions for themselves seemingly out of nowhere. With that being said, I’m not focusing on the negative but writing the lessons in the order that I learned them.

So first,

As my mom, and probably yours, has always said, ”You learn who your true friends are when you’re going through tough times.” I’ve had brushes with this lesson before in 2017 when my best friend spread a horrible rumor about me around church while I was at the same time being shamed and humiliated by the church itself. Then again in 2018 after coming down from a bad trip, the friends I had switched up to save their own faces in front of the church or maybe for themselves who knows. Either way, in the last two years of my life I’ve watched this phenomena play out but each time I’ve walked away wounded as opposed to wiser. I find myself investing too much time and energy trying to think what I could’ve done differently or the most daunting question, why is it so easy for some people to tell you they love you one day and the next treat you as if they never knew you?

But this time was different. The way the lesson played out was different and I was able to view it all from another angle. This time my tough situation wasn’t revolved around a humiliating event. It wasn’t surrounded by circumstances that would lead to people distancing themselves in dramatic or hurtful ways. This time I was just down on my luck as they say.

So I did something out of the ordinary.

At least it is for me.

I told people what I was going through. Now, my posts are generally pretty vulnerable but I talk about events that have happened already. Even the people I talk to on a regular basis only find out about my problems long after I’ve found the solution. So to write an entire post about what a funk I was in with no resolution, all despair was odd for me.

But I took it a step further. I asked for help. I made a small post on my Instagram Story stating that I was at a low point and needed some kind words and encouragement. Usually that’s my role, people call me to vent, seek advice and a joke or two to go about their day re-energized and maybe even enlightened on how to approach the problem. But that day I needed someone to fill that role for me, to help me see the bigger picture. All I needed was a conversation.

And only five people reached out. People read the blogs, saw my Story and only five people reached out.

At first I didn’t think much of it. The truth is, everyone is going through a tough time in one way or another. It can take a lot out of you to be there for someone else when you need someone to be there for you. But this is a recurring theme in my life and I could never understand it. People seem to be genuinely uncomfortable with me in my times of need.

Am I too vulnerable? Am I expressing to much emotion to the point its overwhelming? Is it something I can change? What am I doing wrong?

I still hadn’t come to understand it all until a few nights ago. It was a night where I was feeling incredibly lonely and wondering why I came to Germany. Don’t get me wrong, I love Berlin but I haven’t quite found my group of people the way I usually can anywhere in the States. Add on the fact that it’s been a stressful time, it’s no wonder I contemplate packing my bags and going home every now and then. And then that opportunity presented itself.

That night I saw an advertisement for a Director of Student Affairs position for the foundation that provided my housing in Uni. I definitely qualify and it’s good pay for a job I would actually love to do. The more I thought about it, the more the risk I took moving here seemed pointless. Why stress when I could go back to the states where I’m not fighting for a visa and stressing over food and shelter. Maybe pursuing art and writing wasn’t meant to be, maybe I just needed a break.

I was conflicted so I wrote a friend who lives in Berlin to ask for advice. By the time they wrote back I had already decided to apply only if it was my last resort and I had to leave Berlin. But out of curiosity I asked, ”Would you miss me if I was gone?” and their reply was ”Sure.”

Now any other day I would have thought nothing of it, and what I’ve learned from this is don’t ask questions when you’re already emotional and expecting a particular answer. But I asked, and after their answer, I cried.

I actually cried myself to sleep.

They hadn’t said anything wrong. Of course they had no clue on the other end I was in a deep pit of loneliness, all I had told them was that I needed advice on applying for a job. They had no clue (and neither did I until I thought about it) that what I was really asking myself more than anything else was, ‘Do I actually matter to anyone?’

Have I made an impact?

Because if that were true, if I mattered to people and if I had truly made an impact on them it wouldn’t be so easy for them to switch up on me from one day to the next. It wouldn’t be so easy for them to call me a friend and then so easily call me an enemy. It wouldn’t be that the one time I actually cry out for help after years of being everyone else’s shoulder to cry on, it wouldn’t be that only five people reach out, and one of those people was a complete stranger.

It can’t possibly be that way unless I truly haven’t made an impact on anyone I’ve crossed paths with.

At least that’s what I thought until I came across (well actually googled) an article about loneliness. This particular article (I’ll include the link) explains how loneliness affects each person based on their Myers Briggs personality type. I’m an ESFP and here’s what it said

ESFPs are usually outgoing, friendly, and optimistic individuals. They tend to get lonely when they have nobody to really connect with or talk to on a meaningful level. Because they are usually enthusiastic, humorous, and fun-loving, they tend to draw in a variety of friends who enjoy their charisma and charm. This can be both a blessing and a curse for the ESFP, as they simultaneously enjoy the friendships, but also feel worried that their friends are only there to be entertained and nothing more. Some people take advantage of the ESFPs good humor and jovial personality and then run away when times get hard and the ESFP needs someone to be there for them. This is when the ESFP tends to feel the loneliest. It’s important that they have some good friends who really care for them during the ups and the downs and who aren’t just there for the good times and the smiles and laughter.

Now before anyone knocks me for being one of those people that actually believes in the Myers Briggs test let me just say that everyone has their thing. Is my identity wrapped up in this test? No, but does it give me decent incite to why I feel or perceived the world around me in a certain way? Yes, and I need that clarity every now and then.

But on to the bigger point, this explains it. It’s not that people don’t care or even that I haven’t made an impact. Its that there is one role I predominantly play in people’s lives and that’s to be the fun one. In highschool almost everyone who wrote in my yearbook wrote how much they would miss my jokes and the way I light up a room. Even my teachers would tell me some days were boring until I came to class to brighten things up. People expect that from me, top that off with one of my greatest flaws is that I don’t often (almost never) express to people when I’m sad so it probably makes people uncomfortable because they haven’t seen that side of me before.

Does this excuse them?

No. People shouldn’t hang around you only when they want to have a good time. People should invest in you, support you and make time for you in the good times and the bad but the thing is,

People will be people.

As it says, this personality trait is a blessing and a curse. Not only a blessing because it draws so many people to me but because I have something that every human being seeks after in this world. Joy and Happiness. Of course it’s hard when people walk away the moment when Joy and Happiness is no longer available but that’s when I take the necessary precautions to protect my heart. I know who I can lean on and who I can’t and if I expect everyone I come in contact with to be there when I need it most then I’m setting myself up to be hurt.

So loneliness is going to happen, especially at this stage of my life I’m going to feel a lot of loneliness in Berlin. I’m going to be hurt by people who gravitate towards me for the good times I bring. I’m going to have a hard time connecting to people who don’t actually want to hear what’s on my mind but rather want me to say something to make them laugh or convince them to do something crazy and wild with their life. These are all realities I’ll continue to live until the day I walk away wiser, and I don’t walk away wounded.

But that’s all for now as they say. Do me this one favor today.

Love Yourself.

Sincerely

AFS

Discouraged

I’ve been struggling for a while to write a new post. I haven’t been quite sure what to write about and I feared a lack of consistency would lead to this blog being forgotten.

But I’ve never been the type to write ingeniously. Everything I write comes from my soul. Somedays I write for hours on end based off one feeling or emotion, and then some days I write nothing at all. Somedays I just don’t feel the need to unwind.

But today I feel so heavy. So low. Today I need to unwind.

I woke up this morning heavy hearted as has been the norm for the past few weeks. Living in Germany is great but in many ways it has been hard.

Acquiring a visa has been one of the most tedious battles of my life and it still continues. The good news is I was offered a job that starts in March so my visa should come through by the end of this month. What’s difficult is that this job requires that I am certified in B2 German. I’ve been learning but the process is slow and arduous. German is very tricky grammatically, and I can’t afford language classes that would probably speed the process up.

And while I believe I will be able to learn and teach myself enough to pass the test without courses, there is the ever present fear that I won’t. What if I fail? Then what?

How will I make ends meet while I’m currently struggling for money?

I came to Berlin with a good amount of money saved up, but I left the AuPair family and have since used most of my money for rent, food, or transportation. And now I’m worried, maybe even scared. Maybe I should have stayed or just switched families. Yes I would be making no money and have no time to focus on my own projects, but at least I would have food and shelter guaranteed.

I have always been a person who works, saves and plans for the future. At one point in college I had five jobs and would still walk most places even though I had a car. If I had extra money left over at the end of the month, it always went directly to savings. I planned for rainy days that never came at times but here I am. Stuck in a rainy day with no umbrella. For the first time in my life I have 200 left to my name. No savings, no extras tucked away in the mattress. 200. I don’t know where rent will come from. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay for insurance next month or my transportation card. I have a few babysitting jobs possibly coming up but there it is again. Possibilities.

I’m more discouraged than afraid though.

Discouraged because I feel like I failed myself. I failed people around me.

This week my mom called to tell me my cousin got in trouble with the law and landed himself in jail. He’s a good kid, he really is. Just a good kid with no real support and little opportunity because of that in my opinion.

The next day I called to see if he made bail and she hit me with more bad news. My dad was in a motorcycle accident that night and shattered his leg. I’m sure he’ll recover but how will he work? How will he provide for the family. We’re not rich by any means. I worked in my families business for many years to help ends meet. My parents work to the bone to provide for themselves and the family and it’s always just enough. And now my dad can’t work. My cousins and my Aunt recently moved in with my parents and siblings because they were just granted entry into the U.S. from Haiti. While they gather themselves, find work and learn English, my parents have been helping them out. I know God always makes a way but I can’t help but feel worried for them.

Then I called to see how things were going and I was hit with one final piece of bad news. My grandma has stage 3 breast cancer. She went in for a regular check up and they found the abnormal cells in her body. My grandma has worked every day of her adult life, to this day she still works. A few years ago she started her own orphanage in Haiti and works to provide for those kids. She made the decision to come to America by boat with 8 children while still pregnant just for the chance of giving them a better life. She is one of the hardest working women I know and I question life when situations like these come to people like her. I remember when I first started traveling the world back in college, I had saved up enough money to go to London and other parts of Europe. When I told her about it she was in awe almost, she said “Wow, you’re going to big places to do big things.” It was just a trip but at that moment I realized what a big deal that is for her. She came from Haiti with nothing but her children and now her granddaughter is college educated and traveling the world. She probably never imagined things like this. Things I have taken for granted. And after all of that, all those years of work and struggle, and giving. After all of that, she now has to confront cancer head on.

Although these things are out of my control I feel that being in this situation only makes matters worse because I am no help to anyone around me. I have a job that starts in March, I was signed to a modeling/people agency last week that I’ll begin working for in late February so right now none of that helps. Those two opportunities won’t even matter if for some reason the foreign office decides not to grant my work visa. And that’s a possibility. I’m paying rent, paying for health insurance, registering myself where I’m supposed to and one person having a bad day or simply not feeling like it can deny my visa without any reason. That worries me.

I had this idea to come to Germany to establish myself, establish my projects and return back to the states once everything was sorted and able to make money on its own. Deep down I still have hope but that hope is fading if I’m being honest.

So I’m discouraged. I know Christians are quick to say you shouldn’t be because God is on our side and what not but honestly that’s a bunch of bullshit we say to make ourselves appear stronger than we are. Or just appear as good faithful Christians who know how to recite generic Joel Osteen holiday cards better than we can the actual Bible. I get sad damn it. I get hurt. I get discouraged, I feel low even when I should feel high. I may be depressed. If God didn’t know that there wouldn’t be entire books in the bible expressing sadness (the book of Lamentations), Paul wouldn’t have admitted anxieties and fears that he had while walking with Christ. Half of the Psalms David wrote would have no meaning if he never felt the things I feel. That poor pastor in California wouldn’t have committed suicide if he didn’t go through pain so here it is.

Here is the unwinding.

Here I am saying I’m lost.

Here I am saying I’m struggling.

Here I am saying I need help even though I am unwilling to ask for it.

Here I am saying I am afraid.

Here I am in tears as I write this.

Here I am.

I am Discouraged.

But that’s all for now as they say. No matter what happens in your day, please do me this one favor:

Love Yourself.

Sincerely,

ASF

Happy New Year

I’ve run out of time to finish telling you about 2018.

I was writing part three last night but ended up having a small pre New Years party with some friends. Three Hennessey and Cokes later it remains unfinished in my Google Docs while I lay in bed nauseous making a mental note to myself that there’s a reason I stick to beer and wine.

It was a disappointing feeling at first, leaving it unfinished. I’m a person who starts a billion projects and many I haven’t seen through to the end. I don’t always finish what I start and I hate that about myself.

But that’s the thing. It is finished. After tonight there will never be another 2018. Everyday that has passed I will never see again. I could scramble to give you a recap of year 2018 so you’re not left with a cliffhanger but unfortunately you will have to hang in there for a while. In general you know it was a rough year, but if God spares me this last day I’ll get to see the start of a New Year.

Think about that. Really think about that. A new set of 365 days. Do you know just how much your life can change in a year? For a second let’s reconsider year 2017 (go to previous posts if you haven’t read it yet) my entire life changed physically and mentally. Yes it was terrible but think about that, my life changed in 365 days. Actually it was one day that changed it all. And from that one day an entire year was affected. It’s more amazing than tragic when I consider that the reverse is possible. With the knowledge I now I have, the power I’ve found within myself and confidence I refuse to smother, I can change the 365 days ahead of me and every single day is a 24 hour chance to do just that.

Studies say it takes about 21 days to create a habit and about 90 to form a lifestyle. In that short amount of time you could make a significant impact on your life. In 365 days you can develop about 17 different habits and 4 different lifestyles, really for a second think about that. The opportunities aren’t necessarily endless but they are available. They are possible.

So if you’re the type to make New Year’s resolutions, make them. Expect to fail at them, but try again. Or don’t, maybe try something new. Or make new resolutions in March just because. Try the new gym down the street. Cry when you’re sad, laugh when you’re happy. Watch a movie when you feel lazy and don’t beat yourself about it. Have a productive day. Quit the job you hate, I promise you there is another one waiting even if it’s below your pay grade, sometimes you just need to start fresh. Buy nice things and live in the present. Save money and plan for the future. Shave your head and grow your beard. Take a selfie. Disconnect from social media. Start a Youtube channel. Try religion, or try to understand why you walked away from it or never believed. Be afraid. Conquer your fear. Find yourself. Then lose yourself. What I’m getting at is take advantage of the opportunities that will come your way. Even go as far as creating those opportunities for yourself.

Yes, the unforeseen can and will happen. I am certain you and I will face trials, tragedy and the likes this year but that’s life, pain is inevitable. Honestly, pain at times is a pleasant reminder that we are still alive, sensing, breathing, and feeling the world around us. As I like to say, how would we know what love is if we never experience hate? Pleasure if we never feel pain? So yes, pain will come and with it will come empathy for others who have suffered like you. And before long I promise you so will healing.

In knowing there will be joy or pain, success or failure in whatever you do, there is nothing left to do but the thing itself. I thought my message for new years would be more specific, maybe about forgiveness or persevering through troubling times but the greatest lesson I’ve learned through it all is to live through it all. There is nothing better and nothing more that people can do other than just live and do good while they live. Find satisfaction in whatever you do and accept each day, good or bad. Life will teach you the lessons you need to learn along the way, you just need to be present when the lecture begins.

So live. That is my New Year’s resolution for you. That you live and live abundantly.

It’s raining fireworks here in Berlin. I must be getting old because I find it to be a nuisance now, but I do need to go out and enjoy these final two hours of 2018. Hopefully we meet again next year.

That’s all for now as they say. Until next time please do me this one favor today, and everyday in this new year:

Love Yourself.

Sincerely,

ASF

Year ’17: The Worst Year of My Life Pt.4

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that you can’t vent to everyone. Sometimes not even your best friends.

Maybe a month had passed, I still hadn’t gone back to the church as the pastor wanted me to. It was a fucked up system and I knew going back would drive me to kill myself even more. I could picture the sin being the center of my church existence as a guilt that people would always see looming over my head. What else occured in my life would be of lesser significance, it only matters if I’ve gotten rid of this thing inside of me. Above all else I was embarrassed, a feeling I rarely ever feel as an extrovert. But I felt it. Humiliated. Ashamed. I felt it.

But I hated being the outsider, feeling shunned out from the community. The pastor’s wife had been my friend and mentor, she knew about my same sex struggles before this had happened, and after this all came out she never spoke another word to me.

It was lonely but more than anything I was angry. There was a part of me that wanted everyone to feel pain, physical pain. I hated them. I had a dream once that I had beat some of them nearly to death and when I woke up I was sad it wasn’t true. It’s like I was going through the stages of grief and this was anger. Rage even. I expressed this to my best friend, I told her how I would imagine myself walking into the church with a gun, that I now understood how an ordinary person could snap. I told her everything I felt including how at the same time I felt all this anger, there was a deep desire to disappear. I just wanted to die, each day was becoming unbearable and all I could think of was killing myself.

About three days later she called to say she didn’t want me to come around her, her husband or his daughter whom I adored. She said until I could get my thoughts of suicide in order it was only necessary for us to talk over the phone. She had to protect them from what I could do to myself. I wondered if it had more to do with my anger, but she assured me that it wasn’t, she just couldn’t put up with how sad I was all the time. Usually I bounced back from hardships and this time I wasn’t getting better and she couldn’t be there for me anymore.

I blamed myself again. It wasn’t enough that my mistakes were keeping people at bay, now it was my grief too. Later I realized how messed up that was. My best friend abandoned me when I needed her most. Although she assured me that once I got myself together things would be fine between us, we never saw each other again.

I ended up sending an email to the pastor, his wife, and my ex’s parents. I don’t remember much of it but I told them they were careless and malicious people. Then there were parts that I do remember and looking back it was a clear picture I was losing it. Losing my mind. Some words were just nonsense. On one hand I’m proud that I wasn’t afraid to call them out on their shit, but saddened that I let them see how much it all affected me. Let them see me broken.

There was a night I became so desperate I called the girl even though I knew I should stay away. I had convinced myself that she must be in despair and we both needed closure, or to talk and find a way to escape it all. My cousin had warned me a few days prior against reaching out to the girl. She said “If someone truly loves you or even cares for you, they will stop at nothing to contact you. If she cares about you anymore she would have tried to reach you by now and she hasn’t”.

But I reached out anyway. And unfortunately my cousin was right. She sent back a text message that ended with “FUCK OFF!”, she said I had done nothing but bash her parents even though they prayed for me, and I was clearly the only one hurt by it all. She regretted everything between us and told me never to reach out to her again ending it all with “FUCK OFF.” Then her father texted me and told me to stay away for good, he said the email was bizarre and I had no right to come to their house before. And my best friend had made the church aware of ‘my plans’ to kill their family and the pastor.

That’s still the most devastating part. The way she twisted my words behind my back. It’s one thing for people to know you’re gay, but for your best friend to convince them you were a homicidal maniac is even worse. In their minds they now justify any wrong they’ve ever done to you, and are probably glad they got you out before you could do any harm. She was the church favorite, she was perfect, so of course everyone believed her. And that’s when I knew I would never win, it would only get worse. So I gave up.

And I left the next day. I didn’t say anything back, didn’t tell them it was a lie. Nothing. I quit my job and made the 8 hour drive home, but not before picking up a dog from the shelter to keep me company. I had read somewhere that they help with depression.

When I got home I explained to my parents why I had come back. And that was my coming out story. That’s how I told them I was gay. And in a way it was a blessing. My parents are Christians but seeing how hurt I was they told me they loved me no matter what. I had known I was gay since I was 7 and at 21, the moment I feared most, telling my parents, turned out to be the most comforting experience thus far.

I had never told my bestfriend that I left or that I knew what she did. She called a few days later and I was sure would try to explain herself because no doubt the family would make sure to let the church know I had contacted their daughter. But she didn’t know. I was actually quite shocked by her words:

“Happy Birthday”.

July 11th. I had completely forgotten.

But I didn’t say thank you. I asked her if she had actually spread that rumor which took her by surprise. She asked me how I knew and that question was all the answer I needed. I cut the friendship off, she sent an email later saying everything that I was feeling and experiencing was my own fault. I sent a kind email back, but later sent one that expressed how I really felt which I’m unsure she ever read. And 2017 continued to drag me along full of misery and depression. I’m not even sure if what I experienced can be called depression. I still look back and think it would have been better to have died than to experience the loneliness and sadness I felt.

Maybe I’ll speak more intimately about that later.

How do I feel about it all? I’ll say something brief but it would take more to dissect and describe my assessment of this part of my life.

But in short, as I write these I’m realizing how unfortunate these near last two years have been, so many memories I haven’t stirred up in a while. I had a 12 hour panic attack after finishing this piece and I’m well aware there will be much time and patience needed before I repair the damage done. No, I haven’t forgiven them. Forgiveness is a discipline in many ways. Because we never forget, no matter how much you would like to forgive and forget as they say, it is impossible. So we must teach ourselves to forgive every time we remember, a skill I haven’t mastered as yet. If there’s anything I want is my name to be cleared. I’m gay they’re right about that, but I’m no murderer. Maybe you can find a way to justify everything else, but I didn’t deserve that.

But in time I’ll show you how I grew from it.

You see, there will be many times in life where we’ll feel like this. That we’ve been buried, like a body left to rot. But really, we’ve been planted, like a seed meant to grow.

But now you’re up to speed. And now I can continue with the ass kicking of 2018 before 2019 comes around.

But that’s all for now as they say. Until next time please do me this one favor today:

Love Yourself.

Sincerely,

ASF