Thursday, August 13, 2015

battle wounds

Two days ago J and I had a huge fight resulting in declarations of my emotional brick walls and the fact that I am cold. My emotional brick wall is a construction made and reinforced by years of needing to detach to survive. I do in fact care about things but I am not the type to yell and scream to get my point across. I often can be found cold due to my lack of crying and theatrics. I just don’t find them to be healthy or useful.

I understand however that this method can be viewed as frustrating and mockingly unloving by the one on the other side but to me words die on my tongue. I find my view useless as it will only fuel a fire already raging out of control. I understand J stating he does some of this to acquire an emotional reaction out of me and yet, almost ironically my reaction is always to close off even more. J has yet to grasp this. He says that he wishes I would be emotional just for him and since I love him so very deeply I will do my best to be ‘emotional’ for him.

What is almost even more ironic is this feminist that is J will often throw it in my face as if I am hiding behind this mask...hiding my true self behind equality. That is not the case...EVER! My demand for equality has nothing to do with my learned survival mechanism. My feminism is simply part of who i am. I cannot say for certain that it makes me strong by simply being.

I am strong out of all my mistakes, and need to survive horny boys and backstabbing girls and the shit of my childhood. The hot tempered curse word riddled defiance of my youth in college. I like everyone has times i wish I could take back or alter but that is not to be. I must live and learn from said past actions and try to be better in the future. That is strength. To walk with your head held high leaving the destruction of your past in the past. What feminism does for me and what I do for feminism is as unthinkable as breathing. Deathly important and yet I do it without thinking.

My wonderful friend Julia said to me that in long-lasting relationships forged in youth require growing within said relationship and with that growth comes pretty painful growing pains. I am not sure how true she knew that statement to be. J says we both have changed in our almost 10 years together and i suppose in some ways we have, but on a foundational level we are both who we have always been: emotionally detached, funny, cinephila(s), knowledge seekers, and more. We are both equally as obsessed with perfecting our crafts that we do not waste time with drama or trivialities.

And yet, we fight. Whether it is a fight to simply be heard or to stay together I cannot say but fighting occurs nonetheless. And I hate it. In my perfect world J would simply understand me and I him. There would be no need for this stupid petty and rather weak sense of ‘I love you but sometimes I just want to wack you with a steel pipe!’ I mistakenly thought that after 10 years we would become telepathic. We are not. And I am not sure if we learn and grow. We just seem to maintain this frustrated space of he demanding I be emotional and my failing to figure out exactly how to do that. Or rather how to pretend to do that.

Basically it, like everything else in life, is a long difficult soul shredding process. Not a piece of instant gratification to be seem. 

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Depressed Feminist

If you have never felt the effects/affects then you may think that the sufferer is just crazy or  lazy or seeking attention, but that is not it. I can only speak for me and for me depression is something i have always felt. It may contribute to my sleeping for hours growing up and not having friends. Thinking back I was a very lonely misunderstood child and teen. There is this voice in my head which tells me I am fat, unattractive, and a failure. Along with a host of other words flashing through my mind screaming at me and other times insults are whispered slicing at my soul with a dirty razor blade. My life has not been an easy one regardless of how it may appear on the outside.

And naturally admitting any of this is like chopping my arm off. I have this manic need to chop my fingers off and cut out my tongue to stop myself from revealing that, well to be frank, I. Need. Help. That is the worst thing ever and I cannot believe that while I am sinking deeper and deeper into this despair contemplating the pros/cons trying to rationalize the easiest way to end it all and reassuring myself that I will in fact not be missed.

This all leads to my ultimate fault which is trying to understand how me, a person viewed by some as a justice fighter and a heroine who won’t back down and will stand up for anyone who cannot stand for themselves...how does that woman, that person, ask for help? "A hero doesn’t need help. The hero is the helper.” I heard that on the documentary on Kathleen Hanna and it struck me as one of the truest statement I had ever heard. Not many things are simple truths anymore so that simple slice of black/white capital T truth was refreshing. And yet I saw in blatant display the irony...for I find it exhausting to require help. I cannot discuss emotions for I find the words literally die on my tongue or deep within my chest or gaging me in my throat. My desire to be understood utterly demolished and I am left being seen as the ice queen. The frozen hearted bitch when in fact I am crying and going insane inside. To compensate I never listen to my heart and go solely with my head or my gut never trusting my heart for it is constantly too weak to vocally utter a syllable.

As time goes on I find myself unable to admit this weakness for as a black woman I am constantly under attack be it in real life or social media or police brutality or racial/gender stereotypes which insists I am loud, angry, sex crazed, and belittle black men to man a few. How does someone dealing with all that and trust me so much more admit weakness or worse illness? How do I see that look on my husbands face of worry and helpless while the voice inside my own head twist that image into his desiring someone normal? I am left crying and motionless in the bed all day helpless to at times only clutch my own head with my fist trying to desperately will the voice(s) away.

The more weight compresses down upon me I feel that that warm bath and sharp blade become all the more tantalizing. No one is aware however of how unlikely that is to happen at this current time but the idea of release and of relief is never too far from my mind. With all of this I have a loving husband, the sweetest dog and the most amazing friends. I am not sure exactly what they all see when they think of me or shift their respective gazes my direction but I am grateful for it. Though that blackness that spreads as a lava heated ink throughout my body all but completely replacing any blood finds them as a colossal roadblock to my after mentioned release/relief.

After writing all of this the fact that I daily wake at 8am and make J and I coffee, clean our home, feed the dog, work on my novel and chat with friends seems all but impossible. Meeting friends for photos or a coffeehouses or at bars....completely impossible and yet I do it. I am currently training for my first (and then quickly second) 5k races. I am runner and yet the depression remains. I do not foresee it ever leaving me but I deal with it. As Jared Padalecki says #AlwaysKeepFighting and I like to think that most days I do. Most days are just regular life filled with paying bills and drinks with friends and Netflix marathons. Most days are completely normal and I think that may be why those low days are so difficult because it reminds me just how different I am. So if we know each other or if we ever meet please know that I am not withdrawn or quiet or being a cold icy hearted bitch out of some negative place...I’m just not feeling well.

But I am trying and I am Fighting not just little and big battles for others but for myself. 
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