Because I'm investing in myself, my happiness, and my purpose.
Sup y’all. I haven’t written a new blog post (or before yesterday, sent out a newsletter) for the better part of a month. I was in dark hole of a place mentally, and when I have an emotional flare up my instinct is to isolate. There was this omnipresent feeling that I was a burden on my friends and family (an invasive thought I’ve had off and on since I was around 10), and that people would be better off without my clusterfuck of needs. Constantly running on empty, it took more willpower than I was able to exert to get out bed, shower, wash face and brush teeth. I put on a clean-ish shirt and sweaty bra for the days I had Zoom meetings and otherwise sat on my couch, trying to half-ass focus on work emails. My type 4b/4c hadn’t been combed or styled for weeks- my sisthren that have returned natural can only imagine the knots and matted nature it had taken on. Dandruff flakes poppin up and the dry texture scratching against the nape of my neck. After finally sitting with my emotions to process that someone had disowned me for my sexuality, a tidal wave of abandonment, unworthiness, 24-hour reel of past traumas washed over me, causing me to drown within minutes. I had tried reaching out to one person, and after four days of no response, it solidified to me that love was conditional, I wasn’t a priority nor anything special- a replaceable blob of elements. I was always the afterthought. For the first couple of weeks, I was also experiencing suicidal and self-harm ideation, something I thought I left behind my senior year of undergrad. Plans were swirling around, sharp and vivid images of what it would look like if I used different tools, how to creeping its way into my Google searches. I haven’t done anything to myself – and don’t plan to- but I wasn’t in the right head space to start typing anything on my computer, unwilling to admit I was afraid it would become a suicide note, laptop open next to my dead body.
During this time, frankly, I also felt like a failure. Blog wasn’t bigger, newsletter didn’t have the engagement I thought it would. Failed. A couple of days before I wrote this post, I started thinking about how I could revamp my newsletter to be something I was proud of- want it to be different from the blog. Want it to be about how I overcame things I was marginalized for or discriminated against and now those parts of me bring me joy. I was made to feel guilty for my body and its wrongness, non-human for being Black, nonexistent as a bisexual, a lazy liar for having mental illnesses. Now, I’m working on nourishing all of these puzzle pieces of me, cloaking myself in a tapestry of validation.
What’s bringing me joy from within now is investing in myself . Where I want to take things and use my story telling as my superpower. Ultimately, using my vulnerability as a cultural archivist for Black women with mental health issues. Believing that I can carve out even a teensers of a space for Black women to live authentically and explore facets of themselves that are commonly erased gives me purpose.
Some days I believe this. I’m not 100% and don’t want to make it sound like I’m magically better, but I’m actively working on my mental wellness.
I’m grounding myself in that same boss energy. Imma bawse because I’m vulnerable and honest and raw, all while taking charge (again) of my well-being.
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