Author: amini4

I’ve been suffocating my creativity. Hiding it from myself so it can’t even touch y’all. Drowning it in fear, anger, and self loathing. In victimhood. I’ve been expecting change without surrendering to its inevitability and constancy. I’ve begged for the peak without the climb. And then I resent change and myself. Oh, and countless people too. I hate the joy and karma of others, or I can’t unblock myself enough to even see their hurt because I make my hurt greater. This is my ego trip. This is my strangled creative. It’s when I block the goddess in me; that essence that is perfect…just as it is. Sometimes it feels as if jealousy, comparison and self doubt are the only attributes I can rely on. That’s terribly sad. What’s sadder is I feed it knowing it’s bad for me and for everyone with whom I come into contact. Especially my loves. What’s scary is that I feel these low vibrations operate on their own, on some kind of auto-pilot because I’ve given up my power – inherent power and power with – and resigned myself to reject myself. I don’t accept who I am, whose I am, and that I am. And that’s where the creator in me dies more each day or is fed misery instead of possibility.

So I’m acknowledging it’s time to raise my self awareness and take the next steps of forgiving myself and others and letting go. It’s hard as fuck y’all. And it’s frightening. Literally one sour moment undoes weeks of progress and it makes it harder (because I’m trained to be miserable) to attempt a practice of self soothing, inner child nurturing, writing often just cuz (and not making text messages my epic poems, sorry y’all), honoring and calling on the ancestors, and being nonjudgmental and gentle with myself and others. I start with reminders like “love yourself always”, “raise your vibration”, or “you get to be here” on my daily alarms. I read ancestral wisdom texts and passages and fill my Instagram with conscious communal beings, artists, usually fierce Black, feminine queer folk who tout vulnerability as beautiful, necessary power, all the while calling for justice and how it begins in us. I remember to celebrate my erotic. I tell people how, why and where it hurts. And it hurts y’all. A lot. My birthday just passed and so much love showed up and connected me to myself. It’s important that I share that part because the way ego is set up it feeds such separateness – division of me from myself and subsequent misalignment between me and others. Soon after this wondrous time though, I slipped back into a cramped, dark space and made myself small. And I showed up even smaller and hurtful to loved ones by putting up a wall and lashing out from behind it. How easy it is to forget the love in and outside of me and that I’m enough.

As much as I abuse myself and wallow in self pity and shame, I thankfully never forget I am a creator. We all are. We are all artists. A fellow creative on IG, whom I don’t know, helped me this morning to remember I control my happiness and that an integral piece of combatting my depression is seeking connection, internally and externally. She used her talents to depict egoic manifestations and I saw myself in them all. I wept at how true they are, how I think and act like that, how ugly and defeated my ego makes me feel and perform. I wept also for how I’ve regressed and lied in hard moments, even when all around me there is light, and how hard it is to stay consistent. How I often reject choosing joy. But instead of shrinking in this bed with my dog, I got on this site and started writing. See? Creative! Honest and powerful in softness and exposure. And yes, still in need, just unafraid to admit it. I am more than depression and anxiety. I am not depression and anxiety. I am not my worst day. I am a creator who is limitless, but only as much as I feed that wonderful part of me. I know I got my shit and it’s embarrassing to encounter and manage, and I need loads of assistance to remain on the healing journey to self acceptance, if it’s even a destination. What am I saying? I know there’s no destination. There’s just this moment. So in this moment I lay down a bit more suffering, vengeance and self deprecation. I choose to celebrate the art that is me. Thanks for reading.

How deep does our empathy go? Does it rest in the shallows of our own experience or push past non-judgmentally into fully trying to understand someone else’s experience? Do we listen heartily to what it takes for them to merely exist? Or do we surface-hear only to dump our values on them as performative compassion?

There are hard days. Days when I’m that little girl all over again with my mom coming to pick me up from school bloodied or with a black eye, still smiling, frontin’. Where I’m shocked and scared, embarrassed and confused, except about who did that to her again…this time. There are those days when I’m that baby again thinking everyone knows how poor I really am, where I live, and how I’m ashamed of my handmedown outfit and what Mommy couldn’t afford or had to sex for to buy, how I actually am sad when fighting, that my family and I are not safe most days, and how my fear of the dark makes me call out from my room to my mom in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom still. That I’ve learned to love an abuser and can’t protect the abused. Fear of being found out makes me tongue lash everyone if I sense an insult. I joke and talk too much in class, grow silent with Grandma and make myself scarce to hopefully not get hit again, act like a know-it-all with friends and get good enough grades to be considered bright. I pop off and allow myself to be easily provoked and I throw chairs and tantrums. That’s what some days are like. Like that terrified, once homeless, molested and trauma-enduring and witnessing little shorty. What follows? Rage or tears or both. I thought those were hard days. I had no clue being an adult would add more drama and pain. The hardest days now are when I’m that kid again and have no quick and calm exit. When this life seems to mimic that one I thought I left behind. When there’s no peace.

I’m grateful for the real ones. The ones that show “I love you” by showing up and requesting me to be at my best, however incremental. The ones that won’t deflect or project to avoid accountability or being wrong. Ones who don’t need to know everything, but can name their feelings and accept their shift. The ones that seek healing instead of escapes. I’m grateful for the real ones. Ones who display humanity over performance. The ones I can count on who won’t judge me for being in need. Ones who won’t help me just so I can repay the favor. Those that won’t aid out of martyrdom and resent me thereafter. Ones without excuses. Ones who can not know and still grow. I’m grateful for the real ones. Where faith and hope are actionable towards progressive change. Where they don’t hide behind titles and roles to feel important or superior. Where shame doesn’t wear a mask of abuse. I’m grateful for the real ones who say “sorry I hurt you” and can wait to be forgiven. Real ones that don’t begrudge me for being human or tally my mistakes. Who reach out to truly check in and actually support instead of feigning concern just to be down and included. I’m grateful for the real ones. Real honesty about their limitations without justifications and platitudes. That don’t get brand new with revolving seasons. Who are reliable and legit. Who aren’t always victims. Who can act right no matter where they’re invited. Those that make space at all tables and don’t throw bows or pull chairs from under me. The ones that accept discomfort as requisite for growth. Who walk alongside me without dominance and sidesteps as their failsafe. Those who honor the ancestors and elders, that respect children. Ones who soothe their inner child. Those who speak truth to power and own their limits. Ones who don’t want me to win just so they look good. Kind ones. Real ones.

If we’re in competition with our people, then we’re not peoples. And that’s sad, fruitless and poisonous. And no one “wins”. But it can be different. It begins with stopping the war within ourselves.

Everybody’s got a “new year, new this, cut that/them” post, a top nine photo share, or they’re trashing 2018, thanking God, low-key complaining, self-promoting, etc. Ya know, just engaging in our usual not-present, less mindful behavior – hoping a new date will make us more grateful, humble, successful, super human. Some are grounding, although most are in superficial flight. I’ve been guilty of this too, so this post is an attempt to slow me down reflectively.

What’s on my mind as we prepare to step into 2019, what’s been on my mind as I work towards gentleness with myself in this year’s impending exit, is the universe’s gift of my beautiful wife Becca. 10 years we been in this thang, half of that happily married, cohabited since the first 5 months, and she has known the inside/out of my crazy and loved me fiercely. Loved me exceptionally. Loved me unconditionally despite my rant a few months prior about the limits of love as I contemplated friendships and chosen family. And she’s made me better. My wife has been the shit – loving herself, growing up to her best self and requiring me to respond in kind. Even though I’m usually more serious and emotionally expressive than her (crying at commercials and shit and musing about damn near everything), I’ve always said that she’s more mature than me in the areas that count because she doesn’t apologize for who she is, has a greater capacity for acceptance and letting things go, and doesn’t succumb to trivialities like possessiveness. To think that someone I met not-so-randomly (clearly) in 2001 would later become my best and most attentive friend, confidante and lover brings light to my eyes, ease to my chest. I am so blessed.

We go through it of course, cuz I’m A LOT, and like people in committed relationships candidly reference, “it’s work”. Cliché in its delivery, honest at its core. It’s just hilarious at times, these notions we have as individuals in partnerships, and the nonsense we set ourselves up for; the drama we drudge up. Me and Bec’s close people know we argue often about the faintest idiosyncrasies. Thankfully, we’re thoroughly honest about our limits, fears, cycles, needs and expectations and that enables us to repair intentionally and quickly. We show up no matter the challenge we create for one another. That’s what we require as a minimum: being in it. And we do it in community with real accountability.

I’ve struggled entirely for over a year, still in my narrative and hurt and fighting my demons, all up in my trauma and my head. Even when I do my worst to push her away, my wife holds me close and assures me she’s here for the entire ride. She never lets me get away with self deprecation and slow suicide, at the same time making space for me to feel it all, whether I can tolerate my mirror moments or hide in defeat.

So yeah, it’s a brief write on this NYE, but I’m just hella touched by her raw, faithful and exploratory commitment to me, to us. And her assurance that I got her. That helps me step into each moment a bit easier, breathing. Marriage ain’t for everybody and it’s full of shit systemically, but it’s for us as an extension of our greater connection and I’m glad she chose me. Love you Bec.

My survival isn’t dependent upon your assessment or lack thereof. Instead it is my choice. I say when. I say how. I say if.

She said, “I’m glad you’re here” when I told her I was losing it. Reveling in my dishevelment. Um, ok?

He said, “notice when you lose it” as I exited the serene state of retreat, after cracking open, wondering if I’d ever feel distress again.

Well, I lost it. And seem to continually grasp at drifting pieces of me, while mofos gettin’ slapped and scarred in my typhoon pattern. Not sure how much more I got to let slip. Or if I ever “had it” together. When no gains or replenishments appear to be in reach or sight, I keep losing these known paths and tools. Losing the only me I’ve had.

Book be talkin’ about, “engage your hope and fear til death”. Too many deaths. Enough already, son.

Yet, I believe all the messengers because I attracted them. And need the teachings most now. Or maybe they’re just my own reflections and I am finally seeing. Whatever…

How much more do I need to lose to encounter understanding of the unknown – the alleged place of true awareness and solace?

Song got me by crooning, “I’m coming back just to give you my love”. Reminders. I’m stubborn, affirmed now, too committed to stop the journey, this trek to something whole and broken beautifully.

Asé.

If you never apologized to me, owned your shit and changed your hurtful behavior, or better yet, your entitled mindset, then my closed door may seem like an invitation to knock or twist the knob. I get it, you’re delusional & stuck in your self-righteousness – still doing what you do, expecting everyone else to remain the same, or remain. It don’t work like that, boo. But keep knocking I guess. That’s not my house anyway.

Choose your life like your life depends on it.