Learning Death

I’ve always had an odd relationship with death. I wouldn’t say I obsessed about it, rather I had a healthy awareness of it’s presence. I remember studying the Egyptian death rituals and spending far too much time reading Revelations in catholic school amongst other things. Needless to say, I’ve always felt immune to the pain of loss. I had never cried at  a funeral, save one, because my Uncle Richard’s song was so moving. In fact, watching my brother Antwan cry real tears( an amazing feat) at every funeral puzzled me. Why are you crying? It’s a natural part of life. Were you really even that close to that person? Lately, I’ve begun asking myself a different question. What in the hell is wrong with me? My tear ducts are completely functional, and I have never considered myself to be cold and uncaring.

My grand father’s death came swiftly and his actions in life left me conflicted. He had succumbed to cancer before I really mustered the courage to say goodbye. I had treated every visit as if I would see him again. The funeral, like many others, was very beautiful and seemed like more of a family reunion. I marveled at my grandmother’s strength through it all, I wanted to cry for her. Watching my mother cry, on the other hand, made me get that pesky knot in my throat, but nothing more. In true avoidance fashion, I was more concerned about how skinny he looked in his suit and  how this wasn’t the man I called G-pa. It took well over a year for his death to truly affect me. It took about a year to finally cry.

Over time, I have become more stoic out of necessity.  It’s like I can actually turn my emotions off. I tend to disappear, and cease contact with most friends.  In my mind, I am saving them from depressive conversation, and redundant bitching. In actuality, I know I retreat because I feel safer being alone at times. Does that make me a bad friend? At times. A horrible person? I’m not inclined to think so.  Honestly, I don’t want to feel the pain of loss. Luckily,  I’ve been spared having to come to grips with  the death of a very close family member. Sadly, I know that same “luck” will inevitably change.

Right now, I’m watching someone very dear to me slowly die and I’m lost. I don’t know what to feel, or how to help. More importantly, I don’t know how to prepare. I’m not sure what I believe in(besides some entity or force that is greater than myself), so my faith operates like a broken compass.  I’m not ready to learn this lesson. In hindsight, I’m sure I didn’t study the myriad aspects of death because it didn’t affect me. I’ve just been learning about my greatest fear.

Sophmore

Rain drops fall upon sanguine cheeks,
apathy from god appeasing me.
My life like theirs,
spiraling,
falling,
endlessly,
reaching their
end,
e v a p o r a t i n g.

i think to myself,
them like i,
plunging from heaven,
committing suicide.

The Ignorance of Feminist Break-Up Songs

When it comes to  music therapy, I’ve never been a fan of the “Independent Women Theme Songs.” It seems like their purpose is  to rouse some sort of strength in the emotionally neglected and crushed. My opinion has often alienated me from most conversations. I’ve been called a hater, but seriously, why do women rally around songs like I’m doin’ me or Not Gon’ Cry ? News Flash ladies, melody and bass lines be damned, you’re listening to lies.

I won’t say there are exceptions to this theory, but when most women break up with their mate, their first words are not ” to the left, to the left “. Maybe the ideas presented in the song are supposed to subliminally uplift us. Instead, I usually feel mocked in some sort of way. These song do not reflect reality. you know, the one in which some of us cry our eyes out, or inhale gelato.

Sorry Beyonce and Ms. Chrissette,maybe I’m just not as strong as you.

Which leads me to my second point. Why is it that none of these ladies take any  responsibility for the demise of their relationships in these songs? Every action, decision and thought influences the outcome of every relationship; action and inaction both have consequences. Usually the guy in the song is denounced as a soulless bastard, that wasn’t worth the song itself. Yet we see the heroine, equipped with  melodic runs complicated enough to make Wanye’ proud, asserting her proud dominance. “Fuck you, I’m better off” in brillaint soprano just sounds bitter and whiny.

Beyonce quips “you must not know ’bout me”  For me, this line begs the following questions:

What red flags did you turn a blind eye to?

What did you condone that you shouldn’t have?

Don’t you feel silly that you didn’t leave earlier?

Do you realize how much you have to care about someone to write a song in the first place?

More importantly, have you taken any responsibility for your actions, in an effort to learn from your mistakes?

I willing to go out on a limb and say the answers to the last  question would be  no. These songs are not realistic, rather they are a farce for authentic emotions.  I’d much rather listen to songs that are heartfelt and honest. Example: Lauryn Hill’s  X-factor, Fiona Apple’s I Know & Get Gone. These songs express the artist’s resolve, determination and spirit while acknowledging their own limitations.

I guess when I need to be inspired,  I just value music that avoids the strong woman cliche.

Untitled

Since this whole lupus thing begun, I’ve become increasingly withdrawn. I don’t feel like conversing with people as much. I worry about walking around, because I know my ankles will swell, and pain will follow. I feel alone.

I’ve always thought it was pathetic to need people. I know that isn’t true,now, thanks to age and experience. I guess I used to feel that way because every time I reached out to someone, my hand got slapped away. I was forced to learn early, that no one is here to save you, or help. Well, maybe sometimes, but not usually. You have to rely on yourself for strength and support most times. All I can say is that, I’m tired of being stoic. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of being understanding. This is the last day I cry over shit like this.

LUPUS: My Personal “Imp of Perverse”

I haven’t blogged in a while, due to the fact that I’ve been feeling under the weather. Health is a beautiful thing, that we all take for granted from time to time. I’ve always seen my self as this amazing woman, that screws up but can push past anything. *Que Theme Song* Indomitable with goals of immortality!!!

Earlier this year, I went to the doctor, armed with my list of standard complaints, awaiting my new prescription. It’s always been the same: my wrist swells, ankles hurt, I”M TIRED!!! This was nothing out of the ordinary; I had been working third shift for the last two years, while raising four kids. C.N.A. work is a death toll on the body, so when I was told I had carpal tunnel and tendonitis a couple of years ago, I didn’t question it.

“Ms. Stokes, I’m concerned. You’re anemic,  your white blood cells and vitamin D levels are extremely low, also your ANA test came back positive”

Okay, now my face is turning red and I’m getting clammy. My brain (which belongs to a hypochondriac that watches too many House episodes) focuses on low white blood cells and positive…test. To make a long story short, I stayed awake for days scouring the internet, thinking I had everything from Multiple Sclerosis to Sjogren’s Syndrome. What I was told two weeks later, was that I possibly had Lupus.

Lupus is a tricky little bastard that likes to shape shift and mimic other symptoms. Of course there is no simple test that  can accurately diagnose Lupus. Other diseases and syndromes have to be ruled  out by becoming a human pin cushion. Over the next few weeks I got to see how apathetic the healthcare system can be. Since that faithful day in February, I’ve waited in vain for referrals, and popped more pills than your local addict that twitches on the corner. I now keep a journal of my symptoms and diet. I also have been blessed to meet some very inspirational women that provide me with insight and understanding. Yet, more and more I  am realizing that my healthiest days are behind me.

Don’t get me wrong, I plan on giving this disease a run for its money. I guess, I’m just a little disappointed in myself. I cried over bullshit. My cheating ex-husband, the woes of cash, why isn’t my ass bigger…all pointless mundane issues that distract from the bigger picture.

Our greatest prize and resource is our health. Without it, all of those dreams fade to undocumented memories. The next time you have a bad day, vent, cry and bitch, then SUCK THAT SHIT UP!!! Be happy you can make it to the bathroom, comb your own hair, cook your own food…you get my point. It’s all about the little things.

I won’t say I’m happy that this is happening, but I am happy with my life, and its current path. I accept any challenge wholeheartedly.

 

E. Badu Told Me to Put My Bags Down, so…

*** WARNING: I Have NO Problem with Bearing My Soul! ***

I have  never thought that I was exceptional, but I always thought I was a good woman. As far as relationships go, I know that I am attentive, empathetic, loving, honest and loyal. I always thought these attributes were the most important but I placed too much faith in mankind. Sadly, I’ve come to find that it can be quite the opposite.  While the before said characteristics are nice,  other superficial qualities can  be far more significant.

My heart breaks when I think of the things I’ve heard. I’ve been compared to  ex -girlfriends twice. My loyalty questioned, because “she” was deficient in that department. Also, my pussy, not as “hypnotizing”, because I couldn’t squirt like her. I guess I never thought my squirting ability  was that  sub par.  I’d be stupid if I thought I had Snapple pussy( The best stuff on Earth). There are approximately 3.3 billion pussies out there. I’m okay with the fact that I’m not number one.

I’m not sure how I’ve been able to move on, after hearing these fucked up declarations , but I have. I still cry, when I allow myself to think of it, or something cruelly reminds me. I have not dealt with this. I simply outpace it.  I question my judgement. Why would I still believe in love? In men?  I’m not sure I’ve found the answers yet.

I do not regret my decisions. I believe that people can move on, if open communication is a factor.  But,( yes the inevitable but) I feel like I will never regain that piece of confidence, that was stolen from me. It hurts. There is one saving grace though; I endured this, and I am still able to  move forward.

We are above the opinions of others.

The Death of Dreams (better known as aging)

I thought today, rather earlier this morning, about my life, its current path and my lack of control of it. It’s true, I, like many others, make choices everyday. Often these choices seem mundane in their simplicity; what to wear, my best route to work, which bill to pay first, how should I deal with this asshole today? The list grows as fast as the mind can think. What dawned on me this morning was the amount of gravity these choices possessed. In my mind, these questions weren’t life changing=g decisions, but in actuality, aren’t they? Like sand, singularly, these grains are miniscule and nondescript yet in numbers they are an eroding force. Haphazardly these everyday choices shape my life, even more so my dreams.

When I was younger, I could be a ninja turtle, cowboy, thunder cat, or even a bandana wearing, horse riding thunder cat. My imagination had no bounds, neither did my future. I had no idea that my choices,( whether I made them based on the influence of others, or they were made for me), were permanently disabling my ability to dream. When I dared to share ideas, I was usually told “that’s silly” or reminded that my ideas weren’t good/cool enough to be taken seriously. If my only dream was to be a thunder cat, then I could have understood. On the contrary, my dreams had merit and purpose. Sadly enough, my aspirations weren’t always encouraged, skewing the way I believe in myself.

I believe that with age our dreams are eventually immersed in reality. Boundaries become more defined, and abstract thoughts evolve into tangible goals, making attainment possible. However, with every self compromising choice we make, the gap between dreams and reality widen, making fulfillment more complicated. Parameters shrink and possible adapts a prefix. ( I find it funny, writing now, that if separated, impossible could read “I’m possible”. Yes, you have would have to insert a comma as well, but the two words are a direct contradiction)

Some of us give up. Hopes become dust and dreams devolve into bi-products of sleep, nothing more. Then there are others like myself; thinkers. We are the would be visionaries, armed with insightful innovative ideas and creativity. Our imagination is vibrant, and our dreams are not confined to sleep cycles. Oddly enough, I think we dream more when we are awake. Constantly we are in pursuit of becoming more than what we presently are. If not just for enlightenment alone, we allow our minds to question the “what ifs and maybes”. Inevitably, the journey stops there. The light and talents we possess are barred from ever reaching absoluter fruition. The impossible is tempered with fear, and those boundaries, overtime, harden and become prison cells. With freedom restricted, our desires are confined to little boxes. We seek validation in others and hoping for acceptance and belief in our ideas. Consequently we lose faith in ourselves when these self imposed obligations are not met. Still, we are far too inspired to stop dreaming. Our character would not condone it. As a result we live suspended, unable to dismiss our lofty ambitions, yet too afraid to devote ourselves entirely to their creation.

Albeit, when we were younger we didn’t need anyone to believe we were superheroes. If we said we wanted to be dancers, painters, etc…, we knew we could be simply because our belief was enough. Tough lessons learned throughout life can cause us to become more self-conscious and doubtful, leaving the door open for our needs and wants to be defined by others.

I no longer want to solely be a dreamer. I want and need to act.. We all do. The greatest of possibilities exist in all of us. Our path is not meant to be defined by timidity, rather it should be characterized by the strength and desire locked away in those tiny boxes.