I used to tell everyone what was going on with me. My Facebook used to be a minute by minute detailing of every emotion, action, and life event. I didn’t expect people to wonder where I was, I told them . . .often.
Slowly, I’ve become the opposite. With every Black Child/Man/Woman who has been killed at the hands of the “authorities,” I’ve slowly shut down. I’ve kept my problems to myself, because they seem quite trivial in the face of Systematic Racism and Murder. No one told me to stop talking, I just don’t.
With every new hashtag, and every new addition to the “Dangerous to do While Black” list, I’ve become more and more reclusive. I seem to have collapsed inside myself, and I’m not even sure if I want to come out at this point. It’s hard at this point, when every single time I open my FB or my Twitter, I’m seeing pictures of people being killed by police, or videos of the aftermath of someone being killed. Or watching a press conference where a family member breaks down.
Black Pain has become fodder for all to consume. Even when you try to ignore it, someone is tagging you in a post, or sending you a link. I tried to escape to Instagram today, and all the Black Celebs that were a day late, and several dollars were posting the videos, or even still pics of crime scenes. That shit HURTS. It causes my body to cease up in pain, because I feel every bullet. I can feel the pain of every mother crying out for their lost child.
This . . . situation . . . has been weighing on me since the Trayvon Martin Trial (We don’t say his killer’s name). I thought about all the children I’ve taught, and the smiles on their faces, and just felt lost. Because I can’t save them. I can’t hold them close, and make sure they are going to live forever. I can’t even guarantee that a trip to the pool won’t end in abuse. I can’t tell them walking to the store won’t end their death. My crew is driving now, I can’t guarantee they won’t get pulled over and killed during a “routine” traffic stop.
That existence, the fact that I live in a world where this is the Norm, TERRIFIES me. Since my seizure, my emotions have started to work differently. I don’t understand them. In addition to that, and I know this sounds crazy, I’ve been having prophetic dreams. Nothing normal like, “so and so is pregnant,” or “you should play these numbers tomorrow.” No, I wake up in tears, trying to stop screams from escaping my mouth so my mom doesn’t hear me.
On the morning of June 12th, I had the scariest dream to date. My mom and I had gone to a club to see someone perform, and we were having a great time. All of a sudden people were running and screaming, “There is an Arabic Guy coming to kill us!” We guided everyone into the bathroom, and we were all huddled in one stall. As he walked in the bathroom, I turned to my mom and told her I loved her, because I knew we were going to die. Then I woke up.
I checked my phone to see news of the Pulse nightclub shooting. I haven’t been right since. Because, What the FUCK?!?! If that’s a Gift from God, I’m not sure how he expects me to use it. Since that dream, I’ve only been able to remember parts of. But I’m still afraid of where my mind will take me some nights. This World . . . This World is stressing me OUT.
I haven’t even talked about what’s been going on in my LIFE this year. I probably won’t. Because my burdens are small compared to those of others. Problems have come up, I’ve solved them, the best way I know how. Maybe, when I’m famous, I’ll talk about how my life changed in 2016. ‘Cuz it surely has.
This post is all over the place. It’s not very coherent (in my opinion). But I promised my Therapist (yes, I have one of those now) I would take at least 15 minutes to write. And I try to keep my promises, especially when they are basically homework toward healing.