the vulnerability project

I am a person, not your personal shrink.

“Just trust yourself, then you will know how to live.” - Goethe

I woke up with a real serious case of the grumps. It felt like I was getting off of the wrong side of the bed every day last week, and it didn’t help, that after a splendid (and expensive) vacation along the east coast, one of my accounts was negative two-hundred and twenty seven dollars.

I threw my phone at the wall, after contemplating calling my bank and telling them I’d somehow lost my debit card, so there was no way I should be penalized for all of those charges on my card. Only that’s considered fraud, so I just called and yelled at them for being assholes which didn’t make me feel any less cranky.

Recently, this strange phenomenon has been occurring in my life that hasn’t happened in a while. It seems everyone I know — and, when I say everyone I mean to say the women I know — like calling me or texting me way too early in the morning or far too late in the evening to sort though the folders of their lives. This makes me cranky because I do not like having my sleep disturbed anymore than it already can be. 

But, really, I do not like problem solving on other’s behalf’s. 

I like listening and talking especially if what I’m hearing is effort, a sort of talking out loud that says I know I have work to do so I’m doing it by sorting through aloud. What I do not like, what I hate most, is hearing and having the same goddamn conversations over and over again, hearing and seeing my friends hurling themselves at the same brick wall, expecting to make it over the next side by brunt force alone.

I know we aren’t taught to be quiet; in fact, we’re encouraged to do anything but sit still and be quiet. I am quick to panic and therefore, I should be one to speak on the subject of sitting still and/or being quiet, however, as panicky as I may be I still find my biggest source of strength when wrestling with any set of problems is to sit down somewhere and shut the fuck up.

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Does anyone else see a problem with this?

“Persuade me or prove to me that I am mistaken in thought or deed, and I will gladly change— for it is the truth I seek, and the truth never harmed anyone. Harm comes from persisting in error and clinging to ignorance.” - Marcus Aurelius

Tuesday morning, I took my first cross-state bus ride from New York City to Providence, Rhode Island to visit a very dear friend. Although, I’ve traveled up the East Coast a few times before, I never made it past New York, mainly because something about those places seemed inaccessible to me. I spent the bus ride back awed of what I saw (mostly Connecticut and Upstate New York) and felt a familiar tinge of longing to travel across this huge country and not have it feel so foreign to me.

I felt excited and then that excitement was stifled by anxiety, and sadness. What if I’m not welcomed? What if some parts aren’t safe? What if I make the wrong people uncomfortable? As a person of color, when I travel especially within the United States, I often feel: 1) anxious, 2) worried, and 3) scared because I am never sure if I will be met with kindness or contempt, curiosity or resentment, or worse violence. I grew up going on road trips with my family often. We drove from South Florida to Chicago on many occassions, along the east cost and throughout the near southern states and I’ve been very lucky, very blessed to make each and every return of those trips safely but there were always iffy moments.

Once, somewhere a ways into the Florida/Georgia border, we stopped in a small town for gas but ended up driving another 30 miles or so after being turned away. We got pulled over in Virginia, near Roanoke, for no real reason. My dad got ticketed, a warning perhaps. Ashley and I stopped traffic while walking to her apartment in Rhode Island a few days ago; I like to think it was my smashing scarf but I’m almost certain seeing two people of color walking the street at the same time is not a common occurrence in Kingston, RI.

It’s for this same reason I often don’t venture outside of Chicago’s city limits into neighboring suburbs because I don’t know. Trevyon Martin was murdered in a housing development in Sanford, Florida — or rather, I should say, a few blocks away from his home — much like the development my brother and I grew up in West Palm Beach, Florida. Granted, I am an anxious person and the slightest chance of anything going wrong or bad can ratchet up my fears but I thought about how my entire life I have always been scared of venturing too far out of my door, which is to say, too far out of a place I have come to know as tolerable of me.

If I had it my way, I would constantly be moving and exploring, but I feel — whether through experience, or myth (the news), or socialization over the years — stifled by my skin and how it is percieved in a country where I am told I am free, where this freedom can and often does work against me. I guess part of me understands I have traveled safely, despite ignorance and bigotry and my personal anxieties, but I am a few days away from my first road trip in many years and all I feel is scared and worried and frustrated.

Scared because lately, it seems, the media is reminding me and everyone else that I am still dangerous because I am darkly pigmented. I feel worried because I wonder how long I can keep out of harm’s way before someone’s misdirected fears target me. I feel frustrated because I want to be excited about this trip, and I am VERY excited, I just wish that excitement didn’t have to be shared with any negative emotion.

I wish that I could feel okay enough, safe enough, to pick up and go where ever I want to, when ever I want to without fear of consequence.

And I wish, most of all, that those who are able — who are so lucky — to move as they please in this world with little thought to consequence, limitation, or safety would recognize that it doesn’t work that way for everyone else —

Doesn’t anyone else see the problem with this?

Am I too old for a nightlight?

I think I need a night light.

I woke up smack in the middle of the night, panicked and convinced that there was someone in my apartment. I pulled the covers over my head and told myself not to move a muscle. When my pinky decided to revolt against my sleepy judgement, I yelped aloud in fear, feeling my warming bean bag graze against my arm.

My heart was pounding so hard and fast, I could hear the echos of it thumping ringing in my ear. I estimate it was between 4am and 5am in the morning. I flopped around in bed until my alarm sounded, just as sleep was finally tickling my eyelids.

The night before, I awoke again in another panic, this time 115% certain a spider had crawled into my bed and bit me on my right shoulder. And I thought this because I woke up in a panic as I felt a strange heat and tingling along my shoulder and down the right side of my back. I live in a basement/garden apartment and it’s cool and damp and creepy crawlies are lurking around every corner, so of course, a spider would crawl into my bed and nibble at me with its fangs.

This ‘logic’ sent me into a real panic. Spiders are poisonous sometimes, what if I did get bit? WHAT IF THERE IS POISON SURGING THROUGH MY VEINS RIGHT NOW? WHAT IF I END UP DYING BEFORE I HAVE TO NANNY? I HAVEN’T CALLED MY PARENTS IN DAYS I SHOULD HAVE CALLED THEM AND I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE SANGRIA WITH DOMENICA MONTHS AGO AND PHO RAMONA YEARS AGO AND WHAT IF I NEVER GET TO KISS BRIAN AGAIN OR GO TO CALIFORNIA OR SEE HAYLEIGH IN JAPAN IN AUGUST AM I GOING TO DIE?!?!

I took my left hand and slapped the shit out of my right shoulder, hoping to stop the tingling and supposed venom. 

I probably should have reached over and slapped myself in the face.

A few sessions ago in therapy, I talked about some really uncomfortable stuff. I also found out I legitimately have panic disorder, that I’ve had it for most of my life, beginning with my childhood. While I want to get to the heart of the matter, I’m not quite there yet (hence, the writing coming a bit slower than previously), but what I have discovered is that my sleep has been disturbed due to anxiety and fear for as long as I can remember, but my most vivid memories of not being able to sleep well and having anxiety attacks in my sleep start at the age eight, second grade. 

I constantly felt unsafe, worried and full of fear. I was a little bundle of nerves. Things are my house were very unstable and my reaction to that constant instability was first worry, then panic. Over and over again. Worry. Panic. Repeat. I had nightmares but I also had sleep paralysis which followed me up until college. I actually didn’t have a good nights rest — that is without worry and panic - until I moved away from home for college. And, much to my chagrin, I was just starting to get back to a nice, restful, panic free sleep cycle until I started revisiting all of the reason and events that caused my lack of sleeplessness growing up.

In this way, therapy is a fucking pain in the ass. In order to work through the madness of the past, I have to talk about, dissect and talk some more about that which has already happened and sometimes, that also means reliving some of those same pains over again. But then I’ve gone a month and a week without my run-of-the-mill three to four anxiety attacks over the course of a week schedule. Now, my anxiety seems to be reserved for the night and specific to the childhood memories I’m currently working through.

It sucks but it’s a nice change of pace. I also haven’t felt any tinge of depression in at least three weeks or more; generally, I wake up hating myself for no good reason. Despite the minor terror of the previous night, I wake up really excited and happy and jazzed about myself and my life.

This is very much a ten steps forward, three steps back sort of a situation but, for now, it will do.

There was no one in my apartment last night. I didn’t get attacked by a spider, I just slept on my arm wrong that particular night. I have to remind myself that I’m safe now. I have to remind myself that I live alone, just me and I am doing everything possible to keep me safe. There will be no screaming and fighting to wake up to. No tears to lull me to sleep. I don’t have to pray that things will change for the better. There’s no reason to be scared that I’ll have to move and live with a relative and change schools. There are no monsters in my closet, just my clothes. I can come home to peace and stability. Solitude.

There is a little traumatized eight year old inside of me that needs to be cradled and hushed, reminded that this too shall pass. 

Lucky for her, it already has.

Peace on the Rise

I live by myself now, and it’s really lovely.

It’s as good, if not better, than I’d imagined it would be.

The first thing I did was sleep naked and when I woke up the next morning, I casually walked out of my bedroom to my bathroom — I didn’t have to close the door, or wait for the water to warm up, or dread having to be in someone else space and I didn’t feel like I wanted to punch a roommate in the face for being awake at the same I was awake, stealing my solitude from me. I took a long, hot bath and sang aloud to a new playlist on my iPod and thought about what I could make for lunch even though I hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet.

So far, I’ve only had five visitors. I’ve washed my clothes in the laundry about three times. I’ve imbibed half of two bottles of whiskey, a few six packs of beer and two bottle of wine — with help on all occasions. I’ve ordered out twice — pizza and chinese. I’ve lost track of how many bubble baths I’ve taken because I take them at least two times a week. I’ve made two types of soup and cooked for four of the five visitors in my kitchen. I recycle. I usually throw out the trash every two weeks. I half ass vacuumed the living room and I sweep the kitchen and bathroom frequently. I’m slowly spending more time in my office, at my desk, mainly fooling about on Pinterest and trying to force myself to write. I keep telling myself I need to call my uncle so I can get the rest of my belongings with me, in my apartment, where they belong instead of in a relative’s closet where the obviously don’t belong.

My favorite place in my apartment is my kitchen. It’s the first thing I see when I walk in after work and the first place I gravitate towards. I notice everyone that has visited so far likes to hang out with me there, mainly because I’m often trying to feed them or myself. Before one of my dearest friends left on an incredible journey to California, I invited her over to dinner, she met Brian and they hit it off swimmingly. After she left, a bunch of mushy stuff happened that resulted in a new and exciting albeit a little bit scary (mainly because it’s so GOOD) relationship. On Fridays, I usually go grocery shopping with Brian which makes me feel painfully adult. I make lists of things I need and often buy things I really don’t need which reminds me of how not adult I am just yet. I cash my paycheck and put some money in my savings because that’s what grownups do and I really enjoy not being broke anymore. I try to get enough sleep the night before so I can make it to therapy on time at 10am and that doesn’t happen because I spend twenty five hours of my week playing with a three year old and a six month old, suddenly, I understand why naps and coffee exist.

At home, by myself, I talk aloud a lot and even though I’ve always done this I see that living alone makes it easier for me to ‘slip’, if you will, in public. I caught myself talking to myself on the bus the other day and I only noticed when the guy sitting a seat ahead of me looked at me with big, uncomfortable eyes. “Oh well,” I said aloud to myself and continued reading my book. I do my dishes when I want to, not because I’m lazy but because dishes have long been a form of domestic terrorism in my living situations and now that I am newly emancipated, I get to them whenever I feel like it. Contrary to popular belief, the world hasn’t ended because I decided to wait a few hours to wash three cups.

In living alone, I don’t need to have curtosy for anyone but me and I’m pretty flexible as long as I’m nice about it.

I love the way quiet sounds here.

It’s my quiet.

The refrigerator hums softly in the background, the clicking of my fingers typing pops in here and there. My section heater helps to muffle my snores from me. My neighborhood is amazingly quiet, too. Sometimes I hear the bad kids running around, raising hell and swearing but never past eleven. Every once in a while, I can hear the upstairs neighbor’s daughter fussing or making music or running around, but it’s more comforting than annoying; the last time I had upstairs neighbors they were wild college aged males who had parties that started at two in the morning, I’ll taking tiny foot steps running over head any day.

But. My absolute favorite part of living alone is my bedroom. I finally have a real sanctuary. I have a no work policy for my room now that I have an office. I can snuggle in my bed with a book, or write in my journal before falling asleep, or cuddle up and indulge in some pillow talk but I can’t contact a client or write a business related email or do anything pertaining to work in that space because that’s not what it’s for.

My room is for occasional movie watching, nap taking, Sunday morning lingering-five-more-minutes-sleeping in, love making, just being quiet and peaceful sorts of activity, which is to say very little activity.

What I do in my room is recharge, reconnect, balance, and most of all, sleep — and peacefully, at that.

a visible mark (poem)

a visible mark

it was a dream in a city
made up of all the photographs
i’ve ever stolen:
a woman caught in the yellow light
of a speeding car
abandoned briefcases
broken umbrellas discarded in a downpour
little pyramids of cigarette ash
graying fallen snow

saintly, fragile

i was elegant and quiet
washing the hurt off my heart
in a bowl of arugula + baby spinach
behind me, open windows
panoramas of taxi cabs, rushed footsteps
echoing in the bokeh
confusion of tungsten lights

it was a dream in a city
non existent, location:
west 42nd
between 3rd eye and
crown chakra, illuminated lavender

walking into fog
autumn’s fingertips grazed
our skins in the summer
as we watched, silently,
golden orb flickering,

then i was
spitting up grass, filling
the toilet bowl of algae,
of seaweed;
i thought of the wild herb,
the domesticated salad.

dandelion neck
curls draping down the nape,
marking the spot x.  

standing with my back to the skyline
tokyoatlantachicagonewyork
lost somewhere adjacent to
the fantasy of my imagined city

spot x, lips pressed
against a visible mark
cool humming from the television

hanging body from a tree

heart beat like a little bird,

recognition: 
somewhere between celestial
cotton balls, airplanes, and satellites
umbrella seeds take flight, carrying coded secrets,
universal math problem solved.