Welcome back Noemi with another great piece. THANKS NOEMI!

while I’m thinking of non-existence, not suicide but simply not *being*, J is type typing away, writing a story. I go in later and he reads it to me. He says its based on our family, starring him and his sister, and me. He unfolds naturally into the story. We are moving into a new house, “they are sad to leave the old house where they had fun times” when he “sees the outline of a figure.” It’s a haunted house story. He needs more eraser tape stuff for his typewriter and I tell him to just skip a line. I hope that writing/reading is the sanctuary it was for me at his age.

before I rushed out to work this morning, Winter stops me with a folded up sheet of paper from a coloring book. I absentminded put it in my big black bag and J stops me before I’m out the door and says “its really pretty mom.” I stop and take it back out, open it-big yellow flowers and trees. I give her a big kiss & thank her.
I brace myself coming home. Smile smile smile.
I rush in, wiping eyes and tell them I’m gonna change my clothes and meet me in my room. We do our unwinding-what they did during the day, what they ate. How much it rained, the lights flickered. J unlocked 25 levels in the game (can’t keep track of the names.) Winter complains about my hair, let it grow mom, so I can make you braids and pig tails. I tell her when its rainy and humid it gets extra curly. J was all,ooh so thats what happened to your hair. I tickle him and wrestle w/him. He is so big at 9, but so young still.

its always hard to talk about depression because people get worried and think OH OH. And folks who feel the need to talk about their mental health issues who are in positions where someone has power over them (be it employers, court systems) either can’t express themselves or do so with things like: hey I’m okay, I just want to talk about this or Hey i’m in a good position right now so talking about x or x does not mean I’m not in a safe place right now.

Something I learned/did when I was being sexually abused at 8-9ish(memory folds upon itself) was not being in your body when something was going on, seeing yourself from the ceiling or an imaginary fence or sometimes not even seeing yourself/feeling in yourself. I felt this again when I was in a relationship with someone I (thought) i loved who was abusive. One minute calling you mamacita, the next minute punching you; one minute asking if you’ve taken your meds or to calm down, the next minute, knocking you down.

i have been using this numb/body mechanism at work lately. I can’t explain it. I want to say why do I give the power for a white woman/man to make me feel unworthy or not capable of so much more and I know why we (single mamis of color)do this–but we’ve heard that quote, no one has power over you, unless you give it to them. I think someone’s gonna come here with that utter bullshit and I’d have to say shut the fuck up. Because we gladly trade pieces of our selves/minds/ abilities for money/rent/paychecks.
And anyway our creative minds/dreams die and fade anyway and then there is pretty much nothing left to hold on to and you forget where you wanted to be because you are just holding on and that is enough.

These last few weeks I have been thinking of what it would be like to not exist. No, not suicide (see precursor I talked about before). Just not *being.* Because what is the use of being, there’s no pain really-that is like depression, there is just nothing there. Thinking of snapshots of years ago methods of anger and release.

I hate the feeling you get when you go braless and your nipples get hard against your shirt. I hate feeling that, that reminder of sexuality of self, that reminder of being a sexual being. If I could kill that one feeling.

and when there is nothing there, it’s hard to muster up happiness where there should be. Like being thankful for donations/grants/gifts to get to the amc & women’s media summit. And minigrants given for community work when I look for the source within/around & its not there.
and that person chipping chipping away at your self. Friends who don’t return your emails and I can’t even think to stop to wonder to read. Thankful for where I’m not right now.
how is it to live in a place that feeds your soul?
I dream about that sometimes.

(Originally posted here.)


Post a Comment

feed me! yummy!

Jump off the Bridge

the archive

what I blog about

communities & stats

trophy case

brillante weblog award