3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

So I’m going to write everything until something makes sense. I read this tweet from someone that said something along the lines of “Pay attention to who comes to get you when you retreat inside of yourself.” There’s no one here.

3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

Self conscious and self aware are not the same and I happened to become both at once. I recognized that I needed to work on myself to find inner peace. I’d spent the first five years of motherhood learning that despite knowing who you are as a woman, your identity changes when you become a mother. It’s now year six and I still don’t know who “she” is.

I am a woman first because being a woman allows me to feel human. The woman I imagine myself to be knows how to cope with the white noise. As a mom, I feel overwhelmed, lonely, neurotic. As a mom, I should have all the cures and answers my children ask of me but I feel as though I’m coming up short; with empty hands.

My old friend battles anxiety and depression. I was her crutch. Imagine using a broken crutch. When I saw that I needed to pull away to be repaired, I tried but was discarded in the process so fuck her.

I have a friend who is negative. The world is negative. Imagine listening to a broken record. Even a broken clock is right twice a day so I keep her bc she keeps me.

I had a friend who lived in an old shoe. It turns out, we weren’t friends at all. I was her cobbler. Imagine being drained of healing properties you didn’t know you had.

3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

You owe yourself your mental health. I can’t help you if I don’t help myself. No longer unable to identify those that drained my mental health, I’m ready to dig into my deeper subconscious.

Night time, maybe even dusk. Think state fair in Central Park. Able to order plates from amazon. Ordered pizza bbq chicken and other random fare. Conspiracy theorist meeting nearby. People go up a tower and don’t come down. I went up the tower before my food arrived and returned without remembering the trip. My food was covered but the random ppl that ordered with me were gone. Saw a homeless guy run further into the park. I gave chase then woke up.

I am growing. I think.

I see him everywhere in everything. I wish I was referring to my higher power but I’m referring to my lost and late love. I wonder if this will ever get any easier.

My chest hurts. I wanna cry but the strength and stubbornness in my melanin will not permit me to do so.

I need you because I trust you even though it doesn’t seem like it. Again, blame the stubbornness in my melanin.

A woman who cried often taught me that the only real emotion or relevant emotion was her anger. I don’t know how to fix it. I heard this is called Black Trauma.

I don’t want to kill myself. I have so many stories to tell and trips to take. I just want to feel better. When I breathe, I don’t want the crack in my heart to feel like it’s bleeding. I don’t want it to feel like the bricks I laid around my emotions are eroding, taking my ability to love and be empathetic away in the winds if experience.

3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Agony

I’m tired but can’t sleep. My eyes are burning but they won’t close. My brain hurts but it won’t rest. I’m trapped in a continuous REM state and the entire show is a nightmare.

January 2020, my first property will be a building. This building will be transformed into a privately funded transitional shelter for single individuals and families. At least 10 apartments to begin. Hebrews 11:1

I’m tired. I forget to pray for inner peace and when I remember, the stubbornness of a born sinner won’t allow me to follow Psalms but I think it was people like me that Jesus died for. I’m hoping this is sufficient.

I’m so tired.

I am tired.

I miss him so much. I don’t think any of my friends understand why. He loved me through the mental break downs before we understood my affliction to be a mental illness. He loved me anyway. His family loved me anyway. They even liked me despite the burden my 14 year old broken spirit arrived with.

You are among my dearest memories. When my mother was thought to be hours from death, it was you, the person I knew least who comforted me the most. It was you who kept me occupied. It was you who visited my mother when I could not. It was you who watched me cry without judgement. Thank you.

I want an ofrenda. My father had one but it wasn’t called an ofrenda. It was simply the ancestors’ room.

I’m tired.

My phone is dying.

I can’t sleep.

But I must sleep.

Still nothing makes sense but I must sleep.

Emotional Stress

This is going to be short. Bare with me for a few. I’ve been writing and not posting. I thought I was feeling better but it seems that my work is still in a dark place.

Some of you may notice, as you travel through the the site that some of my random thoughts were reposted. This was, of course, done in error.

I’ve longed for sexual freedom for quite some time but I haven’t felt confident enough to free myself. Nevertheless, even if I were confident enough to find said freedom, I’m not sure it would heal what hurts.

My words are like caged birds.

Image: urbanspiritual.com

Master’s Masterpiece

He said he’d buy me a collar then we’d do erotic things.

I wonder what those things include.

Would he instruct me to gracefully kneel and lift my hair?

As he fixes the collar to my neck, would his rough finger tips graze the tiny goosebumps on my nape?

Before he walks around to stand in front of me, lifting my chin so he can see me

Staring into my eyes so he can see us

Clearly.

Because I am now his submissive.

A reflection of his dominance,

A result of his care,

His masterpiece.

:Random 57:

Our taste is on the tip of my tongue; our scent lingers on my lips and nose. A tingle remains on my backside to remind me of the way you popped my ass to correct my arch. I want to please you in every way.

:Random 56:

I’m feeling antsy in this heat. I should be in the nude. Your hands should be fixed in the crooks of my knees. My knees should be pressed into ribs while your phallus massages my insides. The sound of coqui add to the soundtrack of our love making.

:Random 54:

Lay up with me under clouds of weed smoke. Your fingers part my lips while you kiss the other pair.

Damage 

Can I tell you a secret? 

I am damaged goods.
So much so that I have no self esteem.
I understand that lacking a strong support system will do that to you.

The real secret is that I feel empty and destroyed.
My spirit was broken by the hands of another.
I wasn’t paying attention.
And now I want to be fxcked until the pain in my chest subsides.
I want to be fxcked until the tears of despair transform into tears of pleasure.
I want to be fxcked until it’s no longer my pleasure being pleased,  it is my pleasure pleasing you.

Fxcked until 6 years of heartache becomes
A short story compiled of life lessons.
Fxck me until I remember who I used to be.

I should want more than a good fxck.
More comes with more children and more heartache.  More finger pointing.
More drama.
More strings.
Right now
I am desperately seeking to fly away. 

When I thought the house was sleeping I laid on the floor and cried.
I cried and cried. I sobbed, really.
This is because I thought the house was sleeping.
I was trying to cry the demons out of me.
The dead baby and the broken heart, are what I was trying to release.
See,
I tried to write about it all in grave detail.
I thought I was ready to shout it from a mountain.
And then I heard you walking around your room.
So I held my breath so tight that my ears started to ring
and my heart beat started to slow down.
That’s when I realized I still wasn’t ready.
That these demons and this baby would rot inside of me.
Knotting my stomach and rooting the pit in my chest.
I could hold my breath until there was nothing left.

just a thought from across the hudson

i met a woman who lost her daughter on 9/11 in the WTC attack. She told me and the rest of our class mates how much she hated having to relive this day over and over every year. She hated turning on the television and seeing movies about that day and specials about that day. It was like losing her daughter over and over again. I can never imagine that level of pain. and i, though not having lost anyone during the attack, could relate to not wanting to see or hear anymore about it. “never forget,” suggests that i could. i never will forget as long as i live. I still remember when my class was told of the incident. i remember where i was and what time our gym teacher told us. i remember  that there was a foolish idea that the attack was an accident and we all casually were asking “is everyone ok?” and i will never forget his casual response “i don’t know. it just happened. we saw it in the teacher’s lounge.”  i will never forget the sobs that filled the hallways as the day progressed or the deafening silence that made our ears boom whenever a student was taken from class.  i’ll never forget the cloud of smoke that loomed over our town and watching people stand outside with candles and still not fully grasping the loss. i remember my mother walking around the house frantically cleaning, our phones wouldn’t work, the internet wouldn’t connect, and our television was out. i remember sitting in my room cowering in the corner every time it sounded like a plane was too low. i remember dreaming about the flight attendant and passengers aboard each airplane and before boarding a train, i thought about those passengers too. i remember being fear of ever middle eastern person, especially those carrying bags. i will never forget because what i remember most is losing my naivete in the “power” of being an american and what that meant. it felt as if our land was no longer sacred. again, being naive because it never truly was. of course, i do not expect people to not memorialize their loss because we all cope differently. i am not sure when i stopped staring into the sky, but i have. i don’t know when the silence that  screams decided to whisper, but it has. and i have even stopped questioning the contents of boxes and bags on the subway.  I imagine that discussing your lost loved one is emotionally exhausting and bless the hearts of the courageous survivors of the attack. and to be quite honest, aren’t we’re all survivors of the attack in our own way?