Dear Grandma,
God I miss you. I don’t know what I expect this to do. Write a letter I’ll never send. Words you’ll never read. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. Your little dance when you were happy. Your soft wrinkled hands. Your smell. I miss it all. I miss you.
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I deadass don’t know how I survived. That’s what the theme was for 2019, looking back on it, survival. I have never gone through so much in such a short time. I started 2019 homeless, reeling off of a recent mental hospital stay and domestic abuse from my father. I had no prospects, no hope for the future. My one mission was getting a roof over my head. I completed that mission, I’m in the same apartment I was in at the start of 2019. But I’m not in the same pile of shit, I’m in a slightly different pile of shit.
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He actually assumed we were sisters. Just because we were both black. What was that? Did someone say something? I feel like I heard a far cry in the distance...oh yeah. RACISM.
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Growing up my Mom was my best friend. Like really and truly she was my best friend. I struggled to belong in elementary and middle school. Either the target of bullying or one of the nameless faces blindly following the leaders. It was my mom who helped me to discover who I was by introducing me to the things that became my life long passions. And by giving me the ability to be myself. For all our differences, my mom has always allowed me to be myself.
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Major Depressive Disorder, Major Anxiety Disorder and Major Depressive Bipolar Disorder. These were my diagnoses after staying 9 days in the inpatient ward of McLean Mental Hospital in Belmont Massachusetts. This was my explanation for years of self torture, apathy, and an unwavering pit in my chest. When I arrived at McLean, it was by ambulance. That drive in the back of the ambulance, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever come quietly too. Strapped down to that thin cot. The chill of winter air seeping into my flesh from the gaps in the doors. Every bump on the road pushed me into the straps of the cot, reminding me that I was trapped. Even the yellow street light peeping in through the rear windows, had a lonely shadow to it. It felt like my heart was going to burst.
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The first night of college taught me a lot about what the rest of my experience would be like. Kaline, my roommate and my best friend(you'll be hearing tons more about her on this blog) hadn't moved in yet. After what felt like and actually was hours upon hours of me unpacking, I was finally done. My side of the room was fully furnished, decorated and ready to be lived in. Unpacking is lowkey a physical exercise so I'd worked up a sweat. I showered making sure to grab my room key-a habit that would take me awhile to form- so that I wouldn't be locked out the room when I returned.
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It's hard trying to navigate a world where you have roots everywhere, but feel like there's nowhere for you to grow.
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