Trying to bring back the buzz I felt with your arms around my waist, your chin rested on my shoulder, your hot breath on my neck. and and the night ahead of us. Could I bottle the feeling and get high off it once you’re gone?
Curious if I really loved you or was addicted to the feeling of being loved and held.
At least that’s how I imagine it went down. He must have had a great controversy within him about whether to pull over or keep going. I mean, on one hand, he helps out and maybe no one blames him. But then again, the crowd could turn on him and this would be his last day. He never imagined that the crackle of an unhealthy fire from tires would be the accompaniment to his death. So he tells himself that it’s more logical to keep going. He presses on the gas pedal even harder almost as if he’s trying to find the conviction to keep going. On the other hand, he could have been completely calm as he drove away commenting, “Oh well,” as “Mungu Pekee” kept playing in the background.
What goes on inside the head of a human being as he decides to commit these crimes against humanity? Did this man wake up intending to run over a poor market vendor trying to make it home for lunch? Or did he simply not mind that it was now on his list of things completed? Do we even stop and think about the sins we commit?
A young black girl stands on the corner holding a huge sign that says, “She must be avenged.” Passers-by give her dirty looks and men with balls, or so they think, call her an angry black girl. Have we come to this point in life when simple wrongdoings cannot even be recognized anymore?
2018. I’ve always been told that I am strong so I’ve been living life with that assumption and trying to manifest it. But this year showed me different. In all honesty this was the year that broke me.
Having to move away from family, friends and all familiarity seemed easy peasy as a notion. But the first 6 months were so rough for me. I lost my self esteem and confidence shying away from social situations because the acne attacks I went through stripped me of what I thought made me beautiful. Making friends seemed like a chore and I honestly spent 50 percent of my first college semester in my room watching Netflix.
Then as the year progressed I started to feel like myself again but shit didn’t get easier. I’ve been through some experiences that I can’t even bring myself to talk to anyone about because it would be an admission that I’m not strong. It would be embarrassing to confess that I let the very situations I protest happen to me. So I’ve been keeping in a lot of emotional trauma to keep up the illusion that I’m still Yvonne; strong, assertive, ambitious and aggressive.
I’ve been through episodes of depression but when the phone rings I’ve had to put on my best smile and insist that everything is Gucci.
My car has honestly seen the most of my rawest moments because sometimes on the drive home from work or school I’d just breakdown because the weight on my shoulders would feel unbearable. And I can’t count how many times I’ve logged onto my bank account to check if I have enough money for a one way ticket home.
But I’ve stayed. At first because I felt that I had to, because people depended on me. But now I think I’m supposed to be here. I honestly can’t tell you why but I feel that my purpose lies at the end of this rough path. It’s not going to get easier I know for sure. But I’m finding healthier outlets for how I’m feeling.
Having to get up every single day, take a shower and feed myself to stay alive has felt overwhelmingly difficult at times. I can’t even imagine how my brother has been living me with my constant mood swings and lashing out for the smallest things that have nothing to do with him but because I just don’t know to process or outlet my unhappiness, depression and pain.
I’ve had to look at pictures of myself smiling from before to remember the sensation of happiness.
Avoided mirrors that were a constant reminder that I wasn’t beautiful. Relished in the attention of men because it felt good to be told that I’m beautiful and almost got addicted to the feeling of being wanted.
Became really exposed to the sad reality of my Kenya and the chances of being successful there. I feel trapped because I never intended to live here, in the US but I feel like I can’t go back home.
This year has been made even harder by the fact that I’ve never been further from God. I’ve felt undeserving to even pray to him for the things I’ve done and think.
I lapsed from gyming because my work and school schedule were all over the place and it was easier to give up on myself. So I turned to other things to numb the pain and I can’t believe I’d drink on a week night just to feel a little happier but only for the night and be up at 6am to go to work.
In brief moments of insanity while driving I’ve felt that it wouldn’t be too bad if I just veered off the highway, went over the barrier and into the cold river below. But I’ve been afraid that I’d survive. Survive and be left with hospital bills and having to replace my car.
About two months ago I crashed my car and totaled it. Afterwards I really just wanted to break down because that was a breaking point for me but I fought tears through the police report and watching it get towed. I actually put my blood, sweat and tears into paying for it. That day had been monumental for me, I was at the genesis of a milestone ,before the accident, an exciting new chapter. And it felt like a slap in the face. I felt like I couldn’t progress because the minute I was in the brink some shit would just happen. Special thanks to my friend who held me tight while I cried unusually much for losing a car afterward.
But I had to snap back in about two days because I’ve learnt that life never stops swinging and as soon as you’re down you’ve gotta get up and stay ready.
But I’m thankful for the lessons I’ve learnt this year. It’s :
Taught me to love myself and believe that I am enough. It’s a dangerous time to depend on the validations of man to feel whole.
Taught me to remove myself from situations and people who steal my joy.
Taught me to use my writing to work through what haunts me. I’ve written some emotional pieces I don’t think I’ll ever share but it’s helping to heal. I honestly pray for healing for everyone who 2018 brought hurt.
Taught me that human beings can actually be trash, not just men but particularly them. Watched how strategically a person will hurt you then comfort you to create the illusion that it was unintentional or create a dependancy situation.
Taught me to be myself and appreciate my own company.
However more than anything, I’ve learnt to operate on pure faith at times. I’ve been down to my last dollar more times than I can remember and my car had 5 miles of gas left yet I’m 30 miles away from home and God pulls through every single time, even when I’ve doubted him. One time, I actually had to gas up my car with all the coins I could gather in purse. I think it only amounted to 3 miles which I stretched the hell out of. But God can never fail you or forsake you no matter how your relationship is.
I’m not sharing this so that I can get any sympathy but it’s to let other people going through the same shit know that they’re not alone.That they’re not crazy for being insanely unhappy or when everyone else expects happiness of them.
I stood frozen to the spot right across the street from where his small body lay. For a second I wondered about the split second stress response mechanism the body supposedly had. And it was then that I found myself kneeling beside his bloody body, picking it up and getting ready to run towards help. Then the voices began to register and it dawned on me that onlookers were trying to get me to pause and realize that he was already gone.
Elias Matthews was only four and a half-years-old when he had the promise of a bright future snuffed out way too soon and brutally too. So I knelt over his still warm body looking into his disturbed deep blue eyes trying to imagine the life he would have lived.
An artist. Little Matthews had held an affinity for coloring books and colored pencils. He would rush out the door without breakfast as long as he made it to Mrs. Hallows art class first.
But then again my little boy even at the tender age of four had possessed a way with words. Onlookers must have thought me stricken with madness as a smile struck across my face as I called into memory the one time he talked his way out of a time out after a shouting match with me and persuaded me to grant him an extra slice of dessert for him that very night.
My sweet little Matthews was the very breath I depended on to live. I know it sounds like another cliche declaration of love. However, I need you to understand that from the moment I felt his father’s seed find its way into my womb I knew he had been conceived and I loved him from that very moment.
I wish that I had been more watchful. I knew Matthews was inquisitive and loved to run ahead of me slipping his little pale hands out of mine. But I just had to be distracted by the day’s paper. And now after it was all done, I could not recall what had caught my attention in the first place.
Chuckling to myself I said, “Oh how he loves the color yellow.” “Loved.” I’m not sure who said it but it broke me. It can’t be that I now have to use past tense to refer to my baby.
“Loves,” I screamed looking behind me. “Loves!” Repeatedly and angered. Rocking back and forth, a river flowing my blood stained cheeks and now in a red-drenched sundress.
“He loves the color yellow.” I rocked my baby to sleep. Everything would be O.K just as long as he loves the color yellow.
I felt an arm on my shoulder and opened my eyes and looked up. “It’s time for your pills Mrs. Matthews,” says a sweet voice. “She’s in pretty good shape for a 97-year-old but sometimes she never really sleeps and appears to have nightmares.” I hear her whisper.
She must think I can’t hear her. But as long as he loves the color yellow, everything is O.K.
This short story is part of my writing prompts series.
Sometimes I lay awake at night, listen to sad music and slide over to your side of the bed; put my head on the pillow where you usually lay and I can hear your heartbeat, slow and steady. Only trouble is I have to silence my own in order to hear yours. I wonder if that’s how our love is. Me keeping my spirit quiet so that yours can shine bright enough. I ask myself if I am being vain wanting things to be about me or I’m acting out on my emotional claustrophobia but really maybe for once my vision is 20/20 and my judgement is anything but clouded. I sincerely wish I’d be making these realizations in hindsight but it’s in the here and now. Your text is in my notifications and truth is I don’t want to reply because somehow it ends up being about you and never me. Selfish? Maybe. But I don’t think a relationship should be the same as one being nothing but a human diary. Don’t know about you.
I stare at a picture of us trying to force back the memory of being crazy about you. I’m sorry. I just can’t. Maybe it never existed at all? Maybe my feelings got stuck in the first time I fell for you and just never recovered. I guess when you’ve idealized something enough it’s impossible for it to ever measure up. Unfortunately, that’s us.
We fell in love too fast for our time. It was definitely a great love but a great love rushed along thus made invalid for long term purposes. I believe this is what soured our once great love and made it evident to our children that we were not meant to be together.
Some loves are great but not meant to be enjoyed for a minute longer. That my dear was our love — ill-timed– I like to think. If I’m, to be honest, I really don’t know. I was promised love or at least that’s what I understood from what was left unsaid. But I guess that was the problem– It was left unsaid.
Pause. Along the weary journey that is life, you find that you sometimes have to take a minute to examine your surroundings. Where am I? A lot of us have this big talk about living life to the fullest or as many say these days; “Living my best life.” No problem, but is partying every weekend or constantly hanging out really the best your life could be?
I’ve always loved writing, but I could not count the number of times I was discouraged: my father said it was nothing but a hobby. It seems like I’m taking the longest route possible to my point but bear with me. I truly believe in purpose. Every single person was placed on this earth for a reason. Mine is to tell the stories of those who can’t. To unshackle the hands and feet those in the bondage of emotional pain. To unburden those whom life dealt a bitter hand.
Living your best life is beyond aesthetics and superficial socialization. It’s about living out your purpose regardless of where that path may take you. The road will be littered with jeerers and enemies of progress. The temptation to simply live to pay the bills will be overwhelming. At times you will go to bed and wake up having lost your dream somewhere in dreamland. However, you have to commit to doing the best by yourself. Humans often go the extra mile to do the best by others and betray themselves but you cannot waste the gift of life by simply living–anyone can do that. There is a special reason you didn’t take your last breath this morning as the sun rose; there is a special reason your car merely grazed the bumper of the drunk driver on your way home last night; there is a reason you lived past four days old.
I challenge you to live life past the societal expectations of traditional success. At the end of the road that is life, you will not ask what did not do to please so and so–you will ask yourself why you held back from living out your purpose. But please do not confuse purpose with potential, but that is a whole other topic for another day.
“Baby I got the right temperature to keep you warm.”
Behind closed doors I’m yours and your arms don’t hesitate to express so. Those sweet words flow so readily from your mouth. It’s a whole other atmosphere in this room. But the door opens and we’re surrounded by our peers and the temperate plummets. I must assume that your indifference in public is synonym to your piping love for me when we’re alone. Mustn’t I?
We’re not yet in a place where you can tell me how you truly feel without a little liquid courage or are under the influence. I wonder why and how this generation got to this point. How did we get to an era where completely expressing how you felt is being too much into it? How did we get to an era where beating around the bush is a sacred ritual that cannot be skipped? How did we get to an era where we must waste each other’s time by refusing to simply state what we want and expect? How did we get to an era where communicating your expectations is being too serious?
But in this 2018, no more. If you’re interested, terms and conditions apply so either tick the box or keep it moving.
In other news, tell those you love just how much you do. Life is too short to play it cool or play hide n seek with feelings.
I listen to all these love songs imagining that they are for me from you. I want to believe that forever is feasible with you and that you weren’t lying when you said, “Our love is beautiful.” But to be honest, you have a hazy understanding of forever. However, I still want you to pull me closer, slip your ever cold hand onto face, lower your head and have your gentle lips brush mine.