I threw myself into a box that I am not prepared to sit in. How long have I been believing in the narrative that leaves my future in others hands? I’ve woken up and smelled the roses and I feel like a fraud.
I’ve been hardwired by my words. This optimism that made me feel like I was in control, measured by a successful lifestyle that was never mine to begin with. From the ashes of my old neighborhood I put soot in a pot and then bloomed. This resilience that had been passed down through generations of broad shouldered no bullshit women. Fake it till you fucking make it. Building layers of anguish and regret that has protected me from the world while slowly imprisoning myself inside. I believed what the world told me was good and now I just don’t care anymore.
Self-reliance can be such a strong attribute, after a while that gets really old. Sure, I’ve been through some horrible things and made the best out of every situation but I am tired of accepting that I have to give my all to get what I want. The thought that if I work really hard to be the best possible me, the more everyone would like me and support what I do. It’s just not true. Honestly, I am not the person who wants to sacrifice sleep and overwork myself to oblivion without reward. I want to rest. I am no longer accepting titles that don’t align with who I am at the core. I don’t want to be resilient, I want to be relaxed. I don’t want to be fire, I need to be ice.
When you grow up surrounded by pessimism, you’re programmed to believe that certain things aren’t meant for you. Laboring into a life that makes you feel like unless you’re aggressive with your attitude and fierce with your actions, you’ll never amount to anything. You start allowing in people that you feel may progress you to the next level, educating yourself with all the explanations for your troubles and believing the lies that are told. I’d accepted that my past had created a clutch for me that explained my mental health issues. That was who I was, all I could do was maintain it but it would always be mine.
Not anymore.
After 7 years of dedicated time with my dear therapist, I have decided to part ways. Mania has been a reoccurring trend of mine for years. These impulse urges of extremely highs and the lowest of lows. My fathers accident seemed to push my episodes back a few months. I was so consumed and busy with his health, the well being of my own family & taking the responsibility of maintaining my fathers life as a whole. At a moment I had felt I was on a good routine, another humans affairs were plopped on my lap. I had no time to worry about the ups and downs of my manic depression, I only had time to worry about the task at hand. 2 months in the hospital, 4 months at my home & we finally got my dad back into my childhood home and away from my every single waking moment. My emotions settled in. I made every excuse possible for this mania and I made it who I was. Fuck everything I just worked so hard for; a daughter who sacrificed her world to care for her ailing father, YOURE OBLIGATED TO DO THAT. YOU HAD NO CHOICE. ITS ANOTHER THING TO MARK OFF AS THINGS YOUVE DONE. IT DOESN’T DESERVE PRAISE. ITS TIME TO MOVE ON. WORK WORK WORK. HUSTLE HUSTLE HUSTLE. IMPULSE DECISIONS. YOU CANT LET THEM SEE YOU FROWN. It’s my mental health. I’ll get through this. I’m just having a manic episode. You’re fine.
In the years I’ve been seeing her, she’s given me assurance. She’s let me rage and bring me back down to earth with her tone. Throughout the accident she worked through what scared her about this situation and how she knew the mania would only get worse. When dad left and it popped off, she told me she could recommend me to a psychologist who is good with prescribing low doses of antidepressants to help regulate the emotions and get me on the right path. For the very first time she toiled with the fact that for the last few years she has been on the fence as to whether or not I was Bipolar 2. She never diagnosed it because I had always found myself back, until now. *silent pause..
That’s all I really heard. My mind automatically wanted to look up every last book and article I can on Bipolar 2, run to TikTok and type in #Bipolar2 to find a new community to indulge myself under. Made it automatically apart of who I was because it explained everything about me and where I come from and the trauma that has been passed down from generation to generation in the community I was raised in.
After I denied any recommendations for any pill popping doctor, I mentioned thinking about starting martial arts to help with regulating my adrenaline. Trying to release the energy in a positive way without the need for pills. I had went all this time thinking my past trauma was behind my angst and now a new diagnosis rocked my world and told me I needed drugs to be better. We ended the conversation casually, without any tension at all. I was submissive to be respectful to her but I wasn’t respecting myself in the process.
It only took a few minutes for me to request a free class at a local jujitsu gym. I walked in the next day with absolutely no idea what I was getting into. I didn’t do much research, psych myself out by infesting my mind with reasons why I couldn’t perform. I jumped in, head first, without a vest. That was the first time in 7 years that I had been troubled instead of uplifted after a session. I was pissed. Perfect reason to want to fight.
I jumped in that pool for all the wrong reasons, to prove that I can add another thing to my plate and have it help me internally. To prove that the years I spent working on my trauma had been worth it. The fact that this lady did not just take me back some years and I didn’t call her on her shit like the woman I was raised to be. YOU COWERED IN THE CORNER.
5 minutes on the clock. Hand shake then fist bump. GO.
Automatically I am in the moment. Working my strength to pin down my opponent, a sweet girl named Sydney in her early 20’s who has been fighting consistently for the past few years. I couldn’t even finish the round and I tap out for energy twice through the 5 minutes but my power was evident. My first roll was all I needed to feel powerful again. My heart was pumping out of my chest & I hear, “Wow, you’re really strong, Have you wrestled before?”
Back in the game.
After rolling with two other males, one close to 250 pounds, I knew that I was hooked. I walked out of that building feeling so confident in myself, in the moment I felt my strength in a physical form but it felt so mental at the same time. On that mat I can only think about one thing, ME. Everything that I’ve been told is a lie and I refuse to take it any longer.
It was time to start peeling. Peeling back the coating of lies I told myself for years. I had so many excuses handed to me for actions that I needed to repent on. I was duped, hidden behind the ideals and opinions of people who had absolutely no passage to my heart. A title can make or break you, I don’t want the title anymore. I don’t want to be the boss. I don’t want to lead the troupes. I don’t want to be the savior. I just want to rest. Peeling is extremely hard when you’ve been groomed to think these attributes make you real or strong. I’ve held what I’ve learned with more esteem than how I feel for way too long. I don’t want to find out the answer. I need to sit down and smell the roses.
Faith is an interesting concept. I don’t want to be a catalyst for any ideals, it’s not my place to intertwine myself with the emotions of others. My job today isn’t to lead whoever reads this into any direction because at this point I DO NOT WANT THE JOB. I’m here as a student. I can’t tell you what the future holds because I don’t want to predict it. Whether or not you have faith towards any higher power or not, at a certain point I had to throw it all up to nothing else but faith. I couldn’t hold onto it anymore. My walls had been weighing me down because I thought what I needed to hear was encouragement. To believe that I made choices out of survival, instead of humbling myself down and taking accountability for my life. I no longer want a title from a doctor, from a friend, from a family member or social media to dictate my morals, my beliefs and the heart that I hold. I came from a messed up place and I seen a lot of pain but that still gives me no excuse to continue that notion and blame it on my mental health. How can I advocate anything to anyone when I’m not really listening to my instincts. Sometimes we need to hear things we don’t want, to reflect on how to make it better. Not perfect, just better.
I stopped smudging my house. I stopped reading my horoscope. I stopped seeking asylum. I put so much value into items instead listening to my heart. I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want to be an inspiration. I don’t want to be accepted.
I just want to be.
My heart tells me that I’m starting to forgive myself. God is putting me in places today that the little girl on Avenue H always known were hers. She just grew up and started to believe the narrative of the oppressed and pessimistic. I’m not a victim, I’m a warrior. Anything that I touch, that comes straight from my heart, will turn to gold. I will work in silence to make my life personal. No fringe, ripped at the seams.
I will trust my instinct & never again allow any worldly person or thing try to dictate my mind or control my narrative. I’m sitting backseat to a higher power that loves me and wants me to save my energy. I deserve to sit back and enjoy the ride, whether it’s in a limo or by foot. I have no more baggage and leaving what I don’t need behind.
Just speaking my truth.
God loves you and so do I,
-XO