You Are My Friend

I haven't posted in this space in quite a while. I'm here to share feelings about the death of a friend, HM.

This is just me writing through my emotions because I'm really in unfamiliar emotional territory. I found out the other day and I haven't been sad, just numb and unsure of how best to express my feelings. So I am here doing what I have done so often in place of talking it out with someone, which is to write to see if in that process I come to any resolutions or maybe find a little peace.

In high school, we had been great friends. Close. More than friends, but not in that way (almost though). But I've had a lot of weird, undefined just-friends (male) over the years. He was the first. We lost touch after I graduated and went away to college, but Facebook allowed us to reconnect some 20 years later. We may have been connected via email before social media. And for a time, we had that as a superficial means to stay in touch; however, he stopped using the platform so our interactions became the once a year kind--birthday postings from me, and maybe the occasional like of something I posted.

Even though we hadn't spoken directly in years, I thought of him recently in connection to the big High School Farewell celebrations that took place a month ago. A friend posted some pictures of him from the last school play he starred in, Hello Dolly, which was the year after I graduated. I never knew about this production, but I was away at college, making more just-friends. I had been meaning to discuss the play with the woman who posted the pictures, so I definitely will in the coming days. For whatever reason, I didn't even consider to message him because I assumed he no longer used the platform. And now I can't.

That is how we met, in a school play. When I met him he was a freshman and I was a sophomore, and the play was West Side Story. But now I can't remember which part he had. I wasn't in the play that year, but I helped out on the technical side. I don't even recall how we became friends, but we did. He went on to star in Dreamgirls, which is the play we performed my junior year. He stole the show as Jimmy Early, and then the following year as Conway Twitty in Bye, Bye Birdie. 

Even though we were just-friends, when he began dating one of my friends I got jealous. This was to be the first of many times I would repeat this pattern with a just-friend, but not always with me being jealous, but me feeling possessive and proprietary (because he was my friend first, bitch). I did it again with the next girlfriend...so maybe now I understand how we lost touch. 

I loved him though. At one point I thought it was more than platonic, but because I had other romantic interests, I moved on and there is another reason why we might have lost touch. Feelings complicate things, and adolescent feelings are by their nature complicated. And since he wasn't the only fish in the pond, I'm sure I was doing the most and unconsciously leaning into what I would call my that bitch Ayanna persona...and, whew was I ever! (I will need to explain her one day.)

One of those other romantic interests from my high school days passed away almost year ago and I had these same weird feelings of not knowing how to respond. We dated briefly and remained friendly, just not in constant contact. His Mom worked with mine and his sister went to Spelman (and we've interacted professionally through the years), but I only connected with him on Facebook. So when I learned of his death, I didn't really know how to describe our past friendship either. Yet, I cared about him and mourned his passing.

Such is the nature of friendship. It ebbs and flows like the tide. In the virtual space, we are connected, but unless we actually interact in some substantive real world way, then most of those people are just folks we know. Or folks we once knew enough to care about their present lives, even in a fleeting way. I care when I see updates, good and bad, from people that I used to know. For example, one acquaintance from high school is on a reality TV show, and having just spoken to her at that last tour of the school, I am actually tuning in to watch the show. Another just-friend from high school was tagged in some news that appears to warrant condolences, and I have been debating whether I should personally reach out, or just post a note on his page.

Even as I lament the hollow nature of friendship in virtual space, having that virtual connection meant that his sister saw that I had posted on his page back in January. And it meant enough to her to do me the courtesy of personally informing me of his passing. So to the extent that connections online can be tangible, I won't denounce them. Because in this same virtual world, I have renewed or established relationships. Some folks that I merely knew in passing once upon a time are real friends now. Perhaps it is the algorithm, but it has been a blessing in this phase of my life to find kindred spirits. It is hard to make friends, especially at this midlife phase of adulting that has all of us spinning in every direction. 

I wish I had been more attuned to the signs that the Spirit was sending me. HM had been on my mind, not heavily, but as a passing thought and in fond recollections. I thought of him as I toured the high school last month, in the familiar places that looked exactly as they had 30 years ago. I should have reached out, but I had assumed that it would have dissipated into cyberspace. Not because we had fallen out, but I figured that instead of documenting his life on Facebook, he was out living it. Now that he is gone, I do hope that his life was full. I hope that he knew how much he was loved, and how much he will be missed. 

I hope that I get a chance to let his sister know how much her brother meant to me all of those years ago. He befriended an awkward, insecure girl and inspired her to be her authentic self. He encouraged me to write, mostly poetry and he claimed to liked it. I am sure that if I dig through some stuff, I might find some of what I wrote back then and it might not be too brooding or cringey. 

So if I could tell him anything about my life now, it would be that I kept writing. And through that, I have found some measure of peace, past the regrets of having been that bitch Ayanna when we lost touch. It is a truism that people are in our lives for a season and a reason. True friendship doesn't end, it fades like a picture exposed to sunlight, but the outlines are still visible. Things happen as they are meant, and even if we weren't meant to be lifelong ride or die friends, his presence had a profound impact on my life. I have another reason to give to his (and now our) alma mater, in his memory. I can look back on high school and not be so bitter and angry. He was my friend, and I will be forever grateful for that.

Do It Anyway

I started this post at the BBW blog, but quickly had to conquer my anxiety to post based on a personal deadline I had set. I am re-launching the #HBCUJustGive campaign and got some new promotional ideas to assist in that effort. The big plunge was recording and then posting a companion video.

I am standing at the water's edge with a toe skimming the foam of the crashing waves. I sometimes venture in to the point where the water reaches my calves, but most of the time I am content to walk along the shore line. But tomorrow I plan to dive in.

(I am not sure flowery writing is my thing...)

I have been planning to do something big, but I have been stymied by the familiar doubts that always seem to erect a barrier between my visions and reality. The same thing happened the other night when I spent half the day stressing about whether to wear my new BBW tee prototype (I wore it). The same thing happened back in November after I ordered a box full of mugs that I was reluctant to advertise. The same thing happened a few years ago when I debuted the initial BBW tee and got dissatisfied with the printing on a few of the shirts. Let's not even address my writing process...

I always get in my own way. Perfection is the enemy of the good.

I even designed a shirt for this specific issue, which says to go for it, to do it anyway, to take the plunge, go the extra mile, put your best foot forward, and whatever other maxims are supposed to be encouraging in moments like this. DO IT (with no infringement on Nike's trademark, I might add).

Because you only live once. Because someone else will do it. Because that other person's effort won't even come close to your vision. Because you will always wonder what if. Because if not you, then who and if not now, then when?

A friend asked me to articulate an objective for what I am doing and to be honest with her and myself, I have no idea. I believe I just want to feel like I am doing something other than just watching life go by. After nearly ten years of being a caregiver, and then more than 15 years of working but never making any real professional progress (or enough money), I know that it is time for me to take the extreme risk of speaking for myself and walking on my own. I have had this dream of being a writer for a long time, probably much longer than I even realized but laboring in obscurity or as a ghost writer isn't enough. For all intents and purposes, I am a writer. I write all of the time. And I am a recognized writer. I am just not acknowledged as such in any formal fashion.

So instead of trying to stumble into recognition by random twists of fate, I am trying to build a brand, which is something that I would not have said back in 2005 when I first formally began to blog. Yet, I hope that I can build a following and create some recognition for my voice. I look around and I see that there are plenty of people in the world who can do what I do for better or for worse. I am not in competition with them though, because I am simply looking for my tribe. Looking for others who can relate to my struggles, my ideas, and who are willing to support my dreams.

As I have been on this journey, I have learned to adjust my expectations, which is why after recording several takes and then encountering computer issues that made it difficult for me get the perfect take, I did something that I am learning to become more comfortable doing. I went in with the best take I had and even if only a few people see it, I posted it. But I plan to try again, so perhaps I have other opportunities to hit my own very high bar.

My final point is that by taking this risk (which is not nearly as great as it felt in the build up), I am investing in myself. That is something I haven't really done in a LONG time. I have often taken small sure steps towards a particular goal, but rarely have I ever just jumped without knowing what would happen next. Even when I had my daughter, I feel like the risks were manageable (because until recently, I thought my greater challenge had been in caring for my Mom). And that is exactly why this was such a big deal--I usually have an eagle eye for the road ahead. I have NO IDEA what will become of this, but for the first time, I am okay with not knowing.

So here I go!

Worst Enemies

This is a followup to the last piece, so vagueness is necessary to protect the guilty and the innocent.

In addition to my own bad habits, I have situations that keep me from being great. Like my child, who often does her best to get me to pay attention to her while I am trying to write. Or those people who essentially stand around and watch as my life falls apart, then they criticize me either for not doing enough or doing too much. I call them the Saboteurs, which is a nice French way of calling folks assholes.

My daughter is not really a Saboteur, she is a toddler. A needy, tantrum-throwing, yet sweet and endearing child who is about to celebrate her second birthday. She is supposed to wreak havoc with my schedule by throwing a random fit when I try to get her to put on her shoes. Or when I ask her to stop kicking me. Or when I switch the channel from watching the same episode of Sesame Street that we just watched an hour earlier.

But the adults? Total assholes.

So this situation that has been stressing me since January involves a bunch of folks who would rather stand around and complain about things instead of actually doing anything. One person actually issued a threat, but to date, it was just more hot air blown into their balloon of complaints. But it hit its mark and I have the extra fifteen pounds to show for the toll all of that drama it took on me.

Because what else can you do when you are angry, bitter, depressed and hurt by a baseless allegation that was intended to bait you into the most unnecessary counter-productive conflict at the absolute worst time of your life? You stop taking care of yourself. And you start to look your age. And you eat your feelings because no one really wants to hear about how angry, bitter, depressed or hurt you feel.

Those feelings you are eating taste a lot like breakfast danishes, fried chicken, pizza, and Chinese take out that you wash down with soda.

And you do this alone because you are always alone. You sleep alone, wherever you fall asleep (usually on the sofa). You talk to your not-yet-two-year old daughter because no one else has time. Sometimes you talk to yourself because she is busy watching the same episode of Sesame Street over and over again. You wash, rinse and repeat the same pattern for weeks.

You notice that your clothes are fitting tighter and that you are eating a lot less salad. You look at your face and notice that the dark circles around your eyes never fade. You keep trying to do the right thing even though the Saboteurs don't care and will continue to point out the one or two tasks that they can do are beyond what anyone should expect from them.

Meanwhile, you worry whether your rambunctious not-yet-two year old is developing on schedule because there is no one around who can tell you anything supportive. You don't have other mothers in your circle (you do, but they have lives and don't seem to have time). So you stay up late to work on projects to help her grasp certain concepts. Like talking (because that language class you took last summer didn't seem to help). You try to expose her to various things, which takes you away from your other obligations, so you feel guilty.

You always feel guilty, so you eat. And you drink. And stop trying to go to dance class. And you stop attending meetings. And you realize that you have to step down or step away or decline projects because of the drama in your life. And your anger becomes resentment and your bitterness becomes poison and your depression deepens. And then you worry too much that you aren't doing enough, so you compensate by running errands. Which means you are always in motion doing for everybody else.


You are taking some time to write about it because that is the only way to release any pressure. It is an emotional exercise, but necessary. Still solitary and often futile. But it offers some peace at times. Because none of the Saboteurs read anything you write.

Better Intentions

I have been at this precise place so many times--regret that I didn't live up to the expectations I set for myself. Disappointment that I am always seemingly starting over from the same place, beginning again at the beginning.

This year is already a wash.

I had plans. I had intentions. I had goals. Yet here I am, with nothing to show for any of those lofty hopes and dreams. I am standing in the same sad spot and always for the same reason: My inability to put my needs above those of the members of my family.

Which family member? It never really matters. With the addition of a child, it would seem that I have an acceptable reason for never accomplishing much of anything, except that isn't the case. My daughter inspires my need to actually push myself to be more than just another frustrated, reluctant housewife turned obscure, undiscovered blogger. And as she has grown from sweet baby to this unruly, insane Toddlersaurus, I should have endless material from her daily antics. According to my blog journal (the notebook I carry to jot down blogging ideas) I could perpetually write about busy black motherhood and possibly *finally* garner a following.

Yes, I have a blog journal. It was part of the elaborate plan that has yet to materialize thanks to that other unyielding demand that I am always trying to manage. That other familial obligation that I am trying desperately not to resent, because that would be selfish. And we all know that whenever I focus any attention to myself, for whatever reason...

Yet, this did not begin with the choice to focus on myself insomuch as it feels like it began with the intention to do so. My intention to devote more time to writing and live vlogging and starting a podcast and a few other projects...all on the back burner because at the beginning of the year, a new chapter began in my long-running family drama. Which has left me bitter and angry and depressed. And eating all the time. Or sleeping. Or intentionally missing certain social engagements. Or doing drastic shit like chopping off my hair and dyeing it different colors including platinum blonde. Or not sleeping.

(I actually plan to write about this situation in a more direct form, but now I need to vent without identifying or defaming anyone.)

So here I am. Angry. Bitter. Depressed. Hurt. And feeling all of the guilt that was intended for me to feel because somehow, I am the only person who has any responsibility...

For the record, in the interest of trying to move beyond the anger, bitterness, depression, hurt, and guilt I have been willing to continue to make the uncomfortable choices. To be the person in the line of fire. To be Atticus Finch and do those unpleasant jobs that no one else wants. And it hasn't meant anything. I am still standing in the same fucking spot.

So, I am going to write anyway to try to work through all of my feelings. I've decided that this situation is less about my better intentions than it is about adjusting my expectations. I will simply write to let go of things and maybe that will help.

Week One

I have been inspired to write a lot lately. I have been posting a lot to the BBW blog, and this piece started there, but I am posting it here as I try to figure out a few things about my direction these next few years.

I feel like I am just spinning my wheels here--both on this blogging effort and at life. I wonder about life generally because the older I get, things just seem to get more complex. There is a lot of shit swirling around me and I feel utterly powerless in its midst. There is a lot of change going on in the world and you already know how I feel about much of that nonsense and fuckery (yeah, I am back to cursing). And as writing is my refuge in times like these, I am placing a lot of pressure on myself to increase my output even though it is not entirely clear that it matters...

So let me address that issue first. I started blogging more than 10 years ago just to have a means of expressing myself, but I have been writing like this for years. Before it was called blogging, I wrote pieces in a spiral bound notebook with a black Bic ballpoint pen. When I wrote out some of my thoughts on the computer, I called it computer journaling.

When I began this effort, my intention was to be discovered as a writer. I had written a few things that had generated some interest, and after having two jobs where I wrote to convey the positions of others, I thought I was ready for the next level. I think back in 2005 when this blog began, I had hoped that I would end up writing a column for some online ezine or maybe I would have written a book or two by now.

Well, I am still at it, writing in obscurity. I am a decent writer, but not a very good promoter of my writing. In fact, I am not good at all when it comes to self-promotion or taking credit for things. I am like those artists that only focuses on making art, but needs lots of help managing everything else in their lives because the art becomes all-consuming. Or perhaps I am a writer afraid of both success and failure because I have found failure is way too easy. It takes the same amount of effort as trying to achieve success; however, success requires more sustained effort. Failure can happen any number of times but success seems to be a one-time shot.You get plenty of opportunities to make the shot, but you only get that one chance to make that shot.

After blogging all these years, I believe that I want more, but I am afraid of what more means. Does it mean that I need to dedicate real time to writing and not just make the most of stolen moments? Does it mean that I need to prioritize my craft above the needs of everyone else, and at what cost?

Which is where I question how well I am doing at life beyond my writing. This month has already been a bitch and whenever I think things have calmed down, shit happens. Like yesterday, I was working on this piece when I got a call that fucked the rest of my day, my night and is still causing me agitation. So when I contemplate whether I should become one of those people whose every waking moment is spent honing her craft, it is never a realistic thought. Or in other words, I could never truly tell the rest of the world to go fuck off while I write since a good deal of what fuels my need to write is the shit that happens to me!

My most honest writing comes from the constant questioning and self-doubt: have I been a good enough daughter, am I a decent mother, how can I be a better wife, why don't I feel like I am enough? Why do I take so much to heart? Why do I keep getting in my own way? Who am I to think that my dreams are realistic? Would I have been better off if I had just been content to be a mediocre lawyer? What made me think I had what it took to be any kind of lawyer in the first place (remember how you nearly failed out of law school)? Why don't you just give up and admit that you are a failure?

Because even if I am unexceptional, mediocre, average or just ok, I am not a failure.

So I will continue. The world may never discover me, or it might. I will continue to write when I need to express how the world affects me. I will write when I have a lot to say but no one available to hear any of it. I write to leave a record of my opinions, my thoughts, my anxieties and also my hopes and dreams. I write because I am a writer.

Sunshine and Rain

Earlier this summer, a local politician was featured in an article about his wife's early onset dementia. Yesterday, he gave a radio interview about her and the ordeal his family has gone through since 2010.

When I first read his story, I could not help but to think about the parallels.  The origin of my mother's odd behavior began sometime in 2009, and as it continued, we struggled to come up with answers.  I too had to trick her into going to a doctor, eventually tricking her into seeing a neurologist when nothing improved.  And just as was the case for Mr. Baker, within 15 minutes after we left the office with a preliminary diagnosis, my mother did not seem to acknowledge that he had just told her that she had dementia.

But unlike Mr. Baker, I have been hiding in plain sight when it comes to discussing my mother...only talking through the blog or to friends. Or not at all.  For a time I retreated from this when I felt that I was revealing too much.  We had an opportunity to be featured in another radio interview, but we arrived late and left early so that I could avoid an embarassing over-reaction. 

I am grateful to Mr. Baker for speaking out because people need to know the private hell it has been these past few years.  I came back to write about it because I need to tell others in my own way and on my terms.

I will try not to dwell so much on the negative, but at times, it will be impossible not to...I need a release.  It cannot be a release that is tied to physical exercise or drinking or staying busy.  I need to have a space where I can scream and cry and question God about this.  I need a place to turn after having the same argument with my husband for the 103rd time.  I need a refuge from biting my tongue and not telling my family that I am not Jesus yet, I am essentially putting my life on hold so that everyone else can live theirs with minimal inconvenience.  I need a space to bitch after someone has said something insensitive or mean to me so that I can resist the urge to tell them where to go.  I need a place to bury my disappointments and broken dreams.

Today there is rain. Tomorrow there may be sunshine. I'll try to take each day as I find it.

Nano Wrimo, or Drive Yourself Crazy

I was checking out other blogs the other day, which inspired me to sign up for National Novel Writing Month. I've written a grand total of 100 words. At least it is better than zero.

Initially I was not going to participate because I do not have the time. I still don't have the time. If nothing else, I will get about 10,000 words written and then I will leave the unfinished project on my hard drive for future generations to discover. That is precisely why I signed up. I need some incentive to get something finished.

Then I met someone who gave me even more inspiration, only it won't help me with my Nanowrimo committment. It is a completely different project, but at least I got started on that one. I was having a mimosa inspired chat with the brother of a friend, when I started in on one of my "mama" pep talks in which I have all of the answers for other folks' problems, but not a clue about any of my own.

And that got me to thinking about how I could get my sh** together and take some of my own advice. I just need a few days without someone else's crap in my lap to get my own stuff accomplished.

I know that my ADHD is in overdrive, and that I am way too over-extended for creative pursuits. But dammit, when will I ever have time for my agenda? If I want to be an artist, I have to devote time to my art, in much the same way I devote whole chunks of time to everyone else. I need to become more selfish.

It is nearly impossible to balance competing committments. On the one hand, I hear my inner voice urging me to blow off some steam by jotting down a few words here and there. On the other hand, I hear that ever-present clock ticking in my head, and despite my every attempt to ignore it, it never goes away.

So for the month of November, I am going to committ myself to finishing something of my own. It doesn't matter what it is, and while it probably won't be the novel, something is going to be printed, bound in a nice folder with a title on a label with my name written printed on it as the author. So help me!

Blog Blues

I have a dozen unfinished drafts waiting to be posted but I'm not sure if it makes any sense to try. I got accepted to that webring and I even got a few compliments. But now I'm in a writing rut, and I'm starting to think that this was all just a bad idea.

I am not that funny nor profound, yet I really want people to read my writing. I have great ideas for things to write, but by the time I get to my computer, everything is lost. Carrying a notebook to jot things down doesn't always help because it is hard to write while driving or when out and about doing all the things I do.

Like dance class. I start back tomorrow and then I have a meeting right after that. Then my hub suggested that we check out one of the end-of-summer festivals in the area and that means my entire day is booked up and over. When am I supposed to find time to write?

I am not a morning person, and after last night it is becoming clear that I am not much of a night owl anymore either. I am always tired. I wonder if I'm sick, but then my hub will accuse me of being a hypochondriac (sp?).

I've had a rough week, and starting back at school only added to my stress. It took me 90 minutes to commute from my house to this campus location in Waldorf, which means that this is what I have to look forward to for the next six weeks. Yesterday it took me two hours! My entire day must now revovle around getting to and from this class.

As much as I like to drive, I have come to hate it more and more these days. I spend most of my vacations behind the wheel of the car because Rick gets too nervous and erratic when he drives in strange places. He finally developed enough nerve to drive in Brooklyn, but anyplace else and he is riding shotgun. Just like the entire week we spent in Florida; I did all the driving, as if I knew how to navigate through Miami any better than he did.

I feel like my ass should be permanently indented in the drivers' seat of the car. The car should be contoured to my frame, but recently that doesn't appear to be the case. A few weeks ago, Rick and I were driving back from New York with his mother, and on the first leg of the trip he drove. We get to South Jersey to change over, but as soon as I buckle in, the seat belt light starts to flash. Now it does that every time I drive, but whenever he drives, the light stays off. So now I have this light flashing all the time to annoy me while I sit in traffic on my way to wherever.

I need a new routine. I need a mechanism for interacting with other humans on a regular basis, and so far, that is not happening. I have no where to go during the day becasue I have no money and everybody is at work. The other women my age who are at home are taking care of their children. Children are cute, but must I have one to rejoin civil society?

When this work-from-home experiment began, I ate outside of the house at least twice a week, just for a change of scenery. Eventually, eating out got too expensive and costly on other fronts--I ballooned to nearly 175 pounds and now my cholesterol is high. (I'm 5'10, so no one really thought I was fat, but once the number 12 became more common in the dressing room, I got my act together.) So enter the much ballyhooed bike, my big ticket item of the summer. My thinking was that I would ride all around the city and keep in shape at the same time. Wrong. From that vantage point, cars are instruments of certain death, so I ride on the sidewalk and look like an idiot because even the kids are riding in the street.

The latest is that I am not speaking to one of my brothers. My parents have the nerve to suggest that I am being unreasonable even though he was the one who acted like an ass. So the hub and I have agreed not to eat there on Sundays until he offers me an acceptable apology. Since that won't happen, this Sunday will be the first test of my boycott, and I am prepared to hold out until Christmas.

Added to all of this, I broke down this week after receiving a package from another atty on this pro bono case that I never should have agreed to take. My client is literally a disaster waiting to happen, and I am totally in over my head. What the hell was I thinking?

I am a mess. A grand hot mess. This might be the first time that my winter blahs began in September...