To Tell the Truth
What’s your tell? How do you know when you are not doing well emotionally or mentally? As well as I know myself, this is a question I have been sitting with for almost a week now. I am so accustomed to complicated, and often painful, feelings, I don’t really give much thought to how they are impacting my actions. My range of emotions has always been so vast, I have learned to function, mostly without interruption, regardless of what is going on.
For example, I’ve lost my mind more times than I can count this year. This is not hyperbolic. I have sat in my room staring into space for hours, searching for something to hope for. I have looked into the eyes of my smiling children and only felt fear. I have laughed deeply and heartily with no joy in my soul. I have lost and found, and lost and found, my life’s purpose, or lack thereof, so cyclically that I may have actually created my own gravitational pull from so much spinning.
Between life, being Black in America, and the Panamania, for over a year, I have alternated between intense periods of activity and intense periods of productivity. Which are similar, but different types, of movement. Activity means I am moving, sometimes without purpose, but in motion, nonetheless. Whether it is from running after the Littles or painting, it is a release of the energy in my body. Productivity is laser focused execution of goal. Meal prepping, working out, taking classes… all things that feel like there is an actual result I can feel proud of. So, while I have been reminding everyone daily, take care of yourself, you need rest, you deserve stillness, I have spent my time, going, pushing, evading, running… from myself.
And it is not as though have not had difficult conversations internally. However, publicly, I have not shared much over the last year even though they have happened as frequently. Truthfully, I have exhausted myself with revealing and healing with no real answers and I am still overwhelmed with many of the issues I am battling with in my life. I have not written or posted a personal blog in almost a year. Sure, I have admitted days, or moments, are hard, but I have not revealed much of anything, socially, about myself. It’s because when it comes down to it, I don’t know what to say.
And that’s my tell, I’m concealing my struggles. Writing, but especially blogging, for me isn’t just an exercise in creativity. It isn’t merely a hobby or occupation. It is therapeutic and gives me closure when navigating through hard times. I am often lauded for being open and transparent, but I only share what I have overcome. I only admit mistakes I have learned from and moments I have grown through. Even when it feels fresh or raw, everything I post is a wound that has been stitched, sutured, bandaged, scabbed over, and fading. But for the last year, I have been picking at every injury, actively preventing them from healing. Because I am still deeply entrenched in the hardest parts of life right now it feels dangerous, reckless, and irresponsible to share them.
It’s not that I have nothing to say, it’s that the sentences are still being written, the paragraphs aren’t complete, and the conclusion… well I don’t think any of us feel like we know how things will end these days. The thought of always returning to a problem you have been unable to solve for a year is exhausting. Some days I wish I could lay it all out and we could work on it as a group project. However, just like I can’t tell you how to crawl out of your darkness, I don’t write seeking assistance or support out of mine. I don’t want external input on the work I can only do. And that leads me to silence. That lets me know I have a lot of work to do. That lets me know, I’m not okay. Instead of feeling defeated by this admission, I appreciate the fact that I have allowed myself extended time and space to feel things uninterrupted by obligation to be “okay”. I am not rushing to the finish line anymore. I am not requiring, or demanding, answers more than I am seeking and insisting upon patience and awareness. As chaotic as my physical activities may seem, emotionally I have settled into a lengthy war and have resigned to battling one thing at a time.
I miss ya’ll forreal. But, like Friyana once so eloquently stated, “art without authenticity is propaganda,” and I don’t want to lie to you.