Therapy visits
To move the time that stands still
Growing pains won’t last
Therapy visits
To move the time that stands still
Growing pains won’t last
I pride myself on being an amazing mother, partner, family member, friend, human being etc.-and here’s why…
There was a point in my life where I was more angry than sad. I was sad because I was so depressed and i was angry because I truly felt like no one gave a shit. So much so that I tried to take my own life (this was years ago) and I wrote a suicide note, and turns out I kept it.
I’ll be honest I didn’t even know I kept it until I stumbled upon it yesterday digging through old journals.
And so I sat down and read it- I bawled. Y’all, I was so angry back then.
It broke my heart to read a letter I left behind for people who knew me and yet it was filled with so much anger and then there was part for Kannen and I told him that despite what anyone tried to tell him, his momma loved him.
Reading a note that was telling my son goodbye- whew, that hit different and it just…
It just really broke my heart.
My point being that as #mentalhealthawarenessmonth comes to an end, I want my family, my friends, other human beings, etc. – I just want you to know I care, I’ll always care- even when I say I don’t…I do.
I will be your vault, your shoulder to cry on, your person, your safe space-I will be what you need in the moment you need it the most.
It’s important that we remind those that we love just how much we love them.
You never know what people are going through.
I love you guys with everything I have and then some.
✨🖤✨
Home for the holidays carries a different meaning when home isn’t the place it used to be
There can be no holiday cheer if those standing refuse to make a sound
Look around
The people that you used to see
Have been replaced with memories of how it used to be
Silence has filled the seats we left empty
Death came knocking at my door again
No, not for me
But still it came, uninvited and unwanted
Unexpected
As it had come so many times before, I knew it’s knock
A knock you never expect until it is already pounding at your doorstep
Catapulting you into a reality that no matter how many times you’ve been before, still it takes your breath away
We are on a first name basis
No formalities
Candice, you know the drill
There I stand in NOT sadness, but pure hatred
You sick son of a bitch
When will it be my turn
Why do you insist I be in your audience only to witness your disgusting performance
The screams I am begging to stay buried leave no room for grief
I am angry
I am livid
Is this your idea of grief
Is this a part of your sick and twisted humor
All emotions but the one I need
Angry because I’m guilty
Guilt that my anger leaves no room to grieve
Lonely because I refuse to be consoled
And in this toxic circle there I sit
Bargaining with death
But he’s already gone
Just as quick as he came, he left even quicker
Leaving me with nothing but our memories and the future plans we made
He didn’t come for me but I feel him all the same
How’d you sleep last night? •I didn’t.
Are you having any thoughts of harming yourself? •Do I strike you as an individual who would harm herself?
Do I look like I need help?
Tell me how should I dress my anxiety.
And does PTSD come in plus sizes?
Do I look like I’ve been up all night fighting a war that I never signed up to fight in?
Is my depression showing again?
It likes to hog the spotlight.
Every corner I bury myself in, no matter how deep, my depression digs it’s way out.
My best friends are the worst, though it is them who I turn to, to ensure I am alone.
My anxiety knows no one will ever love me like she does, therefore she tightens her grip when I try to speak.
There is no place that I can hide where they can not find me
And how do I fix my lips to tell them to leave me alone
How do i abandon the only two friends who have stuck by me no matter how hard I’ve tried to push them away
My depression is the sentence that I was born to serve and every time I think about trying to break free, my anxiety reminds me that no one will love me like she does
Where else will I find love that unbinds me in ways I could never explain
She keeps her hand near my mouth, in hopes I don’t say the wrong thing and when she screws up
My depression is there for damage control making sure I am hidden while I can swim in my own defeat, leaving me to drown in my own puddle of mistakes
Pardon my symptoms, they tend to speak out of turn but to answer your question…
No I don’t feel like killing myself today.
I can think of everything i want to say to you
But come the time and i can not write it
Words unheard, thrown to the curb
Seems my soul has been silenced
Look in my eyes and you’ll see the signs
Promise they will guide you right in
Listen for the skipped beats of my heart
And no doubt you’ll find what I’ve been hiding
In a field full of red roses
I am black and wilted
I’ve been here a while so I hang low but still I try to get your attention
Pick me, I want to scream
But my pride won’t step aside
If you could just look past my missing petals
I swear I’m beautiful deep down inside
No hidden thorns
No buried secrets
Just longing to be grabbed by my roots
Hundreds of hands have touched them
But none of them were you
What do I do
Words have failed me
And words were all that I had left
A silenced soul nourishes nothing
But a love on its last breath
And in those final moments
Still I’ll say all is well
A love lost in words unspoken
Another story I’ll never tell
Clenching the arms of the chair I sat in, I worry the next name to be called will be mine.
Am I really ready to do this?
The door is opening. The fucking door is opening.
Is it to late to leave? I may be coming down with something.
I think I forgot to cut the stove off.
Shit, she called my name.
Where do I begin?
How do I accurately describe the being that is me?
I am a Gemini.
Maybe that’d be enough in searching for your soulmate, because I hear Gemini’s are a catch.
Sorry. I’m deflecting.
Coping mechanism.
No eye contact.
She just asked about me avoiding eye contact.
Which further makes me avoid eye contact.
See because the second our eyes meet you will see the tears begging to be free and I will have no
control and I will let them go.
So, no. Definitely NO EYE CONTACT.
I am now digging my fingernails into my palms.
The slight tingling pain distracts me from how
uncomfortable I am sitting here trying to
open up scars only to discover new ways to close them again.
See what she doesn’t realize is that while she is asking her next question,
I am thinking about all the things I have left undone at home
Did I lock the door when I left?
Did I leave the milk…wait did I leave the stove on?
Where were we? Yes, I’m sorry.
I’ve been diagnosed with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD
Is there a pill that would allow me to be happy?
Something that’ll make me stop thinking that my death is around the corner,
control my anger outbursts,
all the while keeping me awake to take care of my children.
I so desperately want to be whole again
I am willing to carry all the pieces of myself to you once a week
so that we may sort through the bad that has made me who I am
and the good that will determine who I’m going to be.
Is there anything else you want to know about me?
Barbie dolls and hair bows
That’s what I dreamed it’d be
Instead innocence and security
Was ripped away from me
Young girl turned quick
Delicate skin forced thick
Hesitant to talk about it
No one else ever did
Shit like this shouldn’t happen to a kid
Where do I start
How do I begin
I trusted this guy
Because who wouldn’t trust a family friend
On my back I lay still
Hoping my silent screams
Reached the ears of anyone willing to listen
Because this can’t be right
This can’t be the way I learn about love
This can’t be how I learn about intimacy
His pants have come down
And now his penis is exposed
I am one step closer to intimacy issues
I am one step closer to never fully trusting a man
I am one step closer to the battered soul I’d soon claim to be mine
I am one step closer to depression that leaves me in the same position I was in when this all took place
On my back I lay still
Penetration came next
Is this considered sex
Am I supposed to be this scared
The sound of my suppressed tears must’ve been loud
Because I looked up and saw my mother standing there
The words “save me” fled from my closed lips
The ones on my face and in between my legs
She did her part
She showed up
Wiped her daughter front to back
But there was no conversation
Just hesitation, hugs, tears, her breast cancer, and then her death
The first of many bags I’d learn to carry alone
Barbie dolls and hair bows
That’s what I dreamed it’d be
Instead innocence and security
Was ripped away from me
Young girl turned quick
Delicate skin forced thick
I came across a post on Facebook a couple of days ago and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It was posted by another writer and I remember reading it and immediately thinking, I wish more people would get this.
The post was a quote and it read, “I wasn’t born to convince you to believe me. I choose to show up in this space for me and for the ones who find comfort in my art. I talk about the dark parts of my childhood because those stories are worth telling. It’s my way of giving a voice to my inner child. It is okay with me if my art doesn’t resonate with you. I didn’t create it for you.”
I think the reason those words are still with me is because I didn’t always think that way. As much as I agreed with these words, it forced me to think about the time in my life where I felt the complete opposite.
Are my words good enough?
Am I good enough?
This was a constant thought. I would hesitate to write anything in fear that my words and experiences wouldn’t be good enough for those who would actually take time and read it. It was exhausting quite honestly. I would analyze experiences that I went through trying to word in it ways that would satisfy OTHER PEOPLE. Crazy right?
I would become obsessed about who was reading my work, or if anybody was reading it all. I focused more on what others thought of my work instead of my actual work.
It wasn’t just in my writing either. I sought approval and acceptance in just about every aspect of my life. I needed to be loved. Loved by anyone and in any way just as long as I wasn’t alone. My mother had died, and my father had chosen not to be a part of my life. Can you imagine for a second what it is like hearing adults as a young child who just lost her mother conversing back and forth on who would be able to take in two kids that are now motherless. It isn’t what I would describe as comforting, lets just say that.
I grew up desperate for attention but was always too sad and ashamed to ask for it. It was a war I fought internally and alone. So I started to write. I wrote poems, I wrote stories, hell I wrote diary entries hoping an adult would go through it and find my cries for help. And when I didn’t get the response I thought I would, it sent me even deeper in the hole I dug for myself. It was a type of hell I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
If I’m being completely honest, it wasn’t until roughly two years ago that I truly saw how dependent I was on the approval and acceptance of others. I wanted to be loved so badly by others, I totally forgot about loving myself and knowing that loving myself can be enough. And I’m still a work in progress but it’s IN PROGRESS.
I’ve come a long way.
So when I saw that post it just made me think about how far I’ve come, and the roads I’ve traveled. Made me realize that I used to write to be right, and now I write because it’s simply what I love to do. I write for no one other than me. It’s how I express myself. It’s how I survive. To be able to write down and free the words and thoughts that have held me back for so long is a feeling I may never be able to describe but it is MY feeling.
I guess what I am trying to say simply put is that I used to force myself to color inside the lines because I thought it’s what everyone would like. I thought a perfect picture is what would make me worthy. And now? Well now, my focus isn’t staying inside the lines. I draw what I want and how I want. Some people love my artwork, and others don’t. And while it’s okay for people not to like my art, just keep in mind, I no longer draw for anyone but myself.
Isn’t it crazy what feelings can surface from things we see on social media?
With every swallow of hated caviar your diversity grows
That is what my Black is to you
Will I ever be more than your accessory
The hand me down necklace you only wear when you need to feel better about yourself
I am the conversation you hesitate to bring up
The favor you hate to ask for
My Black is the beauty you hate to admire
Unless it is admiration you can take credit for
Can I borrow your Black, she asked
Can I make you feel important enough to feel included
So that when I show off your color as my own
People will think I am genuine when I preach about equality
She wants to borrow my Black
As if my Black is something I offered to sell to the highest bidder
As if my Black is something I hand out when I need to be loved a little harder
You want to borrow MY BLACK
Would you take it if it came stained with blood
Would it still be valuable to you on the days it didn’t shine as bright
Would you still wear me if it meant you may not survive being pulled over
Are you willing to wear ALL the shades that make me
My Black is not here for your entertainment
I am not a pawn you can put in play so that you’ll be voted as the most likely to succeed
My Black is not the answer to the sins committed by your mother and father
My Black is not your salvation
My Black and all that comes with it
The terror, the pride, the success, the beauty, the wrongful deaths, the inequality, the assumption that I am the criminal in most rooms, did I mention the bravery
Baby that is all me
And it is a privilege
So no
Hell no, you can not borrow my Black