As Mental Health Awareness Month is coming to an end…

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.



Death came knocking at my door again

No, not for me

But still it came, uninvited and unwanted


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

session two, the about me.

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?

Once A Young Girl

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 Can’t Write For You

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?

Can I Borrow Your Black

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