Sep 02, 2015 @ 11:26 am | By TheFeministGriote | 6 Comments
I think about writing every single day. I start writing in my head, I go to my computer or cellphone to try and write,- and the bravery leaves. The words leave. The necessity to write leaves. This is my new normal, and it terrifies me.
These days, I light my altar to Dantor and sage my apartment, seeking clarity of mind and the courage,- I need to fight this invader that has infiltrated my mind and every day life. I am a writer and writers write, but what happens when you are a writer who is dealing with Dysthymia and struggles to believer their voice matters? That’s me. All the energy I have goes into surviving therefore, I don’t have energy to do the things I love. The things I love are the very things that promote thriving.
Dysthimia is a fancy way of saying that I occasionally get the blues. In medical terms, Dysthimia is low-grade chronic depression that can last up to two years, but it is not major depression.
According to WebMD the symptoms of dysthmia are as follows:
- Sadness or depressed mood most of the day or almost every day
- Loss of enjoyment in things that were once pleasurable
- Major change in weight (gain or loss of more than 5% of weight within a month) or appetite
- Insomnia or excessive sleep almost every day
- Being physically restless or rundown in a way that is noticeable by others
- Fatigue or loss of energy almost every day
- Feelings of hopelessness or worthlessness or excessive guilt almost every day
- Problems with concentration or making decisions almost every day
- Recurring thoughts of death or suicide, suicide plan, or suicide attempt
I am happy to report that I am doing much better, but Black Girl Twitter has been plagued with major losses. Very popular bloggers and entrepreneurs have taken their lives due to their battle with depression. I am very apprehensive to share this information about myself, knowing any potential employer can Google my name, find my blog, and read this post, but I don’t want shame to rule my life. I don’t want to be forced into a corner, silent.
If you follow my tweets then you know I go to therapy weekly, and have been doing so for the past year. The catalyst for me going to therapy was work. Summer 2014, something traumatic happened at my job that emotionally leveled me and I needed help dealing with it. Blackness in a white work space can be very challenging, but coupled with having mental, emotional, or physical issues, makes the ability to show up and be your authentic self very hard.
Many of you have come to know this blog through my Twitter account and you have come to rely on my pop-culture critiques, my views on race, and of course, feminism. I miss this dialectic relationship. I wasn’t talking at you; we were learning and evolving together. I want this relationship back, but so many times I would try to write and I would be rendered immobilized by my fear and sadness that perhaps, I have lost my Black Girl Magic. Fear that I suck as a writer. Fear that I have nothing original to say. Fear that I am not worthy of writing. Between all the changes in my life, professional unrest, and the dysthymia, it was very easy to let fear rule me and silence me, but like my ancestral – mentor Audre Lorde said, “Your silence will not protect you.” I know this now, which is why I am breaking my silence. Some day’s, I am literally just trying to center myself in the truth of who I am and find peace and solace in it.
One other major event I was working on with my therapist led me to formally come out to my mother (a term that I abhor because I was living my life, doing me, and that term makes it seem like if the entire world doesn’t know you are gay or queer, then your love life is not legitimate, but here I am coming out in this blog post to you all. Oh the iron in this knee!) and to my shock, she didn’t throw me away. In truth, there is no word en Kreyol that is similar to the English word “queer.” The only word en Kreyol that speaks to women who love women is the word Madivinez, which is a slur en Kreyol, but oddly enough translates in English literally as “my divine.” So my Haitian immigrant mother has a divine, sacrilegious daughter who loves and lives differently. I am still trying to make sense of what it means to be the daughter that my mother probably never wanted, but still loved unconditionally by her.
My whole life I was convinced I was not loved fully, but I am happy to report that I am. I don’t know what to do with this information. I had a contingency plan for disaster. I didn’t have a plan for acceptance or love. As much as I hate to admit it, I did buy into the coming out propaganda. I thought my life was going to open up and I would reach the mountain top of self-actualization. The truth is, I am still overweight and struggling, my relationship with my mother is still on the mend, and I still have to show up to my life and do the work. I am practically a professional queer, so I wasn’t hiding. However, I am still trying to make peace and understand what it means to be out to my mother.
All this to say is that I missed writing and I missed you, reader. I understand that writing must also be part of my healing process. I purchased books and tried many things to rekindle my love of writing, but lately it has hit me that I just need to show up to my craft and not be attached to the outcome. So, I hope you will accept me back into your lives. I want to start blogging full-time again and I want to hear from you.
P.S. The doors of my PayPal stay open thefeministgriote[at]gmail.com
Categories: Mind Over Chatter