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| Isla Grande, Panamá |
Today is my 30th birthday. Bust a nut in my honor on today. I have been here with mi familia in 1998, Virginia (aka
Hampton) since August and have yet to backflip into traffic due to boredom.
Clap it up for me. This is the longest I’ve spent here in my hometown since
moving to New York in 2006. If I were 60 and down with spending my days in a
town as vibrant as Sandra Lee’s
spice rack, then Hampton would be the place for me.
Pero, no.
I need decadent food and a place to party where Top 40 Fuckshit
is not involved. These things are not common here. You see, I am from the
Shopping Center Capital of the Universe. Here, there are shopping centers
inside shopping centers.
Hampton is THE suburb. For example: when Steak & Shake
opened here this summer, the drive-thru line wrapped around the building TWICE
for TWO MONTHS STRAIGHT, because these bammas folks ain’t got shit else
to do. So, surely you can understand why I usually have night terrors by the 10th
day here.
1998, Virginia Insider Tip # 351:
Local pastimes include posting up at Club
Wal-Mart, getting in fights at The Alley, being wretched and quasi-Southern.
When in doubt: Take a deep breath, lower your expectations, and reassess the
situation.
I really miss Panama. I miss living the Tank Top Life. I miss eating fresh
fish and platanos, and sipping Ron Abuelo, swamp-crotched and happy, pon the
beach with The Blacks. That was the good life.
I miss the insane taxi drivers and Panama’s No Frills
Fucks approach to customer service. I miss arepas on Via España, oxtail at El Caribe, the Pabellón
Criollo at Los Venezolanos, my dope crew of Blacks, and, of course, the
Panamanian boys. It’s hot as fuck in Panama right now. It’s cold as fuck in
Virginia right now. I don’t believe in snow, so you must understand why, I masturbate
to memories of that glorious Panamanian humidity I am not thrilled about
the arrival of December, my birthday month.
Because: cold as fuck.
My homies
are still there, eating greatness and uploading pictures from the beach while I
am here in the Land of Bomb Ass Fish Sandwiches, ashy and bitter, jealousing
those happy, sun-kissed Black bastards so damn hard.
 |
| My reaction after receiving a care package containing grits. Panama, 2012. |
Battling artic winds and Occasional Public Ashiness this
fall has shown me yet another reason to hate Hot Chocolate Season: while having
broad shoulders and long arms is great while bending boys over wearing a
tank top, it is a terror for important, non-sexual things like purchasing
coats, jackets, long-sleeve shirts and other cold weather Fuckery. Eight times
out of ten, a fly jacket or long-sleeved shirt that flatters my
cheese-grits-and-chicken-biscuits-fed frame will be no match for my orangutan
arms. All Exposed Wrists Everything. Winter requires too many clothes. So, fuck
Winter as a staff, record label, and as a motherfucking
crew.
Pero.
I am enjoying myself here in 1998. The slow pace is exactly
what I need right now. It feels great to be surrounded by my family and good
friends. I sleep a few feet away from a fridge filled with love and empanadas. I
get to watch my nieces be 16 and 17 and awesome. I enjoy scrubbing floors and
smoking turkeys and dusting ceiling fans and watering plants and zooming to
Chick-Fil-a in time for breakfast and peeling potatoes and rinsing greens and
grabbing the Flavorwave Oven from the high cabinet and making breakfast for my
mother. And realizing daily how similar my Dad and I are.
I am recharging. I am eating like a motherfucker, writing
when I can, having wondrous sex, and doing the therapy thing. And, I’m almost
out of the It’s Gonna Suck Before It Doesn’t Suck part of adjusting to an
antidepressant, which is as fun as a seminar on Proud Blackness For People Who
Do Not Live To Suck Whiteness’ Dick Daily, taught by Don Lemon. That anxiety in that second week? Unbelievable. I spent a few days calming myself down with deep breaths and “You’re fine. You’re fine.” That hysteria felt like the months leading up to my first departure from Panama.
A month in with Zoloft, the jaw clenching has ceased. My anxiety has mellowed, but it's still very hard to concentrate. I sigh a lot. I sleep a lot. I smile less. Some friends have told me that these dulled emotions fade. Others say no. This is the first thing I've written in weeks, because writing has been terrifying. Things are weird. But this is all temporary, so I shall deal.
A month in with Zoloft, the jaw clenching has ceased. My anxiety has mellowed, but it's still very hard to concentrate. I sigh a lot. I sleep a lot. I smile less. Some friends have told me that these dulled emotions fade. Others say no. This is the first thing I've written in weeks, because writing has been terrifying. Things are weird. But this is all temporary, so I shall deal.
Okay, so, therapy. Therapy is fucking terrifying. Therapy is
terrifying and necessary and, I love it. Each week, I leave that session
feeling like a super hero. But in the beginning, I didn’t know what to expect. Who
does the talking? Does she keep score and does crying get me extra points? Will
I be plugged into a machine and analyzed? How many DK coins does The Answer
cost? Will there be chicken? And so on. Serious concerns had I.
Some suggested I push for a Black and/or LGBT therapist, so I
briefly considered seeking out a fellow Chocolate Homo. But I’ve been doing
just fine with my Nice White Lady. I was hesitant at first. I know she’s
trained to be very into me and my issues, but I was initially spooked by her
eagerness about my Bullshit.
“Why is she so excited about my Bullshit?” thought I.
Yes, the rumors are true: This is the first time, in 30
Years of Blackness, that I have intimately discussed ho shit and long-held
secrets with a Nice White Lady. It’s not nearly as traumatic as I thought it
would be. In fact, she’s down right fantastic.
Swan diving into my feelings—with the help of my Nice White
Lady—has been has been freeing. Digging up and sorting out old shit in therapy
has been freeing. Being honest, open and vulnerable (even when it hurts) has been
freeing. But all those warm and fuzzies don’t make it any less harrowing of an
experience.
Verbalizing lies that I’ve told myself forever is scary. Looking
at my patterns and connecting the dots between all my Bullshit has been scary,
powerful and helpful. Getting to the WHY of my Bullshit has been scary,
powerful and helpful. It’s not easy to be honest with myself in front of a
stranger.
The idea of therapy is strange. You employ a stranger to
hand you a flashlight to go digging through all the Bullshit you’ve tucked away
so masterfully and learned how to live around/without/despite. You know from
the onset that it’s going to suck/hurt/make you stabby, yet you go through with
it anyhow. You keep going back. And you hope for the best.
Six weeks in, I’ve been able to articulate why therapy is so
scary for me: I am an impatient perfectionist and there is no finish line with
this. I like margins and
discipline. I make lists of lists I need to make. I like tangible,
measurable goals. But how do you gauge a decrease in fuckedupness?
I have seen beautiful progress in the way I speak to and
about myself. I’m working on unlearning this negative self-talk that’s
remarkably effective at keeping a brotherman down. I’m the Janet Jackson of
discounting my efforts and accomplishments, so I’m working on unlearning that
as well, because all this greatness ain’t doing the world any good tucked in a
box under all This Bullshit. Life is weird as a motherfucker right now, but at
least I am can get excited about it, which hasn’t wasn’t possible a few
short months ago.
SO: I’m learning to appreciate this journey. Even the parts
that suck absolute Mississippi Republican Octogenarian bootyhole. Fighting
lupus has made me incredibly resilient. It also taught me to cherish every
lesson, especially the hard-earned ones. Normally, I’m all about that home run,
not impressed by RBIs or singles. The gigantic leap was all that mattered. BUT.
I am learning to value the
daily victories that make the leaps possible. Those daily victories are just as important as that big, life-changing
leap. Those bitches matter, too.
I can now give myself credit for LISTENING TO MYSELF, backing
away from everything and being selfish with my time and energy. For the first
time, I can recognize Clocking The Fuck Out as a necessary component of self-care,
and not an action of a Lazy, Wallowing Rat Bastard. It works. It helped.
I’m hopeful again. I’m daydreaming again. I am getting to
know a wonderful man who makes me laugh a lot. I'm looking forward to my podcast and creating and having my fly ass kitchen and my record player and my ginormous
bookshelf in my dopely decorated brownstone situation with wood floors in
Harlem or somewhere outside of Obnoxiously White Brooklyn. (If such a place
exists in the Age of Obama.)
This is a big deal. Therapy is a big fucking deal for me. Much
of 2014 year has been
A
MOTHERFUCKING
SHIT SHOW
and there were times this year when I didn’t expect/want to
see this day, Wednesday December 10, 2014. So, I am elated to be alive to eat cheese grits in 2015 and beyond. Sure, some days reeeeally
fucking suck, and it’s occasionally hard to even thinking about TRYING to DO,
but I am loved and appreciated, and I know that I have just barely scratched
the surface of my greatness. I’ve got a lot to live for, because if I don't provide a loving home in my belly for all the poor, uneaten chickens in this cruel, Ashanti-loving world we're in, who will?
Today, I'm thankful for my life, my mind, my dick, and my community. And chicken. Happy birthday to me and shit.
And, just in case, here's le Amazon Wishlist. I am also accepting Paypal-based generosities, gift cards, nudes, and chicken recipes.
And, just in case, here's le Amazon Wishlist. I am also accepting Paypal-based generosities, gift cards, nudes, and chicken recipes.
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