Does this life truly change?
Or do I get to keep these demons for life?
Do I finally own them?
Keep them and officially
Give them permanent room
To board in this life of mine?
Am I supposed to love them
And maybe accept them
Because they might stick here
With me for this entire lifetime?!
What if I let them be
And they ravage me completely?
What if welcoming them
Means chasing hope away?
What if letting them in
Lets in unbearable despair?
What am I to do?
Can we just agree that goodbyes suck?
Even when they’re necessary.
Even when they’re good for you.
Even when they were long overdue.
Goodbyes come accompanied by grief.
There’s a part of you that you let go of as you bid adieu to whatever chapter of your life, a person, or a version of you.
You have to mourn the fact that something or someone that had been so familiar and a normal part of your reality, will no longer be part of your future.
I feel like I’m grieving various losses at once:
-A part of me that had been suppressed for years which resurfaced so powerfully lately, and it left me grieving the person I’d adapted to be.
-People I’d grown so fond of that had to go because I don’t tolerate disrespect or any form of bullshit.
-Methods of relating to people that I’d been taught by society but realised that they don’t work for me; methods that are so easy and comfortable.
-Reminders of people I lost to death and navigating both collective and individual grief.
-The life I thought I’d have and the one I see my peers already living.
This list isn’t exhaustive but it’ll have to do for now.
The last part about the life I thought I’d have, sort of hit a little hard lately. I see those I used to walk with vey closely and the lovely lives they curated for themselves. It reminds me of the prestigious path that I walked away from in order to live a life that was more authentic to me.
Don’t get me wrong; I wouldn’t trade my current life. I absolutely love the joy I derive from the meaningful work that I do, the life it’s afforded me, the flexibility I have to control my hours, the freedom to easily pack at a moment’s notice and go wherever I want, the peace of mind, the absence of burnout, and how it aligns to my unique personality. This right here feels like the dream I didn’t think was possible.
However, the dream came with such a high price. There was a lot to discard, people I had to walk away from, disappointments I had to issue, internal battles, lots of unlearning, and several other unsaid things. Nevertheless, the part that currently stings is the pain of having to start over again a couple of times.
New beginnings might be wonderful, but they’re also hard af! You find yourself in a new territory where it feels like you’re starting from scratch. There’s so much to learn, so much shit to figure out, lots of uncertainties to deal with, doubts occasionally assaulting you, and plenty of work.
It almost feels easier to just go back to what you were already used to because there’s such good comfort in familiarity.
Yes growth and changes can be painful. Yes there might be a price to pay. Yes there are also numerous joys to look forward to and expansion that will serve you well.
It’s okay to celebrate the new chapter while still grieving the old one.
It’s okay to miss something or someone but still be sure that cutting them off was the best decision.
It’s okay to affirm your choices while still wondering if you made the right one.
It’s okay to feel sad about the past while still excited about the future.
Goodbyes and grief will always accompany each other because where there’s new life, there was also death.
Currently listening to Cellophane by FKA Twigs and these lyrics linger:
“Why don’t I do it for you? Why can’t I do it for you?”
Those two lines slap really hard. The previous song I was playing was Two Weeks by her and someone in the comments said that she perfectly captured the feeling of longing for somebody. I couldn’t agree more. The part that hit home for me was:
“I’ll put you first, just close your eyes and dream about it
Higher than a motherfucker, dreaming of you as my lover
I’ll quench your thirst, just chase the high and stop your doubting”
Boy, don’t I know that feeling all too well! How it feels like to want someone and knowing you’d be what they needed, yet they are still aloof. It’s akin to wanting someone who does not want you or doesn’t want you as much. The irony being that at that very moment, there is most likely another person who wants you that badly but you are all aloof or not equally interested.
Here’s the thing though, I understand things better now. Previously, my ego would be the one to rescue me when the clowning got too much. It was just a matter of pride when I would notice the disrespect or being strung along.
However, I came to see it for what it truly was: the playing out of the Anxious-Avoidant attachment style plus codependency (the wanting to save/fix others). The people who triggered my Anxious attachment, got the version of me that would probably be singing those FKA lyrics and my clowning ass. Those who triggered my Avoidant attachment would basically get the cold heartless bitch version.
I was busy living out the two styles depending on the person who showed up. It was mainly my emotional unavailability mixed with the fearful wounded girl within who desired love but was scared of it. The one who felt like all through the years, she had to earn love and most times, she wasn’t even good enough for the love she was seeking.
And this wasn’t just in romantic set ups; this was everywhere and with everyone. I was either emotionally distant with you or eager to please, or a weird combination of the two. Thank goodness for all the therapists and people who’d share information online on these aspects and how to heal.
I did the work and I am still doing it. After all the hard work and good progress, came the painful realisation that I will never be perfect or “fully healed”. That I can live aware, do better, be more open, make great strides and still slip once in a while. That when I get triggered, it’s not an indicator of failure or not having healed.
Triggers will come but my response is what matters most. I can sit with whatever feelings come up then hold myself with plenty of grace and kindness.
A while back, those triggers came, courtesy of someone I knew very well that I would not date. But somehow, when the other person confirmed the same, it felt like a kick in my (non-existent) balls. I was hurt and found myself eager to please or get them just to prove that I could. I sat with those feelings to figure out why somebody I didn’t want bothered me that much.
Yes, there’s the whole Rejection Sensitivity thanks to ADHD, but the rejection wound cut deeper. Most importantly, it was just my ego because I’d had the upper hand but dilly dallied until power shifted when things got defined.
Anyway, the point of this whole post is to appreciate how far I have come and to acknowledge how things look different once you’ve faced (and accepted) your shit.
It’s been a really long time since I was here. To be honest, I am actually here because I can’t remember the login details of a different blog I started, Lol.
Now that I think about it, this is the perfect illustration of what today’s post is about. You see, I absolutely love this site. I created it 8 years ago and it was my wonderful online journal. I figured my vulnerability may as well be shared because someone out here might resonate.
Let’s just say, I eventually discovered I’m not as vulnerable as I thought I was. Vulnerability was okay when the people who came here were a little similar to me and related with what I was saying. But one thing I hadn’t factored, is just how much I would evolve and change into a whole new person.
I had already started to shy away from writing about some things. Then one time, my mum’s friend mentioned how she used to read my posts and had been genuinely concerned about my mental health. It was such a lovely gesture but that’s when it hit me that I was very exposed.
You see, it’s easier to be vulnerable with people who are like you or when it’s complete strangers. That shit hits differently when it’s people around you. I could break down all the psychological reasons why this is yet another thing that’s not okay and needs healing from; but that’s not the point today.
So when my online journal started to feel infiltrated and I could no longer be as open because I’d changed to a different person; I left. It sucked to leave because this is my baby, but I did.
Let’s face it, leaving has always been my thing. Oh escapism and avoidance were things I effortlessly did! At the core of it, I know it’s just the fear of being truly and fully seen.
Back to the couches. Today I had an epiphany while on my friend’s couch. Last night I told her I wouldn’t share the bed as we mostly do when I’m around, because I was in pain and needed to be alone. I explained that couches are always comfortable for me and even while staying with other friends, I usually prefer their couches.
This morning, the truth dawned on me: it wasn’t that I loved couches and found them safe, it’s that it was always safe to be by myself. On nights I wanted to process my emotions, or when I was in pain due to health issues, or my sense of safety had been threatened; retreating was my thing. And when I was in a place where I couldn’t just lock myself in a room as I do at home, I quickly run to the couch.
So couches aren’t my refuge or favourite delightful place. They are examples of how it’s easier for me to avoid being vulnerable with those close to me or simply allow them to be there when I am most vulnerable. It’s me being afraid of being seen because deep down, I fear they wouldn’t know what to do or wouldn’t hold space for that level of vulnerability.
It’s safer to hide behind couches than face reality. But it certainly isn’t healthy.
We deserve spaces where we can be seen in our totality and be embraced. Where we don’t have to partition our lives and have one person see this side of you and another knows a separate part. So that ultimately, nobody really gets to fully know every single bit of who you are.
Before 2021 ended, I remember my Guides asking me what it would be like for me to have a space where all parts of me could show up at the same time, and be beautifully accepted. I realised I didn’t know what that looked like. Therefore, I decided to indulge that. To dare to dream of such spaces. And most importantly, to begin working towards being ready for such.
Because you see, it’s possible to get that and still fuck it up. If whatever inside me makes me closed off or emotionally unavailable or triggers the anxious-avoidant attachment style, isn’t healed, I’ll either fail to notice those spaces or I’ll self sabotage when I get them.
Which means more work to do. I won’t lie, the amount of inner work I’ve had to do over the past several years, is A LOT. And seeing that I’m still a bit of a wreck after all the work, makes the idea of more work, a little daunting.
So I’ll hold myself with grace and kindness as I do this. I’ll be gentle with myself and remember that being human means that I’ll never be perfect, but I’m still adequately good as I am at this moment. I’ll sit with the things that come up, attend to them and grow because I am committed to investing in being the best version of who I am at each point.
Most of all, I’ll remind myself today that I can no longer keep hiding behind couches. I am worthy of being seen.
I can’t believe I’m seated here a whole 5 weeks post-op. Honestly, I had spent so much time freaking out and going through all the things that could go wrong, that I didn’t think of what happens afterwards. I had already prepared myself for all the risks: reacting to the anaesthetic, bleeding out and either needing a transfusion, or having my uterus removed to save me, dying on the table, waking up in the middle of surgery and screaming due to pain, and the cold theatre causing asthmatic attacks that kill me. But even if none of those occurred, I expected excruciating pain.
I remember that morning very vividly. Being a little sleep deprived, waking up around 5a.m and the major mistake that was showering with cold water because I was getting late. I was fairly calm, I had to force myself to not think because my blood pressure had been acting up and I was told if it didn’t stabilise, I’d be sent home. I had hoped I’d be knocked out before being taken to Theatre. Lol, I was wheeled all the way while I watched. The only silver lining was that I got to see the Theatre and it looked nothing like the cold dark rooms I had expected.
All I remember is being plugged onto machines and gadgets; the last thing I heard playing was weirdly, a song I didn’t even like: Extravaganza by Sauti Sol. Next thing I know I was back in my room surrounded by nurses and doctors. You’d think I’d be busy trying to rest, nah, clearly being a firstborn and control freak is not something that takes a break. I was busy ordering people around asking for all the warm clothes I’d packed plus a heater. Can’t blame me though, I was freezing and there was no way I’d allow an asthma attack to be my end after surviving surgery.
You know, it’s weird how things feel afterwards; my stomach felt strange but none of that excruciating pain. I don’t even know how to describe it. I woke up feeling as though I’d just woken up from a nap but yet to commence the surgery. Until I heard one of the nurses explaining to another that I’d just had an open myomectomy. Everything felt surreal; as though I was in the middle of a dream.
Remember me saying I was a control freak, I fought sleep the rest of the day! I was not about to sleep and slip into a coma or something (Lol, blame my over imaginative brain plus anxiety). Before I knew it, it was lunch time and family and friends started streaming in.
I must say, that day, it took some pretty incredible ladies to get me through. From the very sweet and understanding nurses, my doctor (she’s a kick-ass gyna), the wonderful anaesthesist (she had this amazing aura and was a ball of cheer!), and one of my closest girlfriends who had slept in hospital with me and got me through a lot! This woman travelled a few days earlier to be there as I prepared for surgery. I don’t think I’d have survived the overwhelming anxiety if it wasn’t for her.
Now look at me here a whole 5 weeks later and just 4 days away from completing my 6-week bed rest! I still can’t believe it’s over and I’m here.
Been doing some reflection on my healing journey (I had dedicated this entire year to healing of my body, emotions, mind (soul in general) and my spirit).
And healing is very messy; it brings out the worst from within because that’s what is getting addressed. Which means the worst in us is also projected outwards. Sadly, that easily flows over to others who are caught in what feels like a war path.
This got me thinking of how that played out in my life. Oh it sure has been messy! But those who’ve known me understood and watched the metamorphosis. For them I probably became better or grew into a version of me they’d appreciate.
But along came you, and unfortunately you landed right in the middle of my sorting things. Which meant you didn’t have the privilege of knowing what was going on. Enough times I’d feel like you truly didn’t know me and there were things you’d say or do that would leave me shocked at how you’d think of me that way. But soon enough I realised it was simply because you hadn’t met me fully; and it was okay because we hadn’t known each other previously.
So you had your perceptions and I had my perceptions of who I thought you were. But we were just two people going through personal journeys that made it harder for us to understand each other. You were going through your transitions and, I mine.
Along the way, we probably wounded and frustrated each other. Well, this is me apologising for times when I judged you wrongly, misunderstood you, projected my insecurities, wounded you with my words/actions and, failed to be there when you needed it because I was too busy sorting my shit.
This is me taking stock of my healing and realising that there were other casualties that I really need to address.
There’s a lot that my mind has had to process lately, in fact, this year generally. There’s still enough that I haven’t adequately processed yet, because I don’t even know how to.
At this point, I thought all I’d be dealing with, would have to do with career progression and getting a good house. Family wasn’t exactly a priority. But oh well, life has one big sense of humour, Lol!
I’d gotten to a point where I was perfectly comfortable alone and absolutely enjoyed it. I was certain that I didn’t want kids, except probably one girl if I changed my mind. And I really wanted a kitten! Haha, being the old lady with cats sounded enticing enough.
Then life, as it loves doing, threw me the ultimate curveball: fibroids (I won’t even begin with everything related to surgery). Suddenly, conversations all around me were about idle uteruses and how I needed to start getting children. All the gynaecologists I’ve seen and even the lovely old lady who was taking me through natural treatment, agreed on the same.
Me? Me who still felt like a kid on most days? What on earth was I supposed to do with a human child when I hadn’t even raised a pet all alone on my income?
It would also mean putting all my great plans on hold. Why would I sacrifice my dreams? There’s an entire planet to be toured. There are projects to be undertaken. Learning to be done. And a name/personal brand to build. It felt quite messed up and unfair, considering health issues had already stolen a big chunk of my adulting years.
But here’s what I plan to do: make the most of the available time. I have been given a pretty short time limit by the doctors. However, I’ll pack up as many things I can do within three quarters of that time. And towards the end of that period, I’ll pick up this conversation.
As I mentioned earlier, there’s the upcoming surgery. We already have a scheduled date and now it’s very real. Yes I have frequent moments when panic sets in. Which is understandable because I’ve never been cut up.
Again, like I said, life has a sense of humour. I had vowed that I’d be the only member of this family who never stepped inside a theatre. Everyone else had gone for one procedure or the other. I almost did too when I got admitted in hospital due to crazy tonsilitis. Since it was something I dealt with often, they had to be removed. But nope, I wasn’t stepping on a theatre table.
So early this year when I was told the only way out was surgery, I wanted to break down. Or just scream at life and vent all my anger plus fears. But I had had a conversation a few months before, with the woman who inspired my healing journey (I still can’t believe she died). That conversation with her reassured me that healing comes through different ways and I should be open.
I now feel more prepared. And finally accepted that being cut open and 6-8weeks of healing indoors, is the price I pay to get back to a fairly normal life.
My thoughts on all the above and others I can’t even write, are still jumbled up. But I’m making progress and slowly processing bit by bit.
Yes I still feel like if it was up to me, I’d have written out my life differently. But this is what came, and in the spirit of loving what is, I accept it. And with time, I’m also seeing how this was also a gift.
It has been many days since I started therapy and I still do not know who I am. Once, my therapist asked me to find that out and all I could come up with was that I am fluid – fluid, to mean that I become who I have to be in a given situation. I told myself that it was a good thing because it meant that I was adaptable and for a while I bought it.
Yet, that gnawing feeling lives on inside of my gut – I am empty on most days.
Since I started therapy I have been many things. I have been a stranger taking wine for my alleged first time with another one in town. I have been a nervous poet on one of the best stages one can ask for in this country. I have been the hurt church girl. And I have been the rebellious one.
True, traces of me seeped into those masks I pick up; I mean you do not lose who you are when you take on a character. But maybe the person that I really needed to be was a stranger to myself. Because that I all I feel lately. Lost.
And in pain. There is not a day that I sit to write a poem that the poem does not threaten to evolve into a rape poem. It seems lately as though everything traces back there.
And when tears well up, I start to remember my siblings and you calling me a crybaby and I no longer want to cry. I do not like how you used my sincere emotions as a weapon.
Recently a new acquaintance invited me to a psychologists’ meet up in town. They went on about victim blaming and I have to say it was a relief to know that you do not get to bear the burden of someone else’s choices. I still haven’t grown the balls to talk to my therapist about the number of times I was raped or those when it feels like everyone just wants the redemption story out of me.
I still am not able to accept that there was little I could have done to protect myself. And I still don’t know how not to feel like a crybaby every time I want to say what is going on with me.
I know I want this to be over. I wonder if I will ever find myself. And I wonder who I will discover myself to be. I cannot wait to never need to take on someone else’s skin to feel safe in public.
PS: It never works.
I cannot wait to stop counting the number of females in a room to know how many we are for a semblance of security. Most pressing though, I can’t wait to find peace. To stop feeling so fractured. Like a number of people live inside of me.
Still trying to learn to love you.
Sincerely,
M.M.M
PS: This anonymous guest post is a follow-up to this one, and hopefully going to be a series.
When I was young, I do not remember what age, my brother was bullying me, I told you and you told me to suck it up – not to be too sensitive.
I picked that lesson and ran with it. I learnt that if I met a bully, I was the problem for being the kind of person people want to bully.
In retrospect, I think you might have meant that only what we let affect us truly does – that we have the power.
But then, my young brain understood that every bully had a right to do what they wanted and every victim had a role to suck it up. Justice was dead. No victim in their right mind could demand for justice because they made themselves a victim in the first place.
So the first day the boy you adopted fondled my breasts and told me I was growing into a woman, I was riled up but I sucked it up.
I sucked it up when later on he snuck into my bedroom and raped me. I remember the first time. I was asleep and woke up to someone lifting my dress. I asked him what he was doing. He went on his business. I just lay there.
Later, I could not wash off enough the smell of sukuma wiki. It lingered. Like omena.
I sucked it up when he made it a habit and I started to feel like we were enacting a porno scene. Oh yeah, he showed me pornography in his phone. There was a girl. She was sleeping. And there was a man, he was sleeping with her. It was okay.
Looking back I wish I had known to talk, but strong girls suck it up, don’t they? Daddy?
Getting to campus was a wonderful escape. I would meet boys and girls who didn’t know me and who didn’t need me to be intelligent so that they can love me and it was like that – for a while.
Until I was depressed and I sucked it up.
When in gate C in Juja I visited a boy called Tom and he raped me, I sucked it up because that’s what we do.
By the time Joel did it again, it was no longer news. You get what is coming to you, don’t you?
After campus, I am now the bully. I keep telling myself how I don’t deserve anything good because I did not suck it up well enough.
The other day I got a tattoo. It was painful. After a few days, I didn’t like it anymore so I peeled it off my skin scale by scale telling my mind that that’s what pain feels like. I wanted to learn to love it. And to sear it into my head that I deserve pain.
The tattoo said Imago Dei. I have another one now with the same words. I will have you know that on most days, I don’t believe it.
I struggle to believe in a God that I felt you held hostage for your affection, but that is a story for another day.
Today, with this letter, and at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I’m just hoping to bring us to a place to talk. Do you want that?
At 26, I think I have done pretty decent for myself. I write now, dad, I’m a writer. And some people think a decent poet too.
But all I want, is to go to therapy. I cannot afford it. I have been waiting till I can but it doesn’t seem like it will happen soon. I have looked for parents in other people but no one wants to parent a child they didn’t give birth to and it’s not even fair to ask that of them.
I want to talk things out because I’m breaking down and I can no longer suck shit up. Nowhere feels safe and no one is to be trusted.
So read this as an attempt to reach you. I know you love me. You must. I have watched you pay my HELB every month because you know I don’t always afford it. I have listened to you call me just to say hi, so I know that I must have misunderstood you.
I know also that I must love you. I do not feel it right now, but it must be true. My sisters say that you are the best father ever. I trust their judgment.
I write because I don’t want to have to see your heart break, but I need for mine to heal. Tell me, when I’m done sucking up, what next?
Yours,
Estranged daughter
M.M.M
PS: this was one of the most heartbreaking posts I’ve had to publish. But this phenomenal lady always leaves me speechless when she writes. This is the kind of vulnerability that takes tremendous strength and courage.
I celebrate you dear and I’m proud of your journey ❤
Don’t be fooled, all the lies told to you left wounds deeper than you suspect. You might not discover it until something happens that acts as a trigger.
I heard him on a phone call. It was more professional than anything but she seemed to know him pretty well. He sounded like he knew she knows him that well. Maybe it was all the laughter. Maybe it was how he took her through a project he was on. Something he’s been working on but somehow never shared with me. Or even asked my opinion despite me previously having offered to help. Despite my making it clear how good I am at that. Despite all the times he’s praised my brilliant mind.
Well, I know I have no right to expect anything of the sort. His work is his, mine is mine. I have no right to raise eyebrows when he has someone who knows him like that. Of course we barely know each other. Let’s be realistic, it’s been too short a period.
But that didn’t stop me from suddenly having all kinds of doubt. It didn’t keep away that all too familiar feeling that once again, lies are involved. No, it didn’t even help that I easily identified it as old wounds at play.
I still began to question everything. What if he turned out to be like the others? What if the honesty and genuine personality was just a façade? What if I’d decided to trust when it wasn’t in my best interest? What if it was the reason I hadn’t shared exactly what was going on with my accountability person? She’s always been right whenever she expressed her doubts. I knew this time, she’d most likely flip!
But there’s something else I also have to grapple with: what if this is just the wounded girl trying to protect herself like she always does? What if my close friends were right in pointing out that I honestly don’t know how to be loved properly? Which is true. Anytime I felt someone getting too close and genuinely showing affection, my initial reaction is to run. To flee as fast as I can while pushing them away.
So this has nothing to do with him or with anyone else who’s tried. I’ve been reassured over and over. I have every reason to trust. But these old wounds simply won’t stop interfering.
Diary of A Loved Black Woman 