Don’t question Me [533]

Having to explain yourself to society is one of the most exhausting and daunting experiences of life. The annoyance of repeatedly having to define who you are and what you like and don’t like and why that’s okay; all the while somehow still being put into a category’s of this or that, and STILL subsequently, being pinned against others similar to you for not being a homogenous demographic or turned into a caricature for entertainment and criticism.

That’s what I seems being a black woman is. Having your blackness and womanhood measured on a scale, being compared and contrasted to others whilst simultaneously having your sense of reality and self be constantly ridiculed and invalidated.

As a young girl I never understood why people would ask me convoluted questions relating to my characteristics or label me as some overtly offensive adjective all while comparing me to my counterparts and insulting them in the process. “Oh well you’re an Oreo but they’re ghetto”. Please educate me on how I’m a cookie and what makes me not ghetto in comparison to them? Oh well you “act white” (translation: you don’t care presumably “black”things and that’s not normal to me).

[pregnant pause]

So you’ve type casted me and you’re confused that I’m not what you think a black woman is, meanwhile your insulting her (because let’s not act like people don’t use ghetto as a derogatory term [its not]) to prove that we’re not the same and that’s interesting to you.

Cool….

As an adult, growing and gaining more autonomy over my existence granted me access to the new terms:  stubborn, mean, and picky- terms that made it known that I was not soft, malleable, easy. As if I didn’t have the option to choose what I did and didn’t accept in my life: as if I was insane for wanting to establish myself unburden and without criticism. In everyday conversations, I learned how easy it was to dismiss a black woman’s existence  and constrict her to a classification of herself because she’s done something deemed “wrong” or other. Being called ghetto for taking shots with friends and family, chastised for laughing too loud, called boujee for liking something others have yet to experiences, ghetto for singing the words to your favorite song too loud, shy because she doesn’t know anyone and isn’t social, the example are endless.

I consistently have to come to grips with the reality of being a black womanly in society. Two adjectives that somehow hold so much meaning yet are often times a subdivision of character traits that aren’t even given the freedom to coexist. Like you can’t be funny and serious, angry and happy, expressive and quiet. There always seem to be some fallacy at play when it come to  being a black woman in society. You must be strong and amicable or you’re labeled angry and difficult or you must be soft and aloof otherwise you’re too masculine.  Oftentimes black femininity is poked, prodded, and broken down to the most minute concept and explanation.

Being a black women, we cannot be rationalized and be contained to a set amount of adjectives. Our existence is not synonymous with one another. So please, the next time you try to label a black woman/girl based off of how you think she should be, remember to shut up. Nobody asked, nobody cares, and you don’t even know them.

Below is one of the first poems I wrote about just wanting to be liked. Desperately wants to be appreciated for my existence and nothing more. No labels, no adjectives, just loved and appreciated for being myself.

Enjoy,

jo 🤍

I spend copious amounts of time in my head. Trying to mold myself into being a better person, trying to be the perfect granddaughter, the perfect niece , the perfect cousin. I want to be the likable black girl. With no attitude, who’s approachable. But I’m hurt. I’m hurt from things I don’t remember or can’t comprehend. I’m hurt from death and love and hate and happiness. I walk in fear. Fear of being hated, fear of being liked . I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of living. I’m scared that I want to die. I’m lost in a sea of confusion because I can’t seem to puzzle together who I am. I can’t seem to get an exact understanding on who or what I want to be. Wondering if I’ll be judged for throwing shade, for laughing too loud, for crying too much, for not talking enough. Constantly walking on my heels. Fearing rejection and ridicule. Afraid of being mocked and made fun of, rejected and dejected. I spend every second of every minute of every day trying to fix myself. Trying to be something I don’t know or understand. I try and try and try to be this girl I was taught to be, this girl I was told to be. But now I’m here, 22 and unable to explain or understand who I am, what I like, what I enjoy doing and why. Here I am, lost, in a ocean of words and letters and numbers and patterns all that I don’t understand, all that I can’t rationalize because I struggle. I struggle to understand me.i struggle to want to understand me. I simply just am and I do: and I continue to not.

Tell me a story thats not in the books [3330]

We as humans struggle to open ourselves up the the possibility of platonic and romantic vulnerability. One could argue it’s out of fear or inability to become open and raw with someone but, I think the reality is it’s difficult for us to see ourselves completely and unblushingly.

There are people who undoubtedly have it- the confidences, the flair, the drip- and they know it and they will let you know it. Yet, there are also people who know they haven’t achieved such accolades and they shelter themselves behinds the need to maintain control or to maintain a facade of themselves as someone their not, to protect their true selves.

Life oftentimes has a tendency to harden folks, make them feel as if they need to mute themselves for others— for themselves; and often we spend our life being a muted, drowned out version of who we truly are.

It’s the glimpse of ourselves that escape when we let our guard down. It’s about the emotions that we invoke in the people when we allow for them to see us for who we are. In the moments of pure and uninterrupted vulnerability, we show the people closest to us parts of ourselves that we have yet to become acquainted with. In the moments where they love us, appreciate us, honor us— even when we fail to do so ourselves— they show us that we are seen.

I wrote this poem with the image of a eulogy in mind. Wondering who would you trust to tell your story. I wrote this with the intention of shedding light on the budding fear of intimacy.  Personally, it’s seems to me that even in life we have this fear of having our story’s told, our personalities shared, and our achievements recounted.

Through fear and doubt we continue to live in the gray area but the question remains, how will we ever live a life worth telling if we’re too scared to share our story? With a eulogy, your life, more-so the impact you left on everyone who loved you, is presented. And that begs me to wonder, would you trust them to tell the story of your life? Why? And if your answer is no one, why is that?

Enjoy,

jo 🤍

If I wrote the story of your life on paper would you trust me to tell everyone how perfect you are? How wonderful you make life just from being?

If I strung sentences together like music on a sheet to write you the most beautiful song of admiration, would you believe that I cherish you?

If I could tell you in so many words how special you were through language succeeding reality or tools of literature to build you a fortress of solace, would you believe it?

If I took all of the knowledge and memory and feelings from my heart and mind to show you my soul would you read it?

Please?

Language: Laziness Vs Unmotivated [2094]

I think our society has a miscommunication of language or rather a lack of understanding of emotional capacity. We easily  become so wrapped up in terminology or the ideologies of right and wrong that we easily lose focus of what’s actually important; which is the growth, maintenance, and preservation of self. 

The reality is that most people don’t know themselves. The blame can be easily placed on the individual, since it’s their job to know who they are. For example, it’s no one in particulars job to know who Jo is, besides Jo. Yet we set these unrealistic expectations and realoties based off of external opinions and perceptions. Yet society easily places a plethora of pronouns and adjectives that are oftentimes unflattering. 

The word lazy can be easily thrown at you when another persons reality doesn’t match your own; when you’re ball stops rolling despite having all the momentum in the world, when you decide to rest rather than keep fighting. It’s easy to get roped into the idea of more, now, faster; but what do we do for the people who need less, later, slowly? When the haste of simply being is overwhelming. The casual ferocity of surviving in todays society makes it difficult to settle into living, to accept that you are alive. 

The lack of empathy for others makes it difficult to authentically connect with ourself and others when attempting to understand ourselves through others. Simply gauging how our reality fits into the narrative of a story that isn’t ours. Because that’s personal.

I challenge these critiques with the counter argument of what about them? What about that persons reality and what they are going through? Would that person consider themselves lazy and what’s stopping them? Now ask how you would feel if you were that person. It’s easy to say someone isn’t on the path that we projected for them or doing the task, goals, and accomplishments that we expect of them. 

I’d like to say; don’t get me wrong,  people can still be lazy; BUT I think there’s a lack of understanding for other.  I think easily we forget that despite living in the same world, our realities are not the same. A simple mundane task for one can be a 3 part list that involves 4 breaks. You can have every intention in the world to complete a task or achieve a goal yet if you’re not mentally, emotionally, or spiritually there, then more often then not those task or dreams are nothing but a thought.  

I think judgment plays a role in this, truthfully. But it’s languages, semantics. The laziness of one is the lack of motivation for other. People can have the grandest plans but without the basics of support, motivation, inspiration, energy, resource, etc. a simple task or extraordinary dream can we morphed into nothingness. 

I say all of this to say be kinder, try not to judge because the 24 hours you have are not the same as the next persons. And be kinder to yourself because when your able be gentle with yourself you can be gentle with others. 

Peace

Jo

Enjoy this small writing 🖤

I oftentimes overthink the nuisances of myself and in doing so I become so stagnant with ideas and guilt and ideas of guilt over trivial things that no one  should feel guilty over. I forgot to be human; how to function, how to keep going. So I’m holding myself accountable. So here, here is my heart in words I’m too afraid to say. Written in themes that I cannot comprehend in any other way but through my writings. 

The art of being confused and daze [1009B]

Y’all I truly couldn’t tell you what’s going on in life. Sometimes I feel like I’m floating, other times I’m acutely aware of what’s going on. I’ve lost friends, moved into my first apartment, started and ended my dating journey— and honestly,  I’m overwhelmed (and underwhelmed ironically). You could say I need a therapist (we’re getting there) but to be quite honest, I feel like I’m just vibing with life. 

In my absence I’ve furnished a place that I now call home, written several chapters for books that I’ve published then deleted out of fear,  built more houses in the sims then logically necessary to sooth what I can only claim to be a mild shopping addiction (shout out to the people who create mods; without you EA would be a tragedy), and cracked the 200 mark on my poem stash.

The pandemic, and everything else that life throws  has just made me feel numb to the world for a short period of time and from that I felt like I started what some may call a healing journey. For a while I thought I was lonely. From losing friends and moving into uncharted territory on my own.  But weirdly,  in my loneliness I found contempt. Truthfully, it all just seemed a clusterfuck of everything happening at once. Turning 24 and 25, facing a global pandemic, moving into my first apartment, losing people emotionally and spiritually, starting and leaving jobs for my sanity. But I realized this was normal, this was life.  

In my youth I never understood why people complained so badly on their twenties as if it was the biggest mystery of life. But so much happens. Family members you look up to grow older and some unfortunately transition; you find and lose love: romantically and platonically; you change, be it subconsciously or not. So much happens that you lose touch with yourself and sometimes reality. 

2020 to present felt like a reckoning for realization of self. I realized that I no longer enjoyed cooking and I wasn’t sure if it was because I hadn’t joyfully done it in a while or just because of some psychological reason beyond me but I want to learn again. I realized that dating in this day in age isn’t for me; not because of the subtle nuisance of romantic social interaction but because I’m foolishly in love with love and sometime I feel like people don’t deserve me in my raw state . I realize that I was  emotionally codependent on my friendships and that I can only confess this because of my tragic relationship with my family and my need for love and validation.

I cried a lot to get to where I am. And although just existing currently, that’s ok. I’m reintroducing myself to me because I know that  my solitude and stability is my sanctuary. And I think right now that’s my biggest  accomplishment. I’ve never felt more at peace in myself then I have now. A little confused and a little dazed but I’ve never felt more happy to be me then I have right now. 

-jo

Truthfully I don’t know why I wrote this but it seems perfectly fitting for this entry. Being the oxymoron I am, I feel stiflingly invigorated. So we’re just here, hoping to catch onto whatever is going on. 

I’m bad at expressing myself because sometimes I feel stuck. Like a impression of the person I wanna be who can’t quite get the language right. Who’s arms don’t move correctly and whose lips never form the right words. I feel foreign in a land I’ve known my whole life. Tired and drunk on poisoned libations that were given to me by enemies of unknown nature. I feel lost, I feel confused. I feel stifled by the shrouds of loneliness that I know don’t really exist. In a crowded room full of strangers I never really knew. I feel inorganically made. As if my skin was a cosmic suit that I hadn’t put into the right body. 

So, its a new year? [2000]

Apologies for my absences but 2021 has been kicking my ass and teaching me lessons I didn’t know I was ready to learn. On my 4 month hiatus I’ve turned 25, moved into my first apartment, started relationships and ended relationships, lost and gained friends, got a new job, fell in and out of love with people and things, lost loved ones and experience enormous grief and mourning all while attempting to understand the woman I am and the  woman I’m becoming everyday. Somewhere along the line my depression and anxiety got the best of me and it manifested into radio silence. I deleted my instagrams (several times), I withdrew myself from conversations and relationships, I stop existing in the world other than when I needed to work and rest. I let fear get the best of me. Fear of the unknown, fear of loneliness, fear of rejection and honestly I needed to sit with that. I desperately needed to let 2021 be my resting year just to stop and get ready what was going on around me and inside of me. And truthfully I can’t say I’m better now because my growth is not a linear path but I can confidently say I’m better enough to try, to begin to express myself, to let you in to how I’m feeling and what I’m doing and what I desperately need from myself and you. I had no intentions of writing for New Years cause it’s so cliché; but in the wake of a slight wine hangover and this wind that’s whipping against my windows I feel like it’s necessary. I’ve never felt more certain and calm in my existence. I’m no long afraid of letting you in to see me, to know me; so I’ll let you in, even if it’s temporarily. 

Happy new year, god bless you, and I truly hope this year heals us all.

-jo

Oh.

Below is one of the many expressions I wrote in my time of distress. I was tired and angry and over it. The vulnerability was becoming a weight that I wanted to throw back at people with a vengeance. 

In my reflection and attempt to grow as a person I’ve invited some of you too deeply into my life. You’ve come to think that your perception of me is my reality and I am here to tell you it is not. In trying to attain some semblance of emotional understanding as to why so many people have taken my worn distraught as a sign to chastise and criticize me. Well today I tell you to stop. Stop telling me who I should and shouldn’t be. Stop forming opinions based on the molecular glimpse into my soul that I give you. Stop assessing my actions and thoughts as if it is a spectator sport for you to observe and judge. I am not here for you to tell me how to live. And it’s quite disheartening that my trust so quickly turns to judgement. I’ll give you one final warning and then I’m shutting down. This journey was a waste of time; life was better when no one knew me. 

Maybe love isn’t real [2059]

I don’t have many words to express this feeling… shockingly. But I felt overwhelmed by love that I don’t have, love thats present everywhere, and love that is constantly refused yet selfishly absorbed. I was dumbfounded by the concept of love and just how misunderstood it was and how misunderstood we were by it. This is my understanding (or lack there) of love.

Maybe it’s my imagination but love has been disillusioned. I say this because sometime I feel sad. For being in love with so many things and so many people that it almost feels ridiculous. For being so fragile that a gust of wind could shatter my heart. But sometimes love seems so tainted, so damage by the fragility of humanity that maybe we don’t get it because we don’t deserve it. From the feelings of anger and grief and jealousy. Or the fallacies of ambition and hope and the simplification of happiness. Maybe love is an imaginary thing because sometimes life and emotion bleed into each, ebbing and flowing like water down the drain. Maybe it never existed because we never let it. 

I feel numb [1004B]

I always have these moment where I feel so many emotions that that merge into nothingness and I wonder is something wrong with me? Always trying to fix myself despite the tsunami of emotions that cloud my mind everyday. I think, as a defense mechanism my body makes me feel nothing; that’s why I struggle: to compute, to complete, to communicate.

In my grave emotional state I feel utterly and completely empty and therefore, I feel as if I should stay silent, move less, think more. Most of the time, in doing so I think myself into a depressive state… which I know has you probably like “seek help” and trust me I know but it’s hard finding a black therapist with shitty work benefits. So I try to make the music soothe me, meditate, ask my ancestor for guidance. But there’s only so much you can do in the world.

I don’t feel bad but I don’t feel good. I feel numb. What is that? Below is a poem I wrote when I felt like this. It encapsulated my emotions perfectly because even now I feel like I’m commuting foreign words.

I’m usually able to write based on emotions I feel but as of recently I’ve been empty. Like an avocado with no pit, the earth with no core, I’m empty and aching and I can’t seem to feel. When I went to cry my eye well with tears I know not of and my heart aches with pain I can’t quite articulate and I am empty and barren and numb. I can’t feel anything and it almost makes me wonder who I am; just barely enough to care before briefly retreating and refusing and replacing those emotions I want with the logic I know with the pain that I feel.