On Heartbreak

    There are those fortunate ones who have fallen in love, grown to love, and have somehow managed to experience the magic of eternal unconditional love. The closest I have to that is the commitment that my parents have made since their acknowledgement of my existence and the love I have forged with myself. The latter being forged out of desperation and necessity. It has come to be one of my unregrettable decisions.
    However, before I grew into love and formed the magical blissful eternal love with myself, which is certainly a work in progress, I experienced the weight and load of depressing heartbreak. In some ways, I am still climbing out of that depression.
    My earliest heartbreak was a result of my exultation of my father. I absolutely adored him. He was my pillar. My hero. His words were law and held the weight of finality. To me, the words that escaped his lips were the truest gospels.       I was around six or seven when my heart was broken, though it was not yet shattered. The obvious disappointment my father displayed when he disproved my behavior was what broke my heart. My innocence at the time shielded me from the fatality of a shattered heart. However, the wretchedness that came with the sense of disappointment and perceived rejection of my father was as painful as any heartbreak could be.
      Unfortunately, my psychological response to the perceived rejection and anger that I experienced when hearing my father's booming voice each time I displeased him was not the only experience I had with heartbreak. At times, I suppose, I wish it were. I had my first "crush" when I was in third grade. Like my father, this crush of mine became a demigod. Of course, he did not reprimand me or get angry like my father did, but the rejection I experienced was still a blow. With that sense of rejection came the seed of self-doubt. Yet, my innocence remained a protective shield.
      As time passed, I learned to hide my emotions, particularly those of affection. It was not simply the one or two crushes, but rather the constant beating I gave myself after each perceived failure or rejection. When adulthood arrived, I was emotionally and spiritually beaten. By then, I rendered myself hopeless and disgraceful. I dreamed of possibilities that I believed impossible. My lack of faith won me over in my relationships, especially those that required a higher level of intimacy.
     The day I decided to love myself was the day I decided to relieve myself of the stories I carried with me since my earliest years. Stories about my worth, about power, about love, about others. It took a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and a lot of self-talk. It took tears, screams, inaudible cries, and persistent nightmares. It took honest conversations with strangers, friends, family members, and myself. It took (and still takes) constant re-evaluation of my self-perception and the perceptions and ideas of others that I allow to influence me.
      I am experiencing the regenerative powers of the heart. I am appreciating the fact that hearts do not break, not really. At times they may not function as they should: they may be missing a tissue, disconnected at some nerve, dysfunctional as part of the circulatory unit, but they do not break. With time, and sometimes external assistance, they heal and regain their function. They get to beat as they should, sustain the body as they should.
     It is so with our emotional hearts. The pain that comes with a sense of heartbreak may be unbearable at first, but it is not irrepairable. It is not unmendable. If anything, the heart has not really broken but has lost sense of its original function. Perhaps with time and rest it will heal on its own. Perhaps with the help of a professional, the causative issue may be resolved. In either case, the heart mends and is restored. Then one can love just as freely and openly as one intends to.

On Tolerance

   I will readily admit than I am neither a historian, professional philosopher, nor theologian. I am also not a psychologist or a leader in the study of human behavior. What I am is a human with opinions, facts, and bodily senses that allow me to make observations. These observations alone are rather objective but are also serve as useful tools in the subjectivity of my experiences. Of course, being subjective and formulating opinions is incomplete without the ingredients of emotional senses and imaginative thinking.
     Observations are objective because they are simply facts that I create based my exploratory senses. My observations are simply things that I have seen, heard, tasted, touched, or smelled first hand. They may enable me to strengthen my subjective opinions, but they are simply facts. Facts are a useful sharing tool since they can be revisited by others. By revisiting the facts that I state based on my observations, other humans are given the liberty to agree or disagree with the statements and perhaps form an argument supporting their position. They could also choose to ignore the facts and be just as unaffected by the statements that I make.
        I must also note that a fact may not always correlate with what one may merit as "truth". Although I personally believe that truth should be objective, I have made the observation that once the word "truth" is associated with possessive prounouns, it is subject to subjectivity.
     In my short lifetime, I have observed various groups of people interact with one another. Based on my observations, I have concluded that people will form identities based on the commonalities they share with the individual or group they interact with. This commonality may be genetic, such as sharing chromosmal DNA alleles or bearing similar genetic physical characteristics;  it may be environmental, such as speaking a similar language or living in similar conditions; or it may be psychological, such as displaying similar behavioral characteristics or sharing similar ideology.These are simply ways that I have observed humans interact and group themselves.
       These observations I have made are mainly objective. They are things I have seen or heard or experienced first-hand through direct participation. They have shaped my thinking as a human.
       I admittedly group individuals based on the above-mentioned factors and have used those premises to make my initial judgements. At times, I will merge the three factors: genetic, psychological, and environmental into one huge group and it would serve as the premise for my biases and judgements. The issue with merging is that I will automatically make the assumption that a person I hear speak a certain language or dialect is to have specific phenotype that matches that language group and must come from an environment that is identical to the one I have previously observed with another person who speaks the same dialect or language. In such a case, I fail to acknowledge the individual variations that make each human unique. For example, I hear a person speak creole, assume they MUST be from Haiti, and should not have much lighter skin(if they do, they CAN'T be from Haiti, in my mind). When I experience a reality that challenges my thinking, I am forced to either accept it and widen that area of my brain, or dismiss it as an anomally and create justifications for my dismissal.
       When I do that, I further reinforce my narrow thinking and allow my preconcieved notions to serve as my template for all human interactions. If I choose to accept the new reality, then I open the avenue for questions, discussions, and the acquisition of new knowledge that matches my observation. Furthermore, I allow myself to see beyond the conglomerate, and look at the individual.
      There are various stratifications within cultures and subcultures that are used as identification markers, yet they only serve as superficial survival mechanisms at best. They cannot truly tell me what the person's unique observations and experiences are that further formulate that person's beliefs and shape their individual character. The group divisions only tell me what societal group that person belongs to and perhaps may serve as an introduction to the collective unit which that person may identify with (or which I identify that person with based on my observation). However, unless I have interacted with every single member of that collective unit, I can not truly claim to know all there is to know of that group.
    I suppose all this may appear to be foolish regurgitated jargon to some who read this. Others may understand and agree. I believe there can be no tolerance, no end to bigotry, no true peace, until we as individuals recognize at first where our own rationalization may be flawed. Until we realize as individuals how the societies we partake and have engaged in have molded and shaped us. Until we fully understand our own individual thinking and biases and acknowledge them as such.
    Furthermore, once we can separate ourselves from the constructed realities of others and learn to embrace ourselves as independent individuals, I think it will make it easier for us to tolerate and embrace the other individuals we come in contact with. That is not to say that we must reject every societal habit and norm that we once knew or have already adapted to, but rather we must learn and understand how these factors have shaped our own individual tendencies.
     When I hear or read the constant sermons urging everyone to be tolerant, I first ask myself "How can one be tolerant of others, if one does not even have the sense to be tolerant of oneself?" It is not as complex as this post may make it seem. It is truly as simple as embracing the freedom that we once possessed before we were bound by the obligatory and unspoken rules of society. It is about allowing others that same freedom to truly appreciate themselves.
    

     

    

The Ghost

    The ghost I carry with me is a little seven year old girl. She haunts me sometimes, even as I sleep. This girl follows me everywhere and sometimes I pretend I am her and she is me. We swap places. I let her carry the burden of adulthood as I wear the dress of her carefree naiveté. Oh, how Iong to be her. To not know. To love purely. To hurt deeply. To forgive so readily, so freely.
   Yet, I seem to be the only one to remember her as I do. There are pictures of her. References to her. Documentations of her. Yet only I, it seems, carry her with me. I take her with me everywhere and try to disguise myself as her. A young, naive, seven year old who knows nothing of danger. I pretend to ignore the growing knowledge of the hostility in the world I inhabit. I pretend to not understand the pain that impregnates me as the years go by. With every encounter of a young woman who carries a similar ghost with her, there is a sense of sisterhood, a belonging. With every news of another young child whose innocence is lost, the womb bearing grief grows. Yet, there is some twisted assurance that a new one has joined the fold. The sisterhood grows.
    I can no longer bear to keep the silence of a reality so profound and widespread. I know that my ghost symbolizes all that I wish to ignore. The stigmatization of sexuality. The evasion of the devastating results of imperialism. The reluctance to address the issues of classism. The sense of religious righteousness and ignorance of destructive dogmatism. All for the sake of the human egoic tendency to adopt a form of identification. Sometimes, at the expense of one's own self.
    I find it hard to admit, to openly confess and reconcile with the disastrous effects of the loss of my own innocence. I find it easier to cower and hide behind laughter. It is far more comfortable to create and rediscover indecipherable vocabulary terms that will conceal my true thoughts, my honest emotions.
     Many times, I dream of the ability to speak in front of large crowds to atone for my perceived sins without them being aware that the audience that I am really addressing is myself. I wish to be such a great orator who is exalted for her lofty words, so that in my self-imposed glory I could feign liberation from my past. But alas, I have become a slave to my ghost. She will not release me until I find the courage to speak freely and openly so that I not only liberate myself, but others like me.

Who Am I, Not To?

   What does it mean to love myself? What does it mean to bathe in a sea of conscious love, owning my ugly, and allowing myself to be open and vulnerable for the world to see? What does it mean be able to walk about in confidence, knowing in my heart that I am truly free?
     Too long have I shackled myself in self-condemnation; too afraid to embrace, accept, and own all that is beautiful in life. I have battered and beaten myself so low that some days it literally took all my will and strength to simply open my eyes. I have hated myself so hard, that every compliment that a person told me was a knife piercing through my heart. I have killed myself so many times that I fear that death may be afraid of me. I have unwelcomed myself so many times that this very existence feels foreign to me.
    What does it mean to love myself? Who are you, not to? My brother told me that in response to the tears that streamed down my face as he acknowledged me. I was touched. I was moved. I was so moved that I began to repeat that question. Who are you, not to?
      Who are you, not to love yourself? Who are you? What does it mean to love yourself? To own and embrace even the ugliest and dirtiest parts of you? Who are you, not to love the parts of you that have loved you before you knew the word "love" existed? Who are you, not to love the parts of you that everyone sees, knows, and loves? Who are you, not to love the intimate parts of you that you know you want to love, but choose to hide away from?
      I have struggled every day to own my ugly. To stop hurting myself. To keep myself focused on the now, the present. I have given up and tried again, beating myself up after every failure. Then rising up again, hoping that maybe today, I will get it right. I have embraced every form of verbal abuse, allowing it to become my primary language with myself. I have forced myself to learn the new languages of love, replacing the abusive words with kinder, softer ones. I have set countless rules and limits to keep myself in check, just in case. I have given myself every possible excuse to wallow in self-pity and still possess the audacity to refuse the pity of others. I have given myself every reason to stop, yet muster every bit of energy I have to encourage others to keep going. I have sinned so many times against myself, yet fail to seek redemption. Yet, here I am, writing. Free to live and experience another day.
     Who am I, not to love the innocent child within me? Who am I, not to embrace and heal the broken parts of me? Who am I, to hide away from myself constantly?
     Today, I can no longer hide. The tears have long dried out. I have outgrown my shell and have taken up the practice of self-exposure. The games that I played with insanity and death have gotten old and are requiring longer commitment terms. I can no longer play those games. Too many times have I knocked on death's door awaiting a response. It has taken her catching up to me to realize that Death and I are not even on the same playing level. I was at a disadvantage. But I suppose, now, I have a chance to get serious with Life.
        My heart is calling. She wants me to return home. Back to Life, where I presently belong. Back to Life, where my heart has always remained. I am returning home, back to the heart that loved me before I knew who I was. I am returning home, back to the love that embraced me when I did not, could not, embrace myself. I am going home, back to the heart that kept beating, long after I begged it to stop.
    I am not immortal. Neither are you. This life, this experience, this moment, will only allow you to choose so many times before you run out. There is only one you, right now. Who are you, not to love that person?

Internal Struggle

    I have spent most of my adult life circumventing "touchy" issues such as race, ethnicity, religion, and politics. I have been longing to write and share my views, observations, and experiences; yet I find myself wrapped in my head afraid to speak up. Of course, I have had many discourses with myself, friends and family. However, publically I did not find it fitting to recognize or address these issues. I would instead allow myself to sink within the questions that plague me. What if no one hears me? What if someone with an opposing viewpoint comments with a counter-argument? Will I be able to face them?
    I crawl and hide in fear. Choosing instead to adopt the belief that perhaps I am inadequate. Perhaps my lack of merit is proof that I am not qualified to use my voice. When silence is no longer an option, I would opt for easy vague answers and hide behind the opinions of others, whether or not they are in agreement with mine. At the same time, the voice within me would scream and curse in anger for being silenced.
      As I write, I struggle to find the words that convey the reflections of my heart. The reflections of my mind. The ponderings that consume me when I read a Facebook post or comment that compel me to recognize the racial issues that dominate the country I live in. The emotions that swell and threaten to engulf me when I hear a story or rendition of a news report that somehow becomes a race issue. The constant internal battle that I face upon observing and witnessing the systemic racism that I know is the core of colonial construct of  European colonies and their independent offspring. Instead of addressing and working towards a resolution to the crises that are presented before me, I respond by quoting transformational and pacifist sayings that will temporarily put my mind at ease.  Dwelling instead in  the illusion that these problems will disappear on their own.
     But they do not. I suppose I hold on to the belief that nothing I say or do is going to change a person's mind and I suppose that may be true. Perhaps I can write an essay that has the solution to the very issue that plagues the reader and it gets overlooked. Yet, how often do I read a book and completely understand everything that the author is saying the first time around? Indeed, there is no true legitimate excuse for my cowardice.
   Here I am, writing and circumventing, afraid to say what it is that I want to say, yet hoping a reader will read this and somehow magically "get it". It appears unfair to the reader. Why go through all these words just to make a statement that could be made in only one sentence? Who am I fooling and what game am I playing really? I could easily just write it out: I struggle with hypocrisy. Truly, deeply. I am a hypocrite. I feel it in my core. I know I avoid watching the news so that I can pretend that the issues of the world do not exist. If they do not exist, I do not need to acknowledge them or do anything. That part in my heart that yearns to serve, to liberate, can sleep. Remain dormant. Then I will not be troubled nor be trouble.
   I am keenly aware of the role that my upbringing has had on my thinking. I no longer experience an obligation to my upbringing. However, I have a vindictive way of using it as an excuse for playing the coward and winning the sympathetic vote. Playing such a game has taken quite a toll on my psyche. So much that it has led me to write this post. A post that is about hypocrisy and also a direct and unwilling statement of social awareness and irresponsibility. A post that bears a vague and unwilling confession.
      I am very much aware of my own personal power, and the power each individual and collective unit has. Despite that, I find every opportunity to allow the opinions of others to dictate my actions and subconscious thinking. I know that I truly truly wish this war would end. The war of contradictory statements, hypocrisy, dishonesty, manipulation, and egoic attachment to all that is material. But I cannot put an end to a battle that I myself am unwilling to fight, let alone an entire war that have so conveniently ignored.

Love Lust and Valentine's Day

     As Valentine's Day draws to a close in the United States, I have decided to celebrate the last few minutes of this day with some reflective thoughts of my own. Personally, I do not find much interest in celebrating it. There are two primary reasons. The first, is that I regard it as a commercial holiday. The second, is that I have gained a few insights concerning the history of this holiday, further supporting my decision not to celebrate it. However, per request of a friend of mine, I have chosen to pay a personal tribute.
     I truly did not gain much exposure to Valentine's Day until I was in third grade and my class celebrated it. I remember that day clearly because my classmates and I were encouraged to bring cards and Valentine's Day presents in commemoration of that day. However, my family did not celebrate the holiday and quite naturally did not actively support my participation. So, I decided to make a card for my chosen Valentine. I used notebook paper, crayons, and my creativity to make it happen. I received many treats and somewhat took a liking to the holiday. However, my future attempts at commemorating the holiday, although creative, were not as well received. By the time I reached middle school, I fully embraced the religious propaganda that my parents adopted in defense of not celebrating Valentine's Day. Of course, I was curious by nature and in due time discovered some historical facts, while not fully embedded in my memory, were impactful enough for me to be weary of openly celebrating it.
   That is not to say that I did not passively engage in Valentine's Day celebrations. When I began dating at the turn of my second decade in life, my boyfriend at the time gifted me with a few tokens of his affection. Of course, I repaid him with kisses and an extensive makeout session. Granted, he was my first boyfriend and I was a little inexperienced in such exchanges and unwilling to openly acknowledge the holiday itself. Prior to that, my celebrating friends would buy me gifts and cards. My parents did not approve, of course, but I saw no reason to turn down free chocolate. When I worked at a preschool, I also somehow managed to participate in every holiday celebration that I supposedly do not engage in. Naturally, this included Valentine's Day.
     I suppose I can be conveyed a hypocrite when it comes to holidays. I would claim that I did not celebrate the holiday, listing all the reasons why, and then manage to engage in some form of holiday celebratory process. I cannot say that those actions bring me shame, however, the idea of being a hypocrite does cause me to internally shudder. I decided since my epiphany(that I have committed acts of hypocrisy) to take a neutral approach to the holiday process. I suppose that way I will cover myself. As for the Valentine's Day itself, I am neither friend no foe. I suppose one advantage, commercially speaking, is that all the chocolate and stuffed animals will be sold at a much lower price than usual. It appears that this is the great advantage to every commercial holiday.
      With the topic of Valentine's Day often comes the subject of love. Although the two are somewhat associated, they really are separate entities. That, of course, everyone publically claims to know. Yet, I find it amusing that this is the time that public discussions of love are widespread. I would really like to discuss my understanding of love separately, but I will give a superficial overview of thia understanding. Love, to me, is an action word. This is a concept that I have learned in the past recent years, and one that I truly embrace. To love, is a form of communicating a deep sense of connection and devotion. It may be with oneself,another, or inanimate objects. It is an ancient yet novel concept. Love has presented itself long before we were evolved enough to create a term for it. It is one of our pure driving forces, whether or not we are aware of it. Though the awareness and understanding of this concept certainly does lead to the effective application of love.
Of course this is only based on my own understanding of love. It is understood that many experiences and perceptions may lead to varying perspectives
That in itself is the convincing factor for me that love is innate. As is lust.
      Lust is often used as a term that may be connoted negatively. Yet, I perceive it as a very basic survival mechanism. Lust is the basis of our desires. Truly that is all it is. A desire. It is not something that I can truly compare to the action of love. I suppose that acknowledgement of such a basic instinct within such advanced creatures may cause a few to raise defenses out of fear. However, if we as humans cannot even accept the most basic and primitive aspects of our nature, how can we expect to evolve and collectively advance in our understanding of ourselves and the world that surrounds us?
    My understanding of the world is very miniscule in comparison to my potential understanding. I have only existed for over two decades and have lived rather vicariously. Therefore, this commentary is truly only an insight of my limited perspective of the topics of love, lust, and Valentine's Day. It is a fragment of the structure within myself and may even be a reflection of the mirrors I encounter along my journey.

Confession

     In my last post, I posted a tidbit about the pervasive experience of fear that consumes me. I further concluded that this was the fear of uncertainty. In essence, it was an abrupt conclusion in an effort to quiet the running internal conversations that were trying to forge their way out of my mind. I wanted to keep them there.
     As I was writing about fear, I became afraid of my own nakedness. Afraid that by expressing my thoughts publically, I would be forging intimacy with the remainder of the world. That when the world sees me, they will know me, recognize me, and expose me. What is it that I am holding on to that has me embrace such paranoia?
     As I wrote about my concern of being exposed, I thought about the countless writers and artists who have shared this paranoia and went on sharing their work anyway. This is a lesson for me as well. I have read posts from artists and friends who have chosen to be vulnerable and share their deepest selves with the world. Through the use of their creative work and social media outlets, they created the space for others to stand in their light. Others, like myself, who still cower and hide, yet acknowledge the fear. Others who masquerade the fear and anxiety that they experience with emotional pretenses and vain statements. Others like my teenage self, who hide behind closed doors and wait until darkness comes so that they will not have to see themselves. To those brave enough to showcase their fear, anxiety, joy, sorrow, and true nature: I am sincerely grateful.
     I have finally  mustered the courage to express my thoughts with those who care to read them. In turn, I write and hope that someone else may too find the courage to face the fear of exposure and walk into their spotlight.

Fear

  It has been over a year since I have created this blog and I have only written two posts. In the first post, I expressed my intentions for this blog. In the second, I wrote a brief introduction about my vision for the world. Today I decided to read that initial post to remind myself of why I created this blog, since I was itching to write something new.
   I have spent the past year reading the blogs of other people and scrolling through commentaries on Facebook. I have since realized that my lack of content on this blog is a result of an internal and pervasive fear that I have carried with me since the earliest memories nestled within the confines of my mind.
    This fear has crippled me in many aspects of my life. My career, my relationships, and the passion that I possess for my work have all been hindered by this fear and by my fear of it. I have spent so much of my life obssessing over this fear that it has become an intregal part of who I am.
    This fear that I contain within me has expressed itself in many forms. It has portrayed itself as social awkwardness, anxiety, shyness, pretentiousness, and obscenity. It has become a power tool in every intimate relationship that I have encountered. It has been the motivational force behind my constant procrastination. It has been the catalyst for the suicidal ideations and attempts which have flirted with me since I was fifteen. It has been the root of my imminent self-destruction and the crutch that has kept me from rising up to complete healing.
   I have long struggled to figure out exactly what it is that I have feared. What is it that I have been holding on to and reluctant to let go of. What is this fear that I hold so dearly and yet want to remove from myself? What is it that I have traded my freedom for?
     I have concluded that this fear is actually a thought, a belief, that I am truly much greater than I have been told to be. The fear is not that of the opinions of others, but of the perceptions and thoughts that created the shifting beliefs that shape my mind. It is,ultimately, the fear of uncertainty.