And I can’t stop thinking about it.

the completion of a never ending unsent letter

consisting of adequate words that never fills

that never fits

that never fulfills.

apocalyptic goodbyes

shifting into unwarranted hellos

and leaving you with heavy sighs

that leaves more questions than answers,

the ones that burn than the ones that make you cry.

apocalyptic goodbyes,

the finish of something you never started,

the end of life and how you once knew it.

apocalyptic goodbyes.

But, that just gets me back to this moment.

Here, I am. Single. Experiencing the “wild ride” of coffee dates and dating apps, with no idea on whats going on. And, I can tell you my love life is one part of my life that confuses the hell out of me. I am submerged in this hook up culture, that has its perks but something I still feel a little foreign to. I can’t say I am one to jump into anything serious, but the thought of it isn’t anything that repels me.
How do you “relationship”? Is there someone out there that happens to be in the right place at the right time — that fulfills your “other half”? Someone, out there that you can start from square one? Only — to live with the fact that it may not turn out to be this “long life commitment” and to have you start all over again.

What is love? Does that “spark” in the movies even exist?
“You will know — when you know?”
I thought, I knew when my best friend in middle school, moved 5 hours away and I cried my eyes out. And I thought I knew, throughout my 3 year high school relationship.

Yet, here I am. Still trying to figure out — what love means to me. To echo the words of my mother, “God bless, the man that marries you..” because whomever that person may be — hopefully he’s the answer to that question.

The realization that, that’s you — hits you.

The realization that, that single non-detailed descriptor has been the cost for many black lives — hits you.
The irony that lies in the purpose of these alerts mocks your entire existence.
If this is supposed to make you feel safe, then why do you feel like a suspect?

With a single — sentence. Five words.
You and the entire black male community,
instantly labeled as suspects in a campus — wide email.
You look around and notice that you are surrounded in white.
But, is that all?

Blonde male, blue eyes, 5’3 wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans.
Strawberry blonde male, green eyes — blue occasionally, 5’2 wearing a purple sweater and brown sandals.
You try to think back to a time — where you received an alert that involved a white criminal descriptor and yet — you go blank.

“Stay safe”, you overhear. “If you see anything, call public safety.”

The only self-caution that rings in your ear is “don’t draw attention to yourself”, and “make sure you don’t seem sketchy” — as you wait for the next email to be an “all clear”.

“BLACK MALE WITH DARK CLOTHING” drowns your inimitable personality and sole characteristics.
“BLACK MALE WITH DARK CLOTHING” drags you back into the chains of the undignified stereotypes.
“BLACK MALE WITH DARK CLOTHING” warps you into a unindividualized entity — until you no longer can convince yourself that,
“that’s not me”.

This is the reality for most, if not all black men. Though, those of us who do not identify as a black male today can never really grasp or imagine the feeling of being stigmatized into a criminal every time we read the words “BLACK MALE WITH DARK CLOTHING”. The importance lies in recognizing the strong impact of that non-distinguishing descriptor and challenge this very institution, and its public safety officials to do the same.

I was 19 and had relapsed on my long — life addiction of wanting to escape.

My story starts when I was six.
One of my earliest memories was being nicknamed “The Wall” by my choir teacher. She thought that nickname was fitting considering, whenever anyone tried to speak to me, the response received was merely just a blank stare.

I do not remember much from that time, but in hindsight I can say that my undefined anxiety was fueled by day to day social interactions.

I was eight, when a family member of mine hit me so hard — I was ridiculed by others mistaking the bruises on my arm for hickeys for days. When I wasn’t dodging, and hiding from the punches that replaced the hugs in my life — I was bullied by classmates.

A normal school day for me was garbage being tossed in my hair in the morning, my belongings were thrown out onto the floor from my locker by the end of the day, and beaten up in-between whenever I made some little neighborhood girl angry.

The little voice of hope in my head was muffled by the constant emotional and physical blows I endured as a child.
I was nine when I tried to drown myself.
Suicide was always just a whisper away. It cluttered every feeling and became a solution before I could even spell out the word. I was comforted by the thought that there was even a way out and that I wouldn’t be stuck in this endless cycle labeled my life.
When I was ten, my Uncle committed suicide in my bedroom. That day, was just like any normal Saturday. Which looking back at it, makes it even more terrifying. The last thing my Uncle said to me, was to join him to make a pie. Confused — my uncle was never the one to engage in any bonding time especially with children. Being the young child that I was — I declined. If only, I knew of the gravity of those last moments of making that pie, maybe this story would be a little different. Hours later, my mother found his lifeless body. That is when the terrifying realization that even adults ran to this escape called suicide, settled in. I knew then that this reality wasn’t a phase that I could try to survive through.
My mother didn’t understand, what I was going through. And looking back in hindsight — I couldn’t help but think that my mother might have been dealing with some devils herself, especially since she ran from the thought of real emotion. I couldn’t go to her as a solution when my mother made up some of the problem. Being, that she was an inexperienced teen mother, I couldn’t find myself to even blame my her.
When I was eleven, I tried to cut my wrists.
I lived in a constant up and down battle and sometimes the “downs” were lower than usual. I don’t remember much from around that time.
When I was fourteen, I decided that the fight to live or not would be up to fate. I woke up one morning and swallowed a handful of pills. The one thing that stands out for me that day, wasn’t the number of pills I took or what type of pills it was. It was the thought of whether I woke up or not, I had to accept the fact that it was for the right reason. I started to cry when I woke up not shortly after. I am still not sure on if those tears were because I realized how committed I was to kill myself or the fact that I even woke up. I had just survived the worst, yet the most eye-opening moment of my life. And I was left with the craving for a presence that would help me make sense of what life had in store for my life. I was trapped in a downward spiral of constant depression and didn’t even bother to even hide it with a smile. The feeling of loneliness followed me around like a dark shadow, waiting to pick the right moment to devour me whole. The tragic irony of it all — was I was always surrounded by people with a cry for help stamped on my face, yet no one could see the battle I was losing my sanity to. I knew the feelings of sadness and loneliness all too well as if they were my long lost best friends.
When I was sixteen, I found out a childhood friend committed suicide due to bullying.
When I found out about her passing, I broke down in tears. I needed someone to listen. I blamed myself for not being there for the few friends that were there for me. I felt as though, out of everyone I related the most to her troubles, and a simple conversation from me would have changed the outcome of her life. I was so tired of having suicide be a frequent visitor in my life when I was finally fighting so hard to run away from it.
Not soon after — I met a boy, and he listened to me and accepted all of the devils that went through my head as a part of who I was. Something I thought, no one would want to fall in love with. He became my escape, my fantasy, and my excuse. I used this boy as a way to leave the hell that I had no choice but to claim my home. I set him to high, life-saving standards — not knowing that was just as detrimental as every other “escape” I tried.
I loved him the way I wanted to love myself. However, I accepted every abusive and manipulative thing he did to me because I didn’t believe I was deserving of anything else.
When I screamed in anger in our arguments, my arm was twisted back so far — hot tears instantly rushed to my face. I forgave him because anything was better than being by myself again. I said something “out of pocket”, and was thrown to the ground. I apologized because he was the reason I was still alive at that moment. I ignored him and was either hit or sprayed in the face with disinfectant spray. I changed up plans one day and was kicked out and made to walk home. I made a harsh comment, and was warned: “there would be no me”. I said no and he still pursued. Some nights, only if I was lucky I would ball myself up in the smallest corner of my bed, pressed against the wall as far as I could possibly get so I wouldn’t touch the man that laid beside me as I slept. When I did confide in others about this, I was told I was the problem, and this boy wasn’t so angry before he became a part of the roller coaster of my life. I was told “I should have known this was going to happen” and “no strong Black woman would allow this to go on”.
Some nights, I joined the restless residents of the neighborhood and walked alone for miles — hoping that the lights of the cars passing by didn’t reveal the streaks of tears that marked my face.
I was 19 when I ran into my bathroom grabbed a bottle of pills and wish I didn’t wake up five years ago.
Ironically, I am writing in a corner of a quiet and empty room, with the hopes of being brave enough to shout these words out to anyone that would listen.
I’m in this corner of this room wondering why-why are these words still wrestling inside of my head only to be typed out on paper and seem powerless.”

November 14th
My story, although can never be summed up perfectly in a set of words, is what defines me. I didn’t write it to find pity, but merely just a way to find more of myself through accepting my past. Now I’m choosing to live my life as wholeheartedly as I can, accepting the challenges I have survived and to help others do the same.