A Lil' o' This, A Lil' o That.

Things are continuing to progress for me at a pace that is more than satisfactory to me. I’m not sure if I mentioned it here, but I finally am back on the road. After enduring many a headache regarding the acquisition, insuring, and registering/titling of my vehicle, now I’m just waiting on it to pass inspection, pending the arrival of a replacement back tail light.

The car will open up a ton of options for me, but before I delve into any of that, it feels great to be independently mobile again, especially as winter approaches.Speaking of winter, now that things have settled on the warm and cozy homefront, I’m actually kind of looking forward to the seasonal change for a number of reasons. Aside from that, I’m happy with and grateful for the more than solid network that I have surrounding me in Boston.

It’s been a year at Whole Foods, and while it may be a gap job to most, it’s been a wonderful exercise in occupational and social rehab for me as well. I do the better part of my socializing at work, and actually find myself looking forward to going in on my off days (even as our extremely hectic holiday season approaches). 

On Facebook I noted that it took losing my main chick, mistress, momentum, motivation, money, mind, material (the last two several times over), during the course of my 20's for life to have meaning again at 30+. In other words, I had to fall allllllll the way down the mountain before the climb to have mean something. Whether I did it to gain perspective, to reject privilege, or whether it was the function of pure insanity, I am not sure. Probably a combination of the three. Onward and upward from here, and hopefully at a faster clip than I would have progressed otherwise sans the torturous yet invaluable lessons learned over the past decade. 

More Income Coming In (knock on wood)...

I applied to be a mental health assistant as an overnight gig to complement the day job. While sleep is very important to me, so is making things happen at the fastest possible clip for myself since I feel like I have to make up for lost time. As much as I appreciated the patience only having $500 of disposable income requires, I need more and am willing to find at least see if having two jobs would be feasible. I have an interview tentatively set for Tuesday (assuming/hoping they are still have a vacancy), and if hired, am hoping to make at least $13/hour. That would give me an extra thousand dollars per month to play with, and as sad as it sounds, I wouldn’t even know what to do with that kind of money.

I have grown into a man of simple tastes, and don’t find myself wanting for material excess. Just the basics: a crib, a car, some decent gear, something to grub on etc. I tend to keep it simple, and honestly don’t mind having a financial baseline that seems to be set to zero. Monetary excess, like material excess, can be burdensome, as it takes applied energy to manage lump sums of money.

RIP to my Black and Bipolar Brother

Lee Thompson Young, aka Jett Jackson of The Disney Channel Fame, aka fellow Trojan, aka the former roommate of my good friend Reggie, committed suicide about a month and a half ago. I was speaking with Terrie about why someone who seemingly had it all (a career – he was a regular on TNT’s Rizzoli and Isles, an education, good looks) would end it, and we came to the familiar conclusion that you never know exactly what someone may be going through from the outside.

Come to find out, Lee was bipolar as well, (and had been taking his meds according to Toxicology reports), and as unsettling as it was, it made things more understandable. While I could never imagine actively offing my own on switch via depression, mania, its counterpart, can leave someone so out of their rabbit-ass mind, that anything is unfortunately possible.

On Adulthood, (part two).

I wish someone had told me a decade ago to never stop hustlin’ or at the very least working towards something. I remember being at the precipice of my college graduation without much conception of adulthood or the criteria by which I would define it. For the first couple of decades of my life there was school, year in and year out, with its sequential markers of ordered progress. Ever since the stability of scholastic structure dissipated, with trips to and from graduate school mixed in, there has been a certain sense of, “now what, and what for,” that have circulated in the old thought box.

Now that the steadiness has returned to my life, mostly due to the gig at Wholefoods, there are things I do find myself wanting for myself. In no particular order here goes a short list of goals, 1) to be debt-free, whether that means filing for bankruptcy, getting or jeopardy, or both 2) to secure my name on the deed of a condo, most likely in Atlanta 3) to get the necessary dental work done to bring back the good old smile

Adulthood the Second (or is it the sixth?) Time Around

While there are still many a goal to be accomplished, it’s important, during the course of things to celebrate victories big and small. A couple of years ago on this very same blog I was writing about my desirability, or lack thereof, in the online dating world. I’m too lazy (and technically inept) to link the old blog here, but from memory I remember saying that I wasn’t exactly anyone’s “catch” seeing as how I was living at home, with no money/income/job, no car, and no cell phone. Well, all of that has changed for the better as I enter what feels like a second adulthood. I had my own place, car, cell, and plenty of disposable income (perhaps more than I’ll ever have on hand again—who knows—maybe Jeopardy can change that around if I should touch down on the West Coast again, but I digress…) at the ripe ol’ age of 21, and in before I was 23, I had upgraded from the dorms at USC to an apartment in Orange County, upgraded the Corolla to a fast car (and a faster chick to boot), and of course the obligatory cell phone (when the flip phone was still more or less cutting edge technology).

Maybe I had too much too fast. I had upwards of 20K saved up from the scholastic hustles, and received nearly double that amount from an inheritance. In any case, back to the point, these lax criteria for adulthood, or at the very least dating desirability were all met over a decade ago. To summarize for those who are just tuning it, I would lose and gain, gain and lose, go and come, and come and go, mentally, geographically, financially, etc., over the course of the next decade. For whatever reason, this time it feels different. I pretty much stay to myself these days, and tend to my own affairs, knowing that it’s all on me from here on out, to live as I want to live, and sing the songs I want to sing. Should I need someone else’s advice/input, I’ll ask for it, but as for assistance, unlikely. Approval? Nope.

 

 

Early Morning Randomness.

I don’t feel particularly grounded, well, since I don’t have much to ground me. Terrie and I were talking the other day, about what happens when people lose a significant other. I appreciate him because he knows what it feels like to deal with heartbreak and all, but anyways the point is, we came to the conclusion that for some it’s faith, others it’s family, but if those grounding influences aren’t enough there is always substance to make life worth living. For me it’s cigarettes, for him it’s weed, but it’s really just two sides of the same coin. Positive events scheduling is important for anyone, especially for anyone who is or has been depressed. Honestly, my feet haven’t touched the ground in close to a decade, a I’ve confronted the utter meaninglessness of life. I’ve just been going through the motions without much joie de vie, direction, searching for meaning where often times, there hasn’t been much to be found...

I’m hoping that the MSW will help since therapists typically report high levels of career satisfaction. If I had the motivation I could be on my second book by now, but again the direction, motivation, and meaning are sorely lacking...

I have a new therapist, an older white guy named Scott. Since Francis and I clicked so well, I had my doubts about Scott, but even just typing this made me think about the love life. While I can’t reasonably expect the next one, whoever she may be, to replace the loves of yesteryear, different doesn’t necessarily mean worse or a downgrade. The expectancy of negativity is something I have to check. There is something called depressive realism, which says that depressed people have a more accurate perception of reality than their optimistic counterparts. As all of this concerns Scott, I went in with a preconceived notion that he wouldn’t be as good for me as Francis, but after a few meetings his more detached, sterile, and psychoanalytic style has grown on me. He takes notes when I talk sometimes, and has pointed out that I tend to frame things in term of loss. That’s something I hope to work on, maybe he can help me reframe things...

My minimalist tendencies are at an all time high. Right now, I’m looking at eight or so pairs of shoes lined up against the wall, which is about seven to many for my purpsoes. I have one pair I wear everyday, boots for the winter, dress shoes, and random kicks that maybe have been worn a handful of times, if that. I’m looking at the armoire and I have about 10 pairs of jeans, most of which are from the Old Navy Outlet. I don’t need that many, and really only a few pairs are in rotation. Maybe I got them during last winter as retail therapy, but for me it’s all about functionality as opposed to form, utility over acquisition. Just the basics are needed for my simple tastes...

Anhedonia is a term that’s used to describe a lack of pleasure derived from life. That’s how I’m feeling these days, and some of it is seasonal me thinks, the other is just a general falling off of things that used to matter. The things that used to do it for me still do it, but just dialed down about forty five notches. It’s football season, and I’ve probably watched the cumulative equivalent of one half of a game. TV, and all those pop culture series that have the nations rapt attention, do little to nothing for me. Sex? While I have fond memories of fucking, I tend to agree with Patrice O’Neal, the late comedian and fellow Bostonian, when he said, after you reach a certain age, you have sex just so you have a memory of something to jerk off to later. Sounds about right to me. I’m content to just look at the eye candy on any given day, use my imagination, and keep it moving after that. The thrill of the hunt, is all but gone...

It’s 5:00AM, and I’m just waiting for my EBT bennies to kick in an hour, so I can get some grub. I’m not even that hungry, but I’ve been on a Ramen diet lately and the palette could use something else besides sodium bombs to stimulate it...

My younger sister came into work today, and we caught up briefly. It was good to see her. She asked me if I was saving. Ha, I thought. I make rougly 1,100 bucks a month. 500 goes to rent, so the paycheck I just got last Friday is already gone. 300 of the next paycheck will go the old roommate for the whip. The other two bills will hopefully be enough to pay for the title change. The check after that = rent, and the one after that should be enough to get the car inspected, insured, and registered. So yea, I won’t have a check to myself for another month and a half or so. This should bother me more than it does, but fuck it. Money is tight, what else is new...

Next year, will hopefully be different; much different. If the school thing goes through, I’ll have refund money along with a supplication to Uncle Jackie Robinson’s Scholarship Foundation for a graduate fellowship in the amount of 10K. That’s two moves right there, and I will have damn near doubled what I’ll take home from a year of grinding at Whole Foods...

The car will open up other options, once all the paperwork is taken care of. I can look for jobs outside a walking/busing radius, and be able to go visit the house that I own with the sperm donor and older siblings to see if anyone is living there. If so, maybe I’ll see about collecting the share that I’m due. I’m already knowing that my father, being the bitchassnigga that he is, will try to stiff me. Well if it has to go through small claims then so be it. It dawned on me the other day, that the family has three houses in the state, and yet I’m paying rent to live independently. Go figure...

I’ve been in touch with my friend/mentor/old-co-worker, which has been good for me. It’s nice to be in touch with successful people. I think that’s a good note to close on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recent goings on.

My roommate moved to the OC, my old stomping grounds, recently, but while he was here he certainly made an impression on me, and more importantly became my friend (hardly a term I throw around loosely). Shady, as I called him, looked out in many a ways, smoking me out regularly, loaning me money, but his greatest parting gift (aside from his company which trumps the material) was a ’95 525 that he sold me for the super duper friend price of $800. I still owe him three bills, and the car won’t be fully registered, insured, inspected and all that good stuff for another month and a half or so, but as Shady astutely pointed out, just having it parked out front is three quarters of the battle. This is/was a major deal for me, as I have been on foot patrol for six and a half years, and I can’t wait until I can drive it legitimately. . . 

Today marks the 12^th anniversary of the “procedure.” A dozen year’s later, the rapper Common’s sentiments are still profoundly true: “$315 ain’t worth your soul.” It’s crazy to think I would have an eleven year old, and I often wonder what he/she would have looked like, sounded like, and generally how much different my life would have been with, “Pookie” (as we named our unborn). Big Sigh. . .

I called Brenda a few days ago, and she picked up, much to my surprise. Yes, I was slightly buzzed, and maybe that had something to do with the call, but it was nice to hear her unmistakable voice. We caught up for over an hour and a half plus since it had been over a year and a half since we had last talked. Though we keep in touch pretty regularly textually (i.e., FB, email, texts, etc.), the phone is more personal/favorable in my book… call me old school. . .

Speaking of old school, despite the misgivings voiced in my last post I finished my application to USC’s MSW program. All that’s left is for my recommenders to submit their letters and for my transcripts to be sent. The admissions office called me less than 24 hours after I submitted my application to see whether I was applying for the on campus program or the online one; either way, I took their speedy reply as a hopefully good sign of an acceptance to come (knocks furiously on wood!). Boston College’s program is the more logical choice as it would obviate the need for a cross country move. However, that said, I just found out yesterday that a co-worker of mine at Whole Foods has her MSW from BC (keep in mind it’s a top ten program- BTW USC ranks closely behind at #11). This struck me as odd and slightly unsettling to know that she has her degree and is still ringing groceries, but there could be an explanation for this. I still have yet to really talk to her, but I did confirm that she completed the program yesterday. Meanwhile, the two MSW’s I know from the alma mater are gainfully and very happily employed in their field of choice. Either way, come late March, early April, I’ll have an answer (and something to look forward to, keep me going) as to my admissions’ status. . .

I did some ghostwriting for an old co-worker of mine recently (and it’s on its way to being published if it hasn’t already been). I asked him about the world of literary agency, my own project, others of his, and somehow or another our talked ended with him offering me 7.5% of his split share in a small publishing company in exchange for the overseeing of his next project. Let’s just say it is pending further review on my end, though it could be the synergistic lead I’ve been looking for. . .

Scholastic Misgivings, Too Cool For School, And Such and Such

If it’s not a step in the right direction, it’s a step in the wrong one. While this may sound glib and reek of “all or nothing thinking (one of my favorite cognitive distortions), it does seem apropos given the thoughts in my previous entry about returning to school. Sure Social Work would afford me the opportunity to help people, a passion of mine, it’s an approximation towards my ultimate goal of doing so through my writing. It’s not like being a therapist wouldn’t provide rich writing material (even with confidentiality mandates), but after a certain point, it’s like stop beating around the fucking bush, be direct, ignore B-Y and jump straight from A to Z.  Sure there is something to be said for respecting the process, but the only one holding me back from me is me, and perhaps that’s the most frustrating part is the actual execution of it all. Am I too rigid in my thinking (me? Never, ha!) The proposed writing project doesn’t have to be a memoir, perhaps something of the self help variety? The latter would be far easier, due to the logistics of retelling a decade of memories clouded by chaos. Furthermore as it regards certain processes, there is a time to respect the process, and a time to say fuck it, who are you the processor, or institution that’s doing the processing, to evaluate, grade, license, test, etc., me? That was a major issue for me at Berkeley with the interminable hoops through which they expected me to jump for MA/Ph.D. It was one thing in college, which was completed out of parental expectation, ease, and naivety to some extent, but as someone once so astutely observed, you have to graduate at some point, and then it’s back to square one, or two. Develop the career, progress professionally, etc. I remember being conscious of this during my final years at USC; I went hard because truthfully, I didn’t want to go back for any reason, which would explain my grand four year hesitation in finally committing to graduate school. Finally free! “And you want me to sign up for more of that bullshit?” Often times, you don’t know what you are doing until you stop doing it, and when forced to re-do that same thing, the perspective granted is eye-opening.

As far as school goes, it was my bread and butter from a very young age. If I were to fully commit to an MSW program and give myself every opportunity to succeed by choosing a program wisely there is no doubt that I could excel were I able to quiet the, “don’t test me voices.” Honestly, being tested at this stage in my life, in any form or fashion in general, but academically/professionally in particular, seems like a juvenile exercise in discipline, order, and authority. Even with the extra-curricular mayhem at Berkeley, I excelled GPA-wise, but even thinking of being tested for the MA Orals was indescribably irritating. “You really want me to sit down, read these forty or so canonical texts, and regurgitate their contents to you on command?” Besides being a waste of my time, it seemed and still does to be pedagogically inefficient at best, depending how your training and temperament. It was Maya Angelou who said, “there is a difference between being trained an educated.” If I want to have anything to do with a train, believe me, it wouldn’t be of the academic variety. I’m already knowing for the MSW, there would be a master’s thesis, then an internship, then a licensing exam, then countless renewals and evaluations as the years progress. That’s a lot of testing for someone who long ago lost the tolerance for them. If focused, I will pass, defeat, break, and defecate on any such test that requires academic recall. Don’t test me, don’t push me, don’t try me. My resume dating back to elementary speaks for itself, and at this stage in my life, feeling the need to prove something to someone would be akin to acting. I’m nobody’s Denzel. Like OK, teacher or supervisor or whomever, why are we playing this game again. Games are the province of children, so why stick to the puerile script, so to speak.

Had to get that off my chest.

Nas captures my sentiments brilliantly in song called reachout. If I would more technically proficient, I would embed the link, but instead, here go the lyrics to the first verse, with my favorites in italics:

3:45 am can’t sleep, can’t dream
I’m stuck, money problems pop up
How will I survive, guess it’s best to decide not to decide
So that’s my decision
Whatever happens happens
I keep makin’ my millions
Can see myself in presidential campaign dinners
But I’m passin’ blunts around a bunch of gang members
When you’re too hood to be in them Hollywood circles
And you’re too rich to be in that hood that birthed you
And you become better than legends you thought were the greatest
And out grow women you love and thought you could stay with
Life become clearer when you wipe down your mirror
And leave notes around for yourself to remember
I like to teach and build
With brothers about how easy it is to reach a mill
All you need is some skill, then it’s grindtime
Imagination better than knowledge, say’s Einstein
It’s all in the mind
Nasty the nicest, I’m somewhat of a psychic
Just one minute after it’s heard
You all excited, you all repeat it
So call me a genius, if you didn’t
Now that I said it I force you to think it
Write in my little vignettes, sipping Moet
When you vision me, you vision the best
When I was young they called me, Olu’s son
Now he Nas father, I was the good seed
He was the wise gardener

About the Growing Cost of Stability.

If the cost of stability is mind-numbing (or perhaps mind-rotting) monotony, then it’s growing less and less worth it as the one day blurs into the next. While manning the register once seemed like a daunting task, I have now capped out as far as my cashiering efficacy goes. I’d say 90% of the produce PLU’s have been committed to memory, and I have now resorting to doing mental register math to stay somewhat alert during my shifts. It’s been great to dust off the mental number line, but alas, even regurgitating change upon receiving whatever denomination of bill is handed to me has become simple.

I worked 8 days in a row, had two out of three days off, then was scheduled for what would have been nine straight. I say would have been, because, as my luck would have it, my throat became scratchy yesterday at work, so I went home. Normally I would have toughed it out, but I have a wedding to attend this weekend (which will hopefully provide some much-needed inspiration as well as a change of scenery) and didn’t want to risk worsening my condition immediately prior to this joyous occasion.

It’s come to the point where I am starting to fancy returning to school for yet another crack at this grad school thing (fourth time’s the charm right; to be fair, while technically it’ll be my fourth strike, so to speak, two attempts were foul tips). If I were to do it, my first and probably only choice would be Boston College. My grandfather, Casper Augustus Ferguson, was recognized as the first black graduate of this fine institution, but genealogical legacies aside, it simply gives me the best chance of succeeding with the bevy of growing support networks (from medical to personal) that I have in place in the area. Stability is the name of the game, if it kills me, and while I feel it would be a step up the ladder, providing an entry point to an actual career (as opposed to a dead-end job for which I have no passion), I do have a feeling it would be a circuitous path to my ultimate goal of writing for a living.

A Master’s in Social Work, while equal parts magnanimous and rewarding, would be something that empower me as far as options (and certainly an increased salary) and occupational prestige go, but however noble the field is, it strikes me as a tad bit roundabout way to achieve my objective(s).

My issue with writing for a living is two-fold. One, I would like to write what I want to write about as opposed to having whatever abilities I may have be exploited by simply taking on random freelance jobs. Second, there is the motivation, or lack thereof, factor. When asked to write for other people, I can knock it out the park on my first swing, but left to my own devices the memoir, (a very early draft of which I finally found in my inbox) is still a work that is only about 2% complete.  

Where My Homegirl At? Right here... (part one)

It’s only taken a year, but I’ve finally found a gal pal whose company I enjoy. And to anyone who ever told me that smoking was bad for you, I’d say they probably never had a chance meeting over a cigarette build into a dope ass friendship. A couple of months ago now, I was having a smoke when my co-worker asked me for one. She’s relatively quiet, so I had never really heard her speak before. Come to find out she is from “Elle-A”, and by the way she said, “L.A.” I immediately asked if she was Mexican. She responded, “of course.” I smiled, knowing that was probably enough to make her certified good peoples, and man was I right.

Mexicans and I go back like eight tracks, all the way back to 2000 when I stayed on the black floor at good ol’ USC. There were two Latino floors above us in the dorms, and it didn’t take long for me to find out, that our friends from South of the border know how to look out for a brotha. I would go up to the floor and be smoked out, get my Spanish homework proofread, and a group of girls from the Latino floor would routinely go to Trojan Grounds (the on-campus convenience store), game the cashier into giving them bags of free candy, and they would bring the bounty back to my homeboys with smiling faces. To get that kind of love off the bat was cool and always reminded me of old Tupac records where he would appeal to black and brown unity. But, as is typical I digress.

Back to my newfound homegirl. In keeping with the tradition of her commadres, she is cool as fuck. As we got to talking, I learned she was, “about that hood life,” which made me smile even more. Even though I’m not from the hood per se, I still feel like I was uprooted from my urban roots and shuttled out to the burbs, before it was my time at the age of five (though I still remember my older sister and I being babysat by a hood caretaker who would smoke weed on the balcony, while “watching” us). People from the hood, or those who have dealt with adverse circumstances in general are typically more giving and know how to look out. It’s a different kind of feeling I get connecting with them; in short I feel the love more than I do with other people, and as it concerns my homegirl, she is no different. Case in point, we were having lunch at work, and I asked her if anyone she knew was selling a car on the cheap. Well as luck would have it, she has a civic that she doesn’t need that she was willing to give me, even after I asked her what she wanted for it. Yes, that’s right, I said give. I don’t care what’s wrong with it, if the engine is gone, if the muffler is dragging, or if the windshield is busted out, it’s a car, something I haven’t had since parting ways with the Boxster in 2007. Even if she doesn’t run, I already have a nickname for her: “plan B”, cause that’s where I’ll be sleeping should anything ever, ever happen to the $500/month, off-the-books apartment (which still seems to good to be true). To put her more than generous donation to the poor-negro-on-foot-patrol in perspective here’s how the family responded to my request for whip assistance:

My father’s cousin had an older Corolla that was well-maintanined, and was even the same color and roughly the same year as my first car, also a Corolla. Needless to say, I made countless inquiries to him about it, but was told more than once that it wasn’t for sale. Recently I found out that the cocksucker, donated the car to a non-profit, because his mechanic wouldn’t work on it due to rust issues. That’s right, he gave away his car that I’m sure still had miles on it, instead of keeping it in the family. Good lookin’ out, man.

Then there’s my older sister. My mother either went half on her circa 2000 Corolla, or paid for the whole thing (honestly, I’m not sure), only thing I know is that it’s a Corolla that she’s had for close to a decade. When I asked her to hand it down and get herself in something a little more new, she all but laughed at my request (understandably, as it was a lofty one).

Then there are my mother and my younger sister. I pulled up to my mother’s house in a ’99 Passat that I was test driving from the dealership up the street. They were practically giving it away for $999 (and I negotiated it down to $750 at the first meeting with the salesman). Instead of offering to throw down some ends to getting me driving again as she did with my sister’s new car, my mother, who is always swearing she is broke yet blows money like a hurricane, simply asked, “do you have a thousand dollars?). I liked that car, and even though at that price point I’m sure it needed something major done to it, I decided to ask my little sister if she would loan me three bills to make it happen. Keep in mind she has two jobs, and at one point very recently worked two weeks in a row with no days off, so I figured she’d have something to donate to the cause. Nope she told me she was broke (one of my pet peeves; when people front like they ain’t got it). This was made even more frustrated knowing that she chipped in not four hundred dollars, but four thousand, when my mother bought her car (which she still has never, and probably will never let me drive). Yep, that’s my family for you.

Anyhow, over the course of the past month my homegirl from work and I have gotten to know each other, mostly over facebook chats and our shared love of the “caffeine and nicotine” vaccine (read:coffee/cigarette breaks). It’s been cool since I haven’t had a local, go-to, gal pal in Boston, well, forever. Throughout my travels, I’ve managed to make good female friends who have been cool companions in the other three locales, but never at home. Boston girls. Wow. What can I say. Besides being voted the worst dressed city in America, I haven’t enjoyed their company since high school. In addition to being style-adverse, they for a number of reasons (the hideous Boston accent being one of them) aren’t my cup of tea. Though Boston is feeling more like home than ever before these days, LA was the first city where I felt at home, so to have gotten cool with one of her daughters, so to speak, on the east coast has been a welcomed surprise. And she wasn’t playin’ when she said she was about that hood life. From turnin' it up in skrip clubs, to playin’ bones in the wee hours of the morning, to getting the boot from different high schools back home, to hearing stories of holding her man down, I quickly learned she is officially my kinda girl.    

She Still Reminds Me of a Westside Story

     I’ve been thinking about the "other" her lately. I heard through the mutual friend who hooked us up in the first place that she is getting hitched in December. I remember while we were doing the long-distance thing years back, I described our relationship to my then shrink, Heather. She said, “she sounds like your magnet.” As much as we did attract one another, there was also a repellent quality to our bond, or lack thereof.

     I miss her sometimes, but the most loving thing I ever did to her was let her go. Although our relationship was the definition of rollercoaster with the dizzying highs and scary lows, I will always love and respect her for trying and loving me the way she did. The Llloyd Banks song, “I Don’t Deserve You,” would be in heavy rotation on days when thoughts of letting her go prevailed. 

     Instead of continuing to pursue the original her or go after the "other" her, I decided to go straight between the two paths as Frost admonished, and that has been making a lot difference. 

How Much Can One Body Take...Let's Find Out!

I just set a personal, “best” by smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in about seven hours. Not that this is anything to be proud of, and not that I was particularly stressed out (in fact quite the opposite), but you see I’m broke. Even if I had money, part of me cringes with the new Massachusetts tobacco tax, which brings the total for a pack of smokes to just under ten dollars. “Crack prices!” as Chappelle said.

I’ve also been waking up with chest pain lately. There is a tightness and discomfort in my chest, and at times it feels like there is a small anvil resting on my sternum. These symptoms subside after an hour or so, but it’s something to mention to the doc when I have my annual physical in the coming weeks. At 31, I feel like I should be taking better care of myself. You know, exercising, eating healthily, putting the smokes down etcetera. Instead I’ve started downing two liter bottles of soda like they’re water again, eating whole large pizzas in a single sitting, and smoking like a chimney. I also have started (well a while back) relying on coffee at work to get me shifts. I still drink, but it's gone from a nightly, seemingly necessary thing, to the occasional beer or two here and there (though I was feenin' for a forty today).

On a positive note, I’ve only bought one bag of weed in the past six weeks or so. This marks a grand departure during the winter, when I thought I had added Mary Jane to the list of vices (Alcohol being the third).

My energy levels are still as unpredictable as ever. Some days I can’t get enough sleep and hardly feel rested, even after a  full night’s sleep preceding a day full of intermittent napping.

All of the above makes me think that at this rate my days will be coming to an end sooner than they should be. Whether the curtain falls on this play prematurely or not, I hope it doesn’t anytime soon. I feel good these days, and I ain’t ready to check out yet. 

On loss and in Memoriam

A friend of mine from high school lost his brother recently, and as is often said it help put things into even better perspective. I have a friend my age with multiple sclerosis who is slowly losing her mobility, my sister is at risk of eventually losing her large intestine if her meds don’t take, and my old mentor has almost completely lost his vision due to a degenerative retinal disease. Though the, “it could be worse” way of framing things can be problematic, in certain instances it illustrates the magnitude, or lack thereof, of certain grievances. Stated differently, your problems could easily be seen as blessings to others. As it concerns myself, at present the only thing I have to “complain” about is the dental situation, which next year’s tax refund could easily solve. Problem? Me thinks not.

But allow me to take it back to the impetus for this post, my friend Phil’s brother, Arthur. Though I have fond memories of playing video games with him during my high school years, whenever I think of him, one anecdote in particular stands out.

In middle school I was smoking one of my first cigarettes in the woods, with my best friend at the time, and a couple of acquaintances, one of whom was named Alex. Before the cigarette, which was being passed around like a joint, found itself between my eager fingers, Alex was quick to warn me: “Don’t nigger-lip it.” Though infuriated by the epithet, it’s always been in my nature to internalize anger, and play it cool rather than to get visibly upset, let alone do anything physical, however badly I may want to. The memory, however, remained ingrained in my mind as my humanity and innocence was accosted by his crude admonition.

Fast forward to the high school years. The “nigger-lip” incident had been pushed to the psychic recesses, until I heard that this same Alex had stolen something from Arthur. As the story goes, Arthur went to his house, politely knocked on his doorbell, and then proceeded to knock him with a right hand directly to the bridge of his now broken nose. Alex was left concussed, and I smiled thinking that Karma did indeed have a name, and it was Arthur, my avenger.  

On second thought...

On second thought, the feelings expressed in the, “I miss her” post, may not have been totally indicative of and consistent with where I am now Though losing her was the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with, that once gaping wound to the heart, has closed up. I’m scarred up but still going, and am more removed from those sentiments than ever before. I’m not quite sure what prompted that post; I might have been feeling nostalgic or may have simply wanted to remind myself of the perks that relationships have to offer. It’s been so long that I’ve been doing me, that it’s quite hard to entertain the thought of making room for someone as things stand now. Where would they fit in? What purpose would they serve? The long-term goal of most hetero-normative arrangements is marriage and children. I hardly feel suited for the former, and the jury’s still out on the latter. The immeasurable responsibility that comes with child-rearing doesn’t scare me as much as procreating with the wrong woman does. Having to deal with any type of drama at this point, let alone that of the baby mama variety, is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Things are stable, food is on the table, my mind is sound, and my body is able. Let’s keep it that way.

Write Where I Left Off.

During one of our recent sessions I told Francis that I felt like my life wasn’t particularly interesting or exciting enough to blog about. Ever one to point out the positives, he replied by saying something to effect of, “look how far you’ve come over the past year or six months even.” He rose a valid point, as the “get right, stay right” campaign has taken me from the hospital, to a homeless shelter, to functional stability.

I have now resided at the same address for a little over five months. For someone whose residential history is something that would make a tribe of gypsies jealous, this is worth mentioning. In Atlanta I had four different addresses in eleven months, then came home to my mother’s house, which, of course didn’t last long. Through it all Whole Foods has been the anchor and one of few consistencies (the other being Francis’ presence) that I can think of off top.

Back to the point though. To someone afflicted by bipolar disorder in particular, or someone going through it in general, I suppose this is evidence that things do indeed get better. When I cannot say, but my own positive trajectory is case in point. I am slowly starting to rebuild. I’m sitting on my bed typing this looking at my closet, and there are a decent collection of jeans hanging in the armoire as well as eight pairs of shoes. The return of the shoe collection is a good sign. Though I only really wear two or three pairs max, this is what it used to be like back in the day, when things were on point. Though I may not ever been as materially overloaded as I was, it does feel nice to ever so incrementally be working my way back to “normal.”

My main goal is to just maintain and improve from this point forward. While I flirted with the idea of returning to grad school, it was more of a whimsical thought, as fleeting as it was impulsive. Aside from the massive debt it would require accruing, my heart was never really into it. I fancy myself a writer, and if external opinion is any indication it’s where my greatest strength, or gift, if you will lies.

All pertinent signs from educators, to friends, to career placement tests have pointed me in the writing direction. I want to inspire and be inspired while doing so. None of this requires a degree or a return to the pasture that in some respects I feel I may have outgrown. I understand that people far older than my 31 years return to school, but in some respects it would be like putting a ladder against the wrong wall than climbing up. A waste of precious resources namely my time, energy, and money. I could be a pretty decent clinician, but I feel most at home writing. Though it may take some time to get the rhetorical ferocity and creative inventiveness back, it’s just a matter of getting the rust off. I look at it like being out of shape, and getting back into top from through concerted diligent effort.

Though getting an MSW would certainly help me be of service to others, I’m not even sure if I’d excel at it. While I can be a great listener when I want to be, I can be as aloof and spacy as others when the mind drifts. Furthermore, being a therapist takes a lot of objectivity and patience; though I’m sure this is part of their professional training, part of me is already knowing my first instinct would be to shake the shit out of non-compliant or frustrating clients. 

I just edited/updated this post then Chrome decided to crash on me. Hate it when that happens, may or may not revisit this post. 
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The Write Way

I’ve started to write again, not just here on the blog, but an old co-worker/mentor/friend tapped me to ghostwrite the foreword for a book he’s working on. It feels good to get the juices flowing again, as it had been some time.

Left to my own devices, I’m not always sure what to write about, but when given “a beat” so to speak, it helps. By beat, I mean it’s like a rapper having something to go off of, as opposed to rhyming a capella. That’s something I do miss about school, was the external motivation it gave me to write, and typically do my best work. Intrinsic motivation can be hard to come by, for whatever reason.

I applied for a writing job, which would have paid considerably more than Whole Foods, enough to make the commute to the financial district worthwhile. Besides, in would have put me in a better light to shine; to make use of what others told me is my greatest strength. I’ve pretty much capped out as a cashier at the Register. I done learned all of the produce codes, I can. What I’m doing at work, isn’t exactly making a difference in anyone’s life, and isn’t that what we are all most ideally put here to do?

Yes, I'm ready.

Recently I've been wondering if I haven't found someone to date because I still have feelings for her or if I still have feelings for her because I haven't found someone to date.

If the past decade is any indication, I'll always have feelings for her in some capacity as she is the quintessential, "one that got away." At the same time, despite the tone of the recent "I miss her..." post, though still present, the nostalgia has transformed from a beautiful sadness to far more of an acceptance. 

I've heard about something called eternal mourning as practiced by women in rural India after their husbands pass. Instead of remarrying they wear black everyday in memory of their deceased. Also, there is semi-confirmed legend of Joe Dimaggio, who sent flowers to Marilyn Monroe's grave every year until he died. Part of me thinks there is something honorable and romantic about notions of static and perpetual mourning. 

If love is in the cards for me, I'm almost certain it'll be a process as opposed to a head-over-heels type of deal. I feel as ready as I've been in years to entertain the prospect, but speaking of the matter, there is that tricky part of finding someone. After creating and deleting an okcupid account for the last time, I've decided that I'm a bit too old school for the online scene. The women I received messages from weren't my type physically or otherwise (despite the site's matching algorithm) , and left much to be desired. 

Then there's the old adage, "The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new." Though I'm not knocking those who have casual sex, it's never been my cup of tea. Besides, at this point, after doing me (literally and figuratively) for so long, full-blown intercourse may be a tad much for the senses right now. Perhaps I forgot how bomb meaningful sex can be with its innumerable benefits, but I was reminded at work recently when a cute co-worker of mine (perhaps inadvertently) grabbed my hand. I got a rush off it, and if that's all it takes to tingle the senses, something tells me continuing to abstain may be the best course of action.

Then again, in the heat of the moment, with years of pent up energy within, the hormones could have their own plans. I've been spending a lot of time recently thinking when it'll happen again for me and with whom. As Barbara Mason belted out so magnificently and magically, "yes, I'm ready."

Say it Ain't So Francis.

My therapist, Francis, is leaving. This marks the second straight therapist of mine who has left for greener pastures to be a clinician at Harvard. My feelings were mixed. As much as I love Francis' more than competent ears (I swear he is like a voice recorder, able to echo back my thoughts at his whim) and high vegal tone (i.e. his naturally chipper demeanor), I feel like I'm in a good place (thanks in large part to having gone to therapy consistently over the past year) and am ready to go without seeing someone for a while.

He is often my go-to confidante for my truest thoughts, and it dawned on me awhile back that after a point, confiding in and depending on a clinician as a social outlet may be inhibitive towards developing certain types of pro social bonds outside of his office. I'm more comfortable using the word, "I" with Francis than with pretty much anyone else. Maybe I've been spoiled by his expertise, but it seems most people don't listen but rather wait to talk, so leading with an "I" in general conversation often seems to leave me frustrated. I'm not complaining as I'm far more of a listener than a speaker, but it is nice to have someone to vent to, who is 1)genuinely concerned with the goings on in your and 2) savvy and seasoned enough to assist in making sense of my thoughts.

I Miss Her ...

But a few things I miss.

I miss her light, a brilliant levity she brought to my life that has been absent ever since.
I miss her voice, the unmistakably pressured speech that flowed through tightly clenched teeth and pursed lips.
I miss her smile, the shy, uneasy, yet adorable way she would grin as if she didn't know how.
I miss tearing up the mall around Christmas time for her, as she was truly appreciative of the bounty I brought back. Giving was its own gift as I got to see her eyes light up as she opened up her presents.
I miss her body laying on top of and next to mine. Her petite pear-shaped figure had a gelatinous consistency that simply melted into my own weight.
I miss the inside jokes, most of which concerned ghetto-isms that she lived and I admired her for surviving.
I miss the way she would make me proud of her and us. Nobody expected us to last as long as we did. Even though it was only two and a half years, people somehow seemingly expected us to fail even sooner. She would run into mutual acquaintances on campus, and tell them we were still alive and kicking, then report the interactions back to me.
I miss her being the one-stop shop for all of my social needs.
I miss the magnetic pull she had over me. I remember being out with my friends at a party on campus one night, and all I could do was think about her. I couldn't wait to leave, and ending up doing so early, to come home, lay next to her, and watch a Reese Witherspoon movie (Freeway) that she liked.
I miss her deep, layered, complex spirit, embattled soul, and textured personality.
I miss how she was like ready-made family when I was 3,000 miles away from my own; a yet-to-be wife, who had the familiarity of a cousin, the vulnerability of a daughter, the warmth of a mother, the soul of a sister.
I miss the way she would stare at me for no reason, her longing gaze through strikingly round orbs that protruded ever so slightly and were separated at a distance slightly greater than average, but not abnormally so.
I miss the way we were in our own world together; in a time when nothing mattered except our shared space.
I miss the way she would teach me Spanish idioms that she would utter when exasperated (hijo de su puta madre maaaan!), and laugh when I spoke properly due to my textbook training.
I miss her being my down-ass chick, that went go any extreme lengths to prove her love, though she didn't even have to, most of the time I was left nonplussed at her demonstrations of affection.
I miss the wildly unpredictable, usually inappropriate, things that would come out of her mouth at any given time.
I miss her, the cheerleader who wasn't afraid to tell me how special she thought I was, at any given time without prompting.
I miss her fearlessness, wrapped up in her five-foot frame.
I miss her fiery temper that would explode on impulse.
I miss her intellect and inquisitiveness as she would be my "scout" for information, devouring books by Mexican authors (e.g. the late, great Carlos Fuentes and Octavio Paz), and then reporting her findings back to me.
I miss her uncommon honesty, a bluntness that rubbed many the wrong way, but one that I adored.
I miss her inexorable dedication to self-improvement.
I miss her introspective queries that began with, "Do you think___??"
I miss her love of rap, and her ears that would listen to the same songs as me, just to hear a clever/favorite line.
I miss her diving into my world head-first.
I miss her preoccupation with the number seven (perhaps why I felt compelled to write this on 7/7)
I miss her irreplaceable, run-through-a-wall-for-you love.
I miss her; boy, I tell ya, I miss her.

Get Your Shine On

In the wrong light even the the most brilliant diamond won't shine right.

From the Outside Looking In.

I learned a sibling of a friend (who also happens to be black) seems to be having his own struggles with bipolar disorder, and as fate would have it found himself in the same psych facility that I have been in countless times. Hearing tales of his mania, which include a newfound religiosity, grandiosity, paranoia, and delusion evoked many a feeling and unearthed many a memory that had long ago been repressed.

While his descent into mania was shocking, I was left even more incredulous by the concern that the condition generated from his loved ones. To know that that  was me at a time (okay, several times) was humbling and left me incredibly appreciative (or even moreso, I should say) of those who have reached out in support and care during my rough patches.

meh.

I'm not quite sure why the motivation to write has been so low over the past couple of months, but that's not to say there haven't been any goings on worth mentioning.

I'm still at Whole Foods, and it's been just over seven months now. I've never held a single job for over a year, so that's my goal. It helps knowing that even the slightest hiccup could spell disaster as it's my main (read:only) source of income. Stated differently, my back is against the wall, and without the meager earnings I could just as soon find myself back homeless. So yea, I go to work everyday, do my job to the best of my ability, and repeat.

The job provides a nice escape from the suburban miasma that is Newton. My co-workers and the clientele are incredibly diverse, so it doesn't feel as vanilla as other jobs in the area have left me feeling in the past.

Speaking of work, a co-worker of mine moved him. Having him here has been good for the spirits, as he carries a positive energy and a solid work ethic to boot. Gone are the days when I would come home from work solo, pound a 40 oz, and commence to getting high. The chemical dependency has abated, and now I only drink and blaze in moderation. I'm glad I nipped it in the bud, because 1) they weren't the cheapest of indulgences and 2) nicotine is still a major vice of mine, so there was no need to "be greedy" (as my friend put it) or pile on so to speak.

I've been working out consistently for just over three weeks now. I'm hovering around 195 lbs with a body fat percentage of about 16%. While not great, it leaves room for improvement, as ideally, I'd like to be the same weight, but around 13% body fat. I benched 225 a couple of times cleanly, and feel like if I keep this pace up I'll set a new personal record of 245 in no time.

Hope Springs Eternal

Spring has finally cometh. Finally. With the weather has come an upswing in my mood caused by a few goings on worth mentioning. First my birthday is on Tuesday (04/02), and no, folks, it’s never too late to ask for my personal information so that you may bless with a gift of your choosing. Nah seriously though, aside from that, I also got my tax refund and it was sizeable: a little over 1,100 dollars. But the loyalists among my readership know that the good must be counterbalanced by its opposite. That refund money is going straight to the dentist, as years of dental neglect have left me missing a tooth adjacent to the front two (sorry, I don’t know the technical name for it).

Since I filled out my taxes on a whim (it had been years on top of years since I last filed), this was money I never expected to have, so to see it go doesn’t hurt nearly as much as if it were saved up incrementally. Besides, celibacy, is a hell a drug, and should I ever want to kick it habit so to speak, the hideous gap needs to be fixed like yesterday.

I’m still working at Whole Foods. It’s been a little over four months now, and everything is copacetic. I have become good friends with my co-workers, and aside from that I’ve been seeing more of my roommate. Initially, the social skills were so rusty that it took a good deal of blazing and drinking to even entertain the prospect of holding an extended conversation with him, or anyone else, in close quarters, but thankfully, I have been able to cut back on the Mary Jane, as well as the alcohol.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in months the other day and it read 192.5. This is about 10-12 pounds higher than my ideal weight of 180 lbs, but it’s nothing for me to tighten up on the eating and get back to exercising. I started doing pushups again and am up to the low 40’s if I from fresh to failure. I did some running yesterday, as well, and once I get some shoes that actually provide some ankle support, I’ll be going hard again on the fitness tip. I was in a complete, “get it right, and keep it tight” campaign around this time last year, where I wittled my body fat down to 10.9% and weighed a mere 174 lbs. I doubt I’ll get that obsessive with it this year, for a number a reasons, but I’ll make sure there won’t be any anxiety about taking the shirt off should the situation call for it this summer.

Though much of the same is still weighing me down, the aforementioned seasonal change and the goodness and warmth that accompanies it, has left me feeling lighter if you will, but under the surface here’s a list of things that I wish I could change:

My location (still have Georgia on my mind)

My finances (you know the medical, credit card, and loan debt, lack of disposable income)

My singleness (now that the tooth is getting fixed I kinda fancy having a womanfriend at some point)

While this is an abbreviated list, here is an equally abridged list of things that I’m happy about:

My independence

My bed (a queen sized mattress and friend, with extra plush bedding to match its regality)

The weather (while I don’t think I qualify as having seasonal affective disorder, the warmth definitely does make me happy). 

Statement of Purpose

The following is a statement of purpose I wrote after flirting with the idea of returning to grad school (again) to with the hopes of ultimately being a therapist. Since I haven't posted in a while, I figured I'd share this as the external prompt certainly helped me crank something out. Still waiting on the intrinsic motivation to alight for further traditional posts. 

__________

Most simply and broadly, the social work field as I understand it exists to provide services for those individuals and communities who seek to improve their quality of life across any number of societal spheres. As a profession it functions as a critical intervention against any number of complex ills that can maladaptively plague peoples of all backgrounds. Being a field that spans many disciplines, the syncretic nature of social work provides no shortage of entry points many of which stand in stark contrast to the profit over principle dogma and direction of many other domains that eschew essential human need in the pursuit of self-serving aims and objectives.

In general my purpose is to be of service as an agent of change; more specifically as a psychotherapist that will most ideally and impactfully benefit peoples of typically underserved and underrepresented communities whose direction may have been compromised amidst the chaotic and corrosive forces that virulently affect persons on any number of psychosocial levels. In short, there are many in need of basic services, yet due to a confluence of factors (e.g., limited access to and/or awareness of certain resources, or generationally entrenched and ingrained misperceptions of the field and its directives) these services may have gone overlooked or unaddressed altogether.

The social problem that most concerns me undoubtedly is the untreated abscess of mental illness that plagues society in general and minorities in particular. Unfortunately the festering sores of injustice affect access to treatment. When combined with deficiencies in awareness, they form a perilous coupling whose combustion is not spontaneous but on the contrary, is painfully predictable. The subterranean bubbling of suffering untold from both an individual and collective level, puts minorities especially, who already bear the brunt of many a spirit-breaking burden, at greater risk than their societal foils of pathologized behaviors that not only cripple chances for success as it is commonly understood, but exponentially amplify the latent potentiality for catastrophe. The prematurely and unnecessarily truncated potential of certain life outcomes would undoubtedly be serviced by someone whose unique set of experiences and inclinations would translate naturally in field of social work.

After indirectly experiencing such trauma matrilineally, it is my purpose to do what is within me to remedy this communal ill. My maternal grandmother not only committed suicide when my mother was in her youth, but the truth of the matter was swept under the proverbial rug for years, and this information was withheld from her until she was well into middle age. While the loss of a parent is indescribably traumatic, its cover not only masked the symptoms that would rule my mother’s own undiagnosed yet readily apparent depression in her adulthood, but also mirrored the aforementioned opacity that renders discussions of treatment silent amongst those who find themselves already on the outskirts of intervention. While religiosity has been an anchor to the black community for centuries, it also has doubled as an obstacle in the servicing of its mental health needs. While the pulpit and prayer books have been traditional home remedies so to speak, they are supplements to, not substitutes for clinical mental resources that are so often regarded as signs of weakness or in the black community especially. Moreover, if these essential dialogues are silenced as taboos in my family, one that reflective of so many black households, it stands to reason that similar silences echo in those like it.

As an advocate for minority affairs and mental health the MSW will allow me to act as a conduit, not only apprising said communities of these precious resources, but delivering them in a manner that is commensurate and consistent with their growing need. Moreover the distance that is maintained from the problem only serves to maintain an equidistance form the solution. As an aspiring clinician, I want to help close this gap. There are resources available to those who should have the intrapersonal wherewithal to take advantage of them and should be shared with those who may not.

Though I strive to service communities in need via traditional community mental health avenues, this aim is merely a reflective of the triage of tragedy. That is to say that is it far from an insular attempt to only serve those like me, but a rush to aid those who may need such services the most yet may be least likely to seek them out. Though I seek to increase access to the forgotten populations, I would be remiss and hypocritical to isolate and channel my efforts and energies towards those with whom I may share a mere phenotypic or narrative bond.

My main strength as it relates to the field is my naturally sensitive, empathetic, and intuitive nature. While in a hyper-masculinist culture these may be seen as weaknesses, my own positionality as a subject who has been no stranger to discrimination on a personal level and injustice on a systemic one would conversely function as assets in a clinical setting. It is my hope that these traits may attenuate the pain of individuals on a one-on-one level and that they may help effect change on an institutional one in the ultimate service of something greater than myself. My objective is to pull others as I push forward and to use my experiences and interpersonal insight and inclinations on a broader societal scale would be to leave a mark, no matter how faint, on the eventual uplift of those person(s) who may need help during their journey.

While I was raised in a middle-class black suburban household, my experiences to date in interacting with people have been a direct effort to counterbalance the miasmic and material shelter that was thrust upon me growing up. That is to say, my worldview is one informed by both college and untapped knowledge. Though I grew up in an affluent, mostly white neighborhood, I made it a point to venture beyond the city limits and immerse myself in the affairs and goings on of those who looked like me, but were from the other side of the tracks. This immersive affair with experiential awareness continued as an undergraduate and beyond to the point where my interpersonal conversance stands as a strength of which I am most proud. Though far from readily quantifiable or observable on paper, it could easily be argued that as nominally suggested by the field of social welfare that such social skills are just as important as any letter grade or score may be.

While I am acutely aware of my own identity, I am blind to difference and bound to commonality. That is to say, my range of experiences have helped foster a sense of oneness that elides centrifugal forces of otherness in favor or centripetal forces of sameness. In sum, people are the driving force in the field of social work (again as implied by its titular descriptives), and we have far more in common than not or that is typically realized.

It is my range of experience and relatability, grounded in an everpresent humility, honed by countless interactions amongst the rich and the wretched (to borrow from a phrase form famed psychiatrist Fantz Fanon), that gives me the unique potential to bridge gaps, to inter and intra personally introduce people to aspects of themselves and others to which they may have previously been ignorant. That is to say specifically for instance, my comfort level at a “high” class fundraising gala at the Waldorf=Astoria is the same as it is in the “low” (here I use the quotation marks to question the absurdly loaded arbitrariness of said constrastive distinctions) class ghetto of North Oakland, places I have been countless times (as a member of the Jackie Robinson Foundation and the Oremi mentoring program respectively). I have spent time in both circles which has endowed me with the capacity to relate to either who may be strangers to each other but are both common to me. (For the more visually inclined, one may picture a Venn Diagram whose interlocking overlap between two circles is the space I have occupied and mined for commonality.

Finally, though I have my times of extroverted ebullience, my natural tendency towards introversion has also endowed me with an ability to listen as opposed to simply waiting to talk, or worse yet, not hearing altogether and to learn rapidly. Numerous times, my friends have been nonplussed at my ability to recall the minute details of conversations years old that bear repeating in times of counsel and distress, and one even went to so far as to say that my ears are more like antennae registering and recording everything from the broad to the banal. This interpersonal fluidity, coupled with my desire to be of service as a beacon of hope for those lost in the darkness of tribulation would serve me well as future MSW candidate. Like most endeavors, my interest in social work is birth by an aim and buttressed by aptitude. In my particular case, the former is derived from a wholehearted interested in the welfare and wellbeing of others and the want to see them both secured, and the latter is derived from years of experience, both conventional and otherwise.

While graduate school in general and the pursuit of an MSW is undoubtedly a rigorous endeavor, it is an undertaking whose very rigor will most ideally yield to the vigor that I bring to the classroom. While some time may have passed since my foray into the ivory towers a near decade ago, critical thought knows no physical or temporal bounds, and it is a skillset that once learned is embedded in the psychic resources to be recalled at a moment’s notice and subjected to the will of those who been exposed to it. My indomitable will and work ethic will work hand in hand to not only maximize my chances for success at the graduate level, but far beyond, as I truly believe that the diligence and determination illustrated my by resumé, both academic and extracurricular will help me effect and influence social change. The MSW from USC’s top tier program will function as the breeding ground for the seeds of change to be planted to day in hopes of reaping the shared harvest of tomorrow. 

Back to it

Much has changed since my last entry. I ran into a good friend from high school a little over a month ago, and as my luck would (finally) have it, he was looking for a roommate. It didn’t take long for me to close on this one. I offered what little I could, and he accepted. With the shelter ordeal finally being over, I’ve just been getting used to normal living again. You know, not having to wake up at 6:30AM to be kicked out into freezing temperatures, no curfews, and most importantly, having my own space again has given me the liberty to use.

Though I am hardly a heavy weed smoker, on February 2^nd, I had bought some cheeba (while still at the shelter), and decided I was getting high, even if it meant I had to puff in my mother’s garage. That same day (a year to the day I got out of my friend’s living room and into a two bedroom in the Atlanta, might I add) turned out to be the move in date. If there was ever a time for a celebratory smoke it was then. Well that celebratory smoke turned into something of a habit for the rest of the month. I started drinking more than usual to compliment the high, but now that something of a tolerance has built the thrill is gone as they say.

On a brighter note, I am now re(eyeing) the prospects for sobriety, and that means putting down the cigarettes as well. I had about six months under my belt as I went from 3.27.12 to around October without smoking. The sad thing is I really don’t know, or at least have forgotten other ways to enjoy myself when left to my own devices. Of course there is the retail therapy that often leaves me feeling swell, but with about half of my income now going to rent, there isn’t much left over to play with. I bought a laptop, with a paycheck that was higher than average, and here’s to hope that it doesn’t put too much of a pinch or cast too dark a shadow over the spending for the next month, lest it will have to be returned (again). 

Brief Update.

During the last week temperatures have dipped (to a balmy five degrees this morning), and it seems the bitter cold has paralyzed my productivity for the time being. As things stand now, my main concern is staying warm and out of the way of the folks at the cramped, congested, overly crowded, and increasingly foul shelter. A couple of incompatible goals if there ever were some.

Last week however, I did put together some very random thoughts that hopefully will form the groundwork for the memoir. My goal is to have something full length and publishable before I would have had my Ph.D. (assuming normative time, Spring 2014). Now let me never speak of said memoir again, until it is complete.

Diagnosed

"Bipolar. Extremely manic to be precise," That was the diagnosis that required about thirty seconds of Dr. Henderson’s sustained observation. His professional demeanor seemed a bit shaken, if not altogether troubled and wholly disturbed by the mass exodus of verbiage, equal parts desultory rant and enraged black thought that was the culmination and height of my first episode as he called it. But this was not a TV show, it was my life, and it would be for the better part of the next decade.  

He had but one question for my concerned parents: “Is he always like this?” My parents, who put aside decades of marital distance for their son in crisis, were nonplussed by his query, and equally shaken by my recent behavior. 

Certainly, I was not always like this, in fact, all reports pointed to mania's diametric opposite. Considerations of my countenance and comportment from my earliest kindergarten reports to those who knew me well had always began with that terribly vague word, "quiet." In retrospect it must have been the 23 years of calm before the storm, the eye/I of which would be topic of many a discussion involving from those close to me to detached clinicians. 

Maybe it was genetic predisposition as my mother's brother, Darrell, is bipolar, and was also diagnosed in his early twenties. Whatever the case may be, no one, least of all myself saw it coming, or if anyone did little was made of the perfect storm of unsutured angst and unexpected circumstance that bore my first steps into troubled waters. 

In retrospect mentions and recollections of a dyadic personality were noted by my mother as she recalled these aforementioned teacher reports that always had me pegged as acutely quiet, very studious, and always respectful. She told me of how she nearly asked the teachers at their subsequent conferences if they had the right child identified on paper. To hear her tell it, as soon I as came home from the academic bootcamp the same child they had pegged as "a pleasure to have in class" threw toys and caution to the wind, roughhousing with my sister Jessica, and raising the decibel level at our quaint Jamaica Plain duplex somewhere between jackhammer and jet engine. Certainly this was not the keeper of the inside voice she had been informed.