blackandbipolar.net

Hello Dear Readers,

After much delay, the new site, blackandbipolar.net, is finally up. Though it's still under a bit of construction as I learn the site and posting mechanics, please enjoy future writings there. All content has been transferred as I was hoping for a more user-friendly layout and look.

Thank you for the support at this blog over the years since it's (hypo?)manic inception in 2011. I'm happy to report the blog is just shy of 15,000 hits with readers all over the globe. It means a lot to know that it's of value to someones, somewhere, which is why I've left it up, even during long stretches of inactivity for which I apologize.

Onward and Upward,

Chris

On the History and Merits of the Retail Merry-Go-Round / A Job any Job (part one)

Bagging groceries, checking ‘em in, checking ‘em out, and collecting a check at Whole Foods (WF) at 36 is certainly not how anyone least of whom myself, most of whom, my parents (given their early and sustained investment in my education), had it drawn up in the post-adolescent playbook.

I sense that from the outside looking in there’s a good amount of WTF are you doing at WF, as it's an inquiry I often ask myself, having now ridden the retail rollercoaster for the better part of the past seven years. Here I’m reminded of Michael in the Godfather when he infamously said of the life, “every time I get out, they pull me right back in.” There's also a far more obscure song by Jay-Z called "Marcy to Hollywood", in which he laments returning to the projects ("and with every mistake, back to us you return, he raps), but to give my history with retail some context here it is:

In 2011, I was in Atlanta, facing a particularly imminent housing crisis. I felt recovered enough from an episode the Spring of the year prior to make the out-of-state move from Boston, but given the gravity of the eviction front, I took a job, any job, with a seemingly nil barrier to entry at the local Kroger, a regional grocer. The store was being remodeled with inventory constantly being moved around, so the customer service staff would take turns directing customers as best we could in the direction of their desired items.

Apparently, this was in my wheelhouse, as management noted my aptitude for recall amongst the ever-changing merchandise layout. They even gave me a sandwich vest, with the words “ASK ME” emblazoned on the front and back.

As readers of previous entries know, it’s a good thing I don’t take myself too seriously (perhaps not seriously enough- but that’s for another time) because I was paid the Georgia state minimum wage of $7.30 an hour (If this seems second world-ish – it’s probably because it is. For comparison’s sake, they say the average “bum” in Manhattan nets nearly triple that, tax-free, on any given day) to direct traffic and answer a slew of what became increasingly unrelated and unoriginal inquiries:

Customer:  You’re vest says, “Ask Me.”  What am I supposed to ask you?

Me: You need helping finding anything? But really whatever you want, shoot.

I was routinely asked about the forecast for the coming days, lottery numbers, and even once had to break down my elementary understanding of photosynthesis to a customer particularly interested in horticulture like I was some oracle of the aisles. Though the aforementioned housing crisis the job was meant to resist, snowballed into successive crises in the A, the job at Kroger was a classic “recovery” job, as they say for those getting back on their feet in different capacities.

After working there a year, due to a confluence of factors unrelated to my employment, I became manic and returned home to Boston, where my symptoms had me disruptive to the point where I became homeless for the first time. When I was finally out of the hospital and settled at a local shelter, with my back really against the wall, given its 90-day maximum stay policy, again I found myself looking for a job, any job (sense a pattern here?) and happened to see that Whole Foods was hiring. I successfully parlayed my Kroger experience into a cashier/bagger position at WF, got out of the shelter, rented a room, and maintained for nearly a year and half before the onset of a completely unexpected episode (my last one, for which I’m still grateful) in the Spring of 2014 caused me to resign without much notice at WF and dash my dreams of pursuing my MSW at USC that fall for grad school attempt part trois.

This episodic crisis persisted through the Fall of 2014 when again, I found myself back at the shelter, looking for a job, any job, which I found at my a local Target. I remained stable enough to get out (read: walk out on a lunch break) as I had procured what I hoped would be my next ticket out of retail- an equally ill-paying, but rewarding gig in human services for which  I took a training course in the summer of 2016. It was a terrible fit as the peer specialist position I had long desired proved unattainable, despite my concerted effort. That was over before it started, so with my back against the financial wall, I looked for a job, any job, and quickly found one as a cashier at CVS. After two months or so there I made my way back to Whole Foods for my latest and current tour of duty for the pay raise and familiarity of having worked there two years prior.

There are a million and one jobs out there, meaning there are roughly a million other places I could be collecting a check if not creating my own revenue stream through some form of self-directed industry, or even side-hustle outside of retail grocery (If nothing else, while writing this I’m reminded how desperation can inform our decisions and color our choices)

It’ll be two years this go-round at Whole Foods come this October. Though I could easily feel discouraged and defeated, I instead feel grateful to have been re-hired, to be stable, to be surrounded by dope working relationships amongst WF staff and customers, and to have been so richly supported by the store during the chaos of my mother’s terminal illness. While the ties that bind can easily be the ties that are keeping from advancing, it’s also worth noting that I recently was hired by a local tutoring company.  I hoped that I could juggle their truly lucrative hourly rate while still working part-time at WF. Though that tutoring opportunity seemed like a great fit, they failed to compensate me after nearly two months for training and orientation.

So as has been the observable sequence, now I’m back at WF full – time, and honestly, there is no other place I’d rather be making 13 and some change an hour. It provides stability via simplicity and stresslessness in a way that allows me to be there, without having to be there. The autopilot has become so routine that my active mind can wander wherever I may like, so long as I am physically present and relatively pleasant, which tends to be my natural state. On my best days, it’s really like going to hang out with good friends (my store is full of really and truly high quality, hard-working people from five continents, whose company and conversation I’ve come to delight in) for eight hours. Of course, when I come home, I’m not taking anything home with me, but some sore feet. But I’d rather have my feet hurting than my pockets any day.

My Mother's Eulogy (Good Mourning)

First and foremost, I’d like to thank each and everyone one of you for making it here today. Perhaps because of her modesty, I really don’t think my mother had any idea how adored, treasured, and truly loved she was. Not all that many knew of her illness, so we didn’t know what to expect today, but the turnout, support, and acts of kindness throughout have been beyond touching so please consider yourselves all part of the extended Mayfield/Ferguson family.

As the program heading states, this is a celebration of my mother’s life. When she came home from the hospital and began her in-home hospice, she sat us all down and said we were to celebrate for the remainder of her days and beyond, so thank you for joining us in celebration

My mother was special. I could stand up here and recite a dictionary full of superlatives and a thesaurus full of synonyms to describe just how special my mother was, is, and always will be to me, and I still wouldn’t be able to convey how much she meant to me.

She was everything rolled into one: my best friend, confidante, advisor, moral compass, model of virtue, superhero, and matriarch, but before any of those titles, I knew her as simply as mom. As a forever proud mama’s boy, being her son was the greatest pleasure, privilege, and joy I’ll ever know.

By a quick show of hands, how many of you have are familiar with Oprah? Ok, now how many of you have are familiar with former first lady Michelle Obama. The world only recently became introduced to a certain type of class, elegance, warmth, and spirit of black womanhood through them. To myself, I had a direct line to these qualities and never had to look any further than my mother to appreciate them.

Well, call me crazy, and trust me plenty do, I don’t believe that either of these two women, Oprah or Michelle Obama, as phenomenal as they are, could held my mother’s handbag of their best day. From the hardships she endured in her youth to the weight she carried as an adult, most of it dead (looks icily), my mother was the embodiment of grace under pressure. Of all the things she could have chosen to do with her prodigious gifts, she prioritized being a mother. For that I am eternally grateful.

While her physical loss would seem to leave an unimaginable emptiness, I fill this void with gratitude for having had the amazing mother I did for 36 years, four months, and 12 days, (but who’s counting?).

Before I wrap up, I just wanted to share a quick story about the time we spent together during her last month with us. I’m not sure how many of you are aware, but my mother smoked cigarettes up until the end. For those of you who may have mixed feelings cancer patient steadily smoking, she promised me that much like Bill Clinton, she never inhaled. This proved to be true, as throughout her countless CT scans, MRI’s, and X-Rays they never found so much as a single spot on her lungs. And trust me, while we’re on the subject, I tried, more than once, to convince her to join me in smoking a certain herbal alternative, but she always graciously declined.

In any case, when she came home from the hospital to begin her in-home hospice, I happened to be out at an appointment. I wasn’t expecting her so soon, but I quickly got a text. “Chris, where’s my cigarette (complete with smiley face emoji)??” Knowing she would be looking for them furiously, I quickly replied that there was an ample supply tucked in the pocket of her favorite red jacket. When I got home to find her exhaling away on the back porch, what she called our “therapy sessions,” officially began anew

While my mother showered us with love, she wasn’t the gushy or touchy feely type. She simply showed her love and we felt it. I had been talking to my therapist specifically about wanting to get mushy with my mother, out of fear that things would be left unsaid. Prior to her hospitalization my mother seemed to dodge my attempts to express myself in this way, but when she came home, maybe because she sensed an urgency she hadn’t felt before, she opened up the proverbial vault.

Because of her mobility challenges she would begin her day early in the morning and gingerly make her way to the back porch. In eager anticipation of our sessions, I would be up before the birds, much like a kid on Christmas waiting for the party to start. It pained her to move towards the end, so once she was seated and her coffee had been prepared, it was just her and I out there, chain smoking Newports like we owned stock in the company, spending hours upon hours (our record was six) saying what we meant to each other, sharing stories ranging from personal to hilarious, holding hands, exchanging pecks, and of saying, “I love you.” After enough time, she would urge me to go inside, but I assured her that the only place I wanted to be was with her.

I did the conservative calculation: over the course of those two weeks we averaged at least three to four hours a day together on the back porch. That roughly adds up to 48 hours, or in total, what amounted to the best two days of my life.

There’s an African proverb that says, “A person does not die until they are forgotten.” In that sense my mother will remain with me always in memory, spirit, and, of course, heart. Before she left us, I promised her that my siblings would celebrate her for as long as there was breath in our lungs.

Thank you again for joining us in celebration.

Baby boy loves you, mama.  

On Sankofa...

to go back and find my confidence (where ever the fuck I left it).

... Because it's Been Over a Year.

I have managed to maintain my mental health as it’s been about two and a half years since the onset of my last episode. While much has remained the same, there are some notable improvements as well. A few months ago, after tipping the scales at 225+ pounds, I rejoined the gym in keeping with the go-hard-for-five-or-so-months-every-four-years-or-so rhythm. To date I am down 22 pounds and have seen my body fat decrease from 26% to roughly 17.5% (according to Wikipedia the body fat percentage for those considered fit begins at 17.0%, so I’m creeping upon that goal). Getting regular exercise is good for folks in general, but especially those looking to maintain their mental stability. In that sense it was almost something of a panacea for me, as it meant I cut out the binge eating/drinking and daily toking, in favor of caloric restriction, clean eating, and a veritable elimination of the substance (ab)use (apparently I was right on the borderline according to most generally accepted definitions of abuse). While the weight has plateaued over the last few weeks there have been NSV’s (non-scale victories), most noticeably not having to squeeze into my favorite pair of jeans.

I finally escaped the Target nightmare, where I had been working for a year and some change, mainly as a cashier and occasionally as a cart attendant (think ducking parking lot traffic while maneuvering 25 shopping carts for 8 hours at a time- yes about as much fun as it sounds). After working with a state employment counselor, I was finally able to take his suggestion and enroll in a human services training program. For those of you not in the know, the field of human services assists people from vulnerable populations (e.g., folks with developmental disabilities, the elderly, the abused, the addicted, the homeless, etc) regain their footing, confidence and independence. After being on the receiving end of said services off and on during the course of my cycling, I thought it was would be a good way to give back and find some semblance of occupational satisfaction and fulfillment. To this end, I hopped in an eight week human services training program, that immediately led to a spike of call backs and interviews to positions for which I had had little success in applying prior. Streamlining and updating the resume helped immensely, as did leading with something other than Tar-Jay. After a series of varied interviews, call backs, and cost/benefit analyses, I chose to work as a community support counselor in a residential setting, helping middle-aged people who are dealing with schizophrenia and/or schizo-affective disorder. The agency actually turned out to be the same one through which I have received therapy and med prescription while home, so there was a bit of anxiety about running into someone and being “discovered/outed”, so to speak, as I was hesitant to ever disclose my diagnosis unless “lived experience” was part of the job description (as is standard for certain recovery jobs). After reading the files of some of the consumers, it became clear that there was substantial overlap in both background and our providers. As I flipped through their phonebook-thick cases prior to meeting them, I thought, yep, “I’ve been on that med, seen that doctor in the psych ward, and have that same prescriber.” Despite hitting close to home, they seem more like reminders of my progress than triggers for my potential relapse. The robust off-site orientation and training period lasted four days, and I recently completed my second day of on-site work. Both my co-workers and the consumers seem like a solid bunch.

The Quarterly

I tend not to update this bad boy a whole lot for fear of repeating myself and the same follies that are endemic to (mood) instability. In other words, the constancy of what I perceive to be a perpetual rut serves as the chief reason that I avoid writing. That said, my treatment team, most notably my Shrink Scott, and another social worker Sam (a female) with whom I worked for eight months or so, continually marveled at progress I have made (this progress is, of course, in comparison to the rest of their afflicted clientele). 

The way I see it, barely keeping my head above water is hardly cause for celebration, but then again things could always be worse. Scott and Sam continually applauded my efforts to put in the work necessary to improve across the board. Though most days my attitude hovers around a semi-depressive baseline and my physical energy seems to be nil (sometimes it feels like I'm glued to the bed, where today, I spent an all too common twelve hours) unless I'm forcing myself to work or the gym, minimal progress is better than no progress. 

When I take one step forward after taking several backwards (the seeming story of the last decade- now leaving me in the figurative red as far as net progress is concerned) it's important to remember that that step forward is better than stagnation, or worse yet further backsliding. 

It's Been a While

While things have settled for the time being, it seems, and perhaps because of my doing, or lack thereof, there exists an omnipresent and damn near unshakable air of potential instability lurking. I was describing to Scott, my shrink, how stability seems to be like that Whack-a-Mole game that used to be popular during the Chuck-E-Cheese days. For those that may be unfamiliar essentially you are given a mallet and a fixed time to knock down the eponymous moles that continually pop up. Just when you smash one back into its hole, another one, or two, or three pop up, turning it into a quite the exercise after the sixty seconds or what have you is up.

Mental (i.e mood), domestic (e.g. housing), financial, and physical (weight and wellness) are all such or domains (or, in keeping with the above analogy, moles) that require consistence maintenance as they have all faltered at one point or another over the past decade, sometimes crashing down simultaneously in an (im)perfect cacophony.

While my mood has been fairly stable for the past few months, despite an unexpected hypomanic hiccup a few weeks back, I recently found out that my roommates (were I any kind of decent blogger, I would have filled in a gap or two-- as of the new year, I moved out of the shelter and into a room in a house full of good-natured, overachieving, yet hard-partying college kids) will be deserting the house in search of greener pastures in a couple of months or so. As things stand right now, I'm not sure how or if it will affect my occupancy, but at the very least I could find myself in a dark house sans wi-fi, as the utilities are currently in my roommate's name.

Financially speaking, my federal return, despite being far more than expected ($1,000 or so), soon went to some sparse furnishings, housekeeping items, and, I'm not going to front some other recreational indulgences that can be easily surmised by regular readership. I'm still waiting on the state return, and while it's only about four hundred dollars or so, I'm reluctant to just bank it, as that's simply an impulse purchase away from nothing. That said, I've thought about treating myself to what seems like my 45th new iPhone or perhaps a playstation; though these expenditures may come across as reckless, at least these items have a decent resale value, should necessity ever mandate a parting.

The More Things Change

In a nutshell, the four months since my last post have seen more of the same common denominator that has marred my life since my diagnosis: instability.

In the interest of time and energy, both of which are lacking as of the moment, I'll summarize with bullet points.

- Somehow, amidst the excitement of the birthday (in April), the tax refund from a year of slaving at Whole Foods, and my acceptance into the MSW program at the dear old alma mater, USC, I became manic.

- I then proceeded to lose my apartment and my car along with my sanity and stability that had been built up over the preceding year.

- Found myself broke as a joke, making less than a hundred dollars a week over the summer of 2014, while at the shelter again. I held on for as long as possible, and decided to venture out to LA, to give grad school one last attempt in earnest, knowing the odds were stacked against me.

- The daunting odds of going 0-60, on the proverbial scale of functioning, were indeed insurmountable.

- Withdrew from the MSW program less than two weeks into the program, and used the loan money to sustain and enjoy myself during my stay in Southern California. One month of this time was spent was a lovely and inviting Salvadorean family, and the second month was spent was my homeboy Terrie. Not having a sustainable source of pharmaceuticals, I self medicated with the finest medicinal mary jane, alcohol, nicotine, and the occasional Xanax, to induce some of the best sleep I've had in a while.

- Caught a cross country Greyhound back to Boston, not knowing where I would stay. Ended up crashing for two nights at the legally uninhabitable family property in Cape Cod, then in a motel 6, before finding myself back at the shelter.

- Linked up with my therapist and prescriber (and a new social worker, who thankfully is easy on the eyes), and began work at Target, as my sizable loan refund check had basically been squandered over the course of three months or so.

So here I am, riding the Manic-Depressive rollercoaster (currently working my way from the depths of depressive darkeness), in a situation eerily similar to that which I found myself two years ago at this point.

And Scott Makes, "The List."

It seems Scott and I have hit the proverbial wall, you know the point where the patient-therapist relationship has been maximized in terms of returns. While I am interminably grateful for Scott and all of his atypical intellectual insights into my psychic workings, things came to a head last week when he challenged me by asking, “if you don’t have the wherewithal to endure the EBT (food stamp) paperwork renewal gauntlet, what makes you think you’ll be prepared to endure grad school?” Though these weren’t his words verbatim, it was something to this effect.

His query caught me off guard as he has to date been an ardent supporter of my efforts to return to school, but as is typically the case when nonplussed some time is required for me to gather my thoughts and development an argument that’s to my pleasing.

While I’ll spare the details of the multi-fanged rebuttal, it’s crucial to understand that my energies are indeed limited, and I’m the first to admit that burnout (and it’s oppositional cousin boredom) is a peak of said expenditure that leaves me winded and ready to quit any climb at a moment’s notice. That said, I’m eating. While my diet on a day to day basis may not be a nutritionist’s dream, somehow or another Scott seemed to be under the impression that I woke up and walked around all day with my ribs touching. Not the case.

As this notion of energy conservation goes further, it feels as if I’m gearing up for the title fight, or the gauntlet that is graduate school, part trois. Not only will I have to hit the ground running in mid – August, I’ll have to hit it gunnin’ as well. 

Long ago this notion of kicking my feet up and having some degree to time to just chill regroup and recoup yielded to the reality and gravity of the situation: that it will take work, and a constant and at times strenuous clip to make it through graduate school in particular and adulthood in general. 

Sometimes I countertransfer (I believe that’s what the term is called in clinical settings) and find myself both empathizing with and feeling sorry for my therapist, for at times, I know I can be hard-headed, imprudent, and prideful to many a fault and foible, but trying to change such character traits, or flaws as they may be, in one session, or even one year, is made difficult by the realization that they have been developed over one lifetime of conditioning and compulsion.

On Suffering Fools.

My therapist, Scott, and I were talking about the trail of fissured, fractured, and some altogether broken relationships that have been left in my trail of relational glory. He essentially said that at this particular time, I lack the interpersonal skillset to repair them. While he may very well be right, he continued to point out that the aim of reconciliation is not to annihilate the other party with the cogency of your argument, but instead to express understanding, concern, and curiosity for their position.

After hearing him implore me to be more empathetic, I then countered by saying that the reason their positions are so easily dismantled summarily dismissed, is because I have, in fact, taken the time, to imagine their perspective and made every earnest effort to see things through their lens.

Though all or nothing thinking presents itself as one of my favorite cognitive missteps and rhetorical ferocity a latent passion of mine (given enough time to analyze the situation) assuming the blame, apologizing, and then asking for forgiveness when it can be all but proven that I’m that offended/defensive party, seems to be asking for a lot given this particular juncture in my interpersonal journey. In fact, it seems a bit absurd, so until further notice, I will heed Scott’s conciliatory admonishment, that some people and relationships are simply toxic and warrant distance over the disrespect and disregard that’s been heretofore offered with the utmost consistency.

In essence, arguing with fools, let alone apologizing to them for their intelligence deficit, ignorance surplus, if nothing else, reminds me, not to engage in battles of wit with the unarmed. It’s an exercise in futility and frustration, both of which I am best served without. 

Quotes, the Quaterly, and Things of that Nature.

“When people show you who they are, believe them.” – The incomparable Maya Angelou (Rise in Peace)

“When love is no longer being served, you have to learn how to leave the table.” – Nina Simone

“Sometimes you have to be heartless or simply learn to use your heart less.” – Unknown

“Sometimes you’re circle decreases in size, but increases in value.” – Unknown

When someone gives you the “gift of goodbye (I believe I overheard Oprah coin this phrase, or borrow the currency from someone who did) treasure it.

To paraphrase the counsel of two dear mentors in regards to certain types, “Smarten up (mentor number one) and fuck ‘em (mentor number two).

Unfortunately, love and loyalty, can too often become personal liabilities that said, learn to invest in yourself, and reap the returns.

That’s it for today’s lessons kids. On to the diurnal phase because it’s been a couple months :

I quit my job at Whole Foods amidst a maelstrom of chaos, lost my apartment, found myself sleeping where I so desired at night (read: open air suburban camping) and in doing so positioned myself closer to positivity, progression and peace of mind that once seemed utterly elusive and fantastically illusive.

____

There is a young girl (around 19), whose own introversion and pensive nature reminds me of my own at the old-school, artsy, independent movie theater where I have worked for the past month (and hopefully will for the next five and a half weeks. She also is a middle child and aspiring writer, and is definitely the shy and awkward type. There is something attractive about her, in a non-classical way.  Though she isn’t my type per se, our conversations, which have grown more personal to pass the time, remind me that I am indeed a sapiosexual. Nothing turns me off more quickly than mediocre, mundane, run-of-the-mill, predictable conversation.

Over the past few months, I’ve developed an even greater aversion towards material  gain and general notions of intimacy, be it social, sexual/romantic. Though I’m detaching and disengaging, much of it is from toxicity, something my shrink Scott has said, has me ever so calm and at ease.  The less I have sift through materially and emotionally those more at peace I feel. Sometimes less is indeed more, and my material minimalism has spilled over into interpersonal minimalism.

Despite the above statement, it seems, that despite still being on the celibacy streak to end all streaks, that there’s some sort of attraction between the aforementioned my co-worker and I. There definitely appears to be a mutual admiration of one another’s personal peace; beyond that, it’s been so long that I can’t even call it in fairness.

What I can say for sure, is that I did have a fleeting fantasy of having sex with her in the backroom behind the concession stand. That would have been super hot. Then I thought about how I start my MSW program in less than a couple of months. The last thing the kid needs right now is a kid. The other last thing I need is some broken-hearted, sprung, nineteen year old who can’t handle a fling, calling me out on sexual harassment charges, let alone that weighty word that rhymes with ape. To be fair, I can’t even call how I’d handle any type of sexscapade at this juncture. It could just as easily be me who would catch feelings; that said, with so much up in the air, it seems to me that some things are just better left up to fantasy.

Speaking of which, she is an English major at Boston College, and she taught me much about the genre , something about which, I previously knew next to nothing and for which I cared very litt.e. Now I can proudly boast knowing that Tolkien is the father of modern fantasy, while Rowling has ushered in a new era of epic fantasy. Again, not my cup of tea, but it’s nice to be able to be conversant in the interests of others, especially if they are wildly popular like fantasy.

On that note, after writing the preceding paragraph, I, while at the library, had to make a quick run to the bathroom, and came out feeling, more relieved. For some reason I feel like walking past the cute librarian after draining the main vain autoerotically of course, should be more awkward, but it’s not. I have a feeling she knows and she knows I have a feeling she knows. Kinda turns me on truthfully, while reminding me that my libido, while dormant at times, hasn’t gone anywhere near dead.

My angling towards the hopefully imminent MSW venture ranges from eager, to anxious, to nonchalance, to pressured, depending on the time of day. This attitudinal kinesis is consistent with my thoughts towards most everything else as well.

I spend a good deal of time thinking about to whom I allow/offer access. Getting to know anyone is a privilege that can be extended or rescinded without notice in my book. If you are on thin ice with me, chances are you won’t know it until you’re swimming to warmer shores in freezing water. If you’re good with me,  then everything is kool and the gang, the gang being the ever-dwindling circle of course.

 

 

 

Lei mi dà speranza,

e la speranza è una bella cosa.

La Extrano (I Miss Her)

La Extrano ...

I miss, only but a few things about, “her.”

I miss her brilliance, a light that 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 to the city of angels. 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 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. This would make me indescribably proud and joyful.

I miss her voracious intellectual appetite, and how she would devour books of all genres and report her findings back to me (usually while sitting on my lap, after being asked playfully to, “park it.”)

I miss saying, “park your keister, meester;” a Marge Simpson-inspired request for her to sit on my lap.

I miss saying, “present,” another admittedly less PG request for her to make me smile.

I miss, even more specifically, 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 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 like those of an owlish or “Frawwg” as I jokingly used to say at the time. I often wondered if she could see more than is typical through her seemingly magical, “windows to the soul.”

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!” was one of the first but certainly not the last), and laugh when I spoke properly due to my textbook training. 

I miss her being my down-ass chick, that went go 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 and affinity (e.g., the tattoo she got after knowing me less than a year, her wilin’ out on campus security on our behalf, her going to the campus fraternity row after her man had been jumped to find his attackers, etc.)

.
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 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 our shared love of music, and her ears that would listen to the same rap songs as me, just to hear a clever/favorite line of mine

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.

The R.E.A.L. Burden of the Gifted.

R idicule

E xpectation

A lienation

L amentation

Credit due to Mr. John Austin (better known perhaps by his stage name, Ras Kass) for inspiring this post. Austin wrote/said, "Ridicule is the burden of genius," in a song entitled, "Reelishymn," off of his seminal, West Coast Classic, magnum opus, Soul on Ice, a title borrowed from Black Panther member, Eldridge Cleaver, who wrote a book of the same name, while incarcerated, presumably in federal prison, for his activities were oppositional to the directives of COINTELPRO, a federal program created by former FBI head and alleged (read: all but confirmed) transvestite, Hoover (J. Edgar), who despite his ignominy, ignorance, and obvious prejudice, had a federal building named after him. #NP Nas, "Breathe."

In There Like Swimwear

After speaking at to my therapist, Scott, at length and in depth about family dysfunction, I decided it would be best to impose a unilateral moratorium on all toxic relationships, starting with family. As the middle child and only son, I’ve been between a rock and a hard place trying to balance my sanity with my familial duties in general and my filial duties in particular all while trying to make something of myself. As Kenny Rogers once said, however, you gotta “know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.” As far as that prescient admonition is concerned, I’m folding like laundry on a Sunday afternoon. Trying to impose my will and impart a modicum of orderliness and regularity has literally driven me crazy, more than once. Not even attempting to do so again, as any more such effort would be tantamount to straight masochism. As the Wolf in Pulp Fiction said to Jules and Vincent after cleaning up the unpleasantness at Bonnie’s “Lots of luck to you, gentlemen.”

Less than a week after I completed my USC MSW application, I was officially accepted into the program. I am close to ecstatic about this and learned of it on a Monday following a Friday, during which I bought a Playstation 4 with three games (the obligatory newest edition of Madden, NBA 2K14, and Call of Duty: Ghosts). This serious retail buzz needed to be smoked off with about half of a pack of Newports that same day. Damn near orgasmic, I tell you. That night I was antsy, and didn’t feel like being in the crib by myself, so I headed out to visit the old man. I compounded this mistake by twelve hours later going to visit my mother. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, seeing your parents, who are supposed to be beacons of guidance in a place where they can’t teach you much except about what not to do (e.g., marry the wrong person) unsettles the old psyche a little bit. Perhaps I’ve been desensitized to the chaos I perceive to an extent, but it still bothers me to the point where avoidance absolutely makes the most sense. 

Le Sigh

Familial fragmentation and dysfunction makes me indescribably frustrated to the point where getting away sounds like it may just be the best option. To that end, my applications for both MSW programs, at Boston College and USC (fight on!) have been completed. I should hear back within a couple of months, and while BC struck me as the most logical choice as it obviated the need for a cross country move (insofar as I thought geographic stability would influence overall stability), the tide has swung back to the alma mater. I’m in an even better place than I was when I began the application process months back. Despite the progress I had made, I felt somewhat drained, like “fuck, I gotta move again!?” Now that winter nears the halfway point with, spring around the corner, I’m starting to feel the energies of the seasonal change affecting me in a positive, rejuvenating way.

The first step is to get into either school. While the young woman who graduated a rank below me in undergrad went on to Harvard Law I’m hardly presuming an acceptance after going three for ten during my black studies graduate application gauntlet in 2007. I suppose those admissions committees don’t take too kindly to a bunch of dead, non-enriching space on the resume. In any case, as things stand right now, if I were to get into USC, and the financial aid package was in order, I’d have two words to say to Boston, and the people in it: “I’m gone.” Aside from the torturous winters, there’s just too much static here for me to look past.

Sometimes, I allow other peoples’ nonsense to get to me. For example, the on again off again estrangement from my father is off again. He stopped by on Christmas in what I took to him finally receiving the olive branch I extended over a year ago. I thought that was decent of him, so I stopped by his house (he is living at my deceased grandparents’ home, the same one he grew up in) to drop off a couple of pieces of mail the other week, and stopped by just because two nights ago.

As much as they say opposites attract, it seems as if both of my parents thrive off chaos to a certain extent. My mother self-admittedly hoards and is forever trying feebly to get organized (when she isn’t busy chauffeuring my younger, non-driving sister to and from school, work, the mall, etc., she somehow manages to occupy her time doing everything but de-cluttering).

My father’s”home”, a term I used loosely, is in disrepair. It hurts me heart, to see my grandparents old dwelling in such decrepit condition. The two bum-ass, do-nothing, father-son carpenters he has living with him are leeches of the highest degree, but there’s also a certain symbiosis operating as my father has always seemed to find people in need to lean on him; I can only assume it gives him some sense of power, in what, otherwise is a pretty meaningless existence. In any case, the first thing I said after seeing the house in its entirety to the old man was, “are you living here or squatting?”

Playing middle man between two parents whose relationship is essentially non-existent can be taxing. Aside from that, they both seem down and defeated in their own ways. That shit can be depressing to see your parents, who are supposed to be your guideposts, in such a light.

TBC…

"Gunz and Butter" (in my Ving Rhames from Baby Boy voice)

I have re-re-re-re acquired enough butter to make Land o’ Lakes jealous, and while the material gatherings still pale in comparison to yesterday, the accoutrements of basic adulthood hold little to no meaning to me. I have developed into a man of very simple tastes; I desire very little and require even less to be happy. Some decent gear, edible grub, and a place to call home. As it regards the latter I am still very much concerned with and preoccupied by my primary goal of closing on a one bedroom condo in Atlanta.

Over the course of the past few years especially I have rediscovered that I’m at my happiest, best, and most productive when I can isolate and engage/interact with others at my choosing. Over the course of my twenties, I fell victim to many a housing crises, to the point where cohabitation made me its whipping child. While I have no desire to recount the entirety of the history, most of which has been well documented in and alluded to in previous posts. In 2006 there was ex-girlfriend number two. Of course as most young couples do, we fought more frequently than is healthy. After blowing up at her one day (and I mean really going off in a way in which few have seen), she quickly beat me home and did her best Beyoncé, “to the left, to the left” putting my shit out before I even had a chance to do so myself (which I had fully intended to do and would have, but before heading back to the crib I happened to go for a long drive and an even longer chain smoke before I headed back to our shared spot. Then, in Atlanta, there was the personal misfortune, which befell my best friend, and at the time roommate; eventually his problem became mine, and there was soon an eviction notice posted to the door, and I was left bargaining with the leasing agent more times than I would have liked, which only prolonged my unwelcomed occupancy. And then, of course, perhaps the most outstanding among my expulsions was that from mom’s crib, which literally left me out on the street and between homeless shelters (again, this is well-documented in previous posts, and the point of this one is not to rehash old drama or reopen old wounds- that said, I won’t be regaling you with details any more than I already have.

Which brings me back to this overarching goal of being the proprietor of my own property. Here I am reminded of the cult classic movie Baby Boy, when Ving Rhames (I forgot his character’s name and am too lazy to IMDB it) is speaking to his um, illegitimate, ne’er to do well stepson Jody, played by Tyrese (word around the campfire says the director, John Singleton, had the late Tupac Shakur, pegged for that role, by the way) if you will, and says the following:

“You know the problem with you little niggas, you think you know everything about the damn world, but you don’t know shit. I see you got yourself a little business going well that’s good, that’s good. You make that paper, but when you making paper, you gotta learn some rules to go wit’ it .You gotta learn the difference between guns and butter. There’s two types of niggas in the world the niggas with guns and  niggas with butter.  Now what is the guns; the guns that’s the real estate, that’s stocks and bonds, that’s artwork, you know shit that appreciates with value. What’s the butter? Cars, clothes, jewelry all that other bullshit that don’t mean shit after you buy it.  That’s what it’s all about, guns and butter, baby! Little dumb muthafucka.”

Instead of continuing to recycle and churn butter it’s high time for me to acquire some figurative guns. While I did invest in some artwork years back, I ended up giving it the the homegirl Tiffany, as it’s never really been my thing (and I was disappointed with the amazing artist’s half-assed effort, but that’s neither here nor there).

But back to the butter for a second, which rapper Nas once described with the following line: “Fuck the cash the ice, Ferraris with 220 (MPH) on the dash, when your life ain’t right.” And the choir says Amen!

Cars. Check. On number three. Clothes. Been had the fly suits (which I never wore and no longer have, of course as they were purged during manic instability). Jewelry. I used to keep a nice pair of solitaire studs in each ear, and a very modest gold chain around the neck (I also ended up giving the jewelry away, but again, that’s really neither here nor there.). Bullshit. Had, and have reacquired some of it (e.g., the newly copped Playstation four)

I have zero attachment to any of the butter. It comes with hard work, goes easily, and comes back even more easily granted you are willing and able to put in the necessary grind for it. Back to the “guns” though. In my 31 years, I have never owned property of my own. This bothers me.

Call me an extreme introvert with loner tendencies, but I hit on all cylinders when I am afforded to the opportunity to be hermetic. I enjoy cocooning if you will, being alone, and practicing self-mastery. Prime example. When I did I have 1000 square feet to myself in Atlanta, though it was only for a few months I used that time to quit smoking (something I only dreamed of prior to actually doing it), get in the best shape of my life (173 lbs with 11% body fat—yes I get kinda obsessive with these sorts of endeavors), and go a blogging tear. Though my time was limited since I knew the funds would expire soon, I wondered what would happen had I been afforded to opportunity to be recluse at will and for an extended period of time. Socializing, or at least forced socialization slows me down. One thing I remember my mother telling her frustrated son (that would be me) growing up was "Chris, not everybody is like you," pointing to the fact that sometimes others aren't on the same page or plane. To stop and explain certain thought processes and movements of mine often become a bothersome chore and an exercise in futility and frustration on my end.

It has also become obvious that oustiders looking in own my situation with their obvious concerns and queries, and worse yet, doubt and discouragement frustrate to me to no end. This is precisely why I really don’t choose to involve myself with many people, let alone share my dreams with those who may have nothing to offer towards their achievement.

I know what some may be thinking: “Chris you’re in massive debt, have atrocious spending habits, make a pittance of a salary ($10.50/hr. for those curious), half of which goes to rent, how are you going to ever going to procure the means to become a homeowner?” In short, nigga are you crazy?” Well yes, if you hadn’t pieced it together from the title of the blog, I am, in the clinical and colloquial sense and have the professional and personal references that will corroborate this truth. That is just what it is. Furthermore, please leave the “how’s” up to me, and here I am reminded by great line by one Curtis Jackson (bka 50 cent). “It’s like I told niggas I’m a hustler, they keep on forgettin’/ 36 mil’ in eight months, still think I’m bullshittin (Yes, I will stay quoting rappers when I damn well please J. While I hardly feel the need to stack 36 M’s, the rougly 50K it would take to acquire the aforementioned dwelling is a measureable, attainable, realistic, and time-sensitive goal (this adjectives are derived from the S.M.A.R.T. acronym by the way- I always forget what the “S” stands for, and alas I’m too lazy to google).

The plan is in full effect, and for the doubters, naysayers, inquisitors, and interrogators, I humbly say it’s just a matter of time (40 is the deadline I have set for myself) and execution. Outsiders may think they the hand until the cards are on the table. If there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s work, and work hard. Chill. Then work ever harder. If it’s a slow, incremental grind towards a down payment, then so be it. If it’s accelerated by my working smart, a self-propelled windfall, or a combination of the two, then so be it. It will be. Some have too it to believe it, whereas I have seen it, and know how to be it.

And once I have it, aside from my HOA dues, property tax, and insurance, the rest will be all gravy a they say. A nice, buttery, gravy.

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.