panic

I'll preface this piece by sharing that I live with chronic mental illness. Among the myriad of diagnoses are major depression and anxiety disorder which rears itself in ugly panic attacks. Life has been very difficult for me, particularly now in the last month. I'm up and down, socially selective, hypersensitive and just a big ball of mush lately. So, content warning if you are faint of heart or just a little tender today to continue with caution and mindfulness of your own triggers. Here is a bird's eye view into my experience with panic attacks...

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the faintest detail. the most minor stressor. the smallest slight
and i begin to feel the tightening in my chest
and the bating of my breath
so i do everything i was taught to cope
i firmly plant my feet--i am grounded
i take deep breaths as well as inventory of my surroundings--i am present; i am safe
in trying hard to convince myself i hadn't realized
the burning tears falling down my face in a scorching stream
the tightening in my chest increases
i hyperventilate
my ankles crossed, my legs shaking
i am in a dark place
i am not safe
i am afraid
i am alone
and in this bathroom stall
curled on the floor beside the toilet
is how i die


if you are suffering, there is help and hope...
national help: http://www.dbsalliance.org/site/PageServer?pagename=urgent_crisis_hotline
local (Austin) help: http://www.rockspringshealth.com/lp/depression-treatment.stml

xoxo,
m

letting go

today i did one of the hardest things i never thought i could do

i let go of a lover who couldn't love me the way i deserve

it was so painful; it is so painful

i cannot honestly say if it is liberating yet...because i didn't want to let him go

but every heartache, missed call, ignored message, broken promise, poor excuse rang more loudly in my ear than the memory of when it was good

i let go of a lover today

a person who in a strange way loved me more than i thought i could be loved

and as painstaking as it is to admit, i know i can be loved better

so much better

xoxo,
m

Moment of Truth:

I haven't been in a very "Christian" space lately.

Spiritual, sure. But my relationship with modern Christianity and the preservation of the components and elements attributed to the identity have left me weary in light of the world's traumas. Don't get me wrong. I love Jesus Christ...so much. But I've grown skeptical of what I've been taught to believe. My convictions have shifted. I have doubts. I have questions that go gravely unanswered or I'm offered Christianisms that don't help to clarify what truths are cultural and what are transcendent. Why do we believe a certain way for a certain thing and otherwise for the another?

I have grown decidedly less religious than I used to be. And I'm okay with that.

Something I'm often reminded of in my seeking and in my doubt is the grace of God and the fact that He sees and loves me.

Today I awoke with this song in my spirit and was reminded again of who God is even in the midst of how shitty the world is right now. Figured I'd share.

xoxo,

m

On Black, Fat, Femme Positivity: Why I'm at My Heaviest, My Most Confident, and Don't Need Your Approval to Exist

"If I breathe in public for five seconds, it’s also common that someone will feel the need to tell me, “YASSSSS!” in an attempt to cheer on my fat Black femme existence like I’m a damn animal learning how to be housebroken. People love to be voyeurs of fat Blackness, and inadvertently become more problematic by trying to “yasssss” us through anything we do. Our mere survival is read as motivational to all those witnessing our existence, and it inspires everyone who’s not us because they’re actually partaking in the subordination of our humanity. Our humanity and beauty are seen as less than thin able bodied-ness, maintaining a hierarchy even when we receive these empty-ass compliments or praises. It only reaffirms that our dehumanization validates your safety." -Ashleigh Shackelford

Not even 24 hours after reading Ashleigh's full contribution: “Fuck You, Pay Me: Reparations for Fat Black Bitches and Everything We Provide” to Wear Your Voice Mag from whence the above is excerpted, I experienced this very microaggression.

Like many millennials, I have a handful of online dating accounts and/or apps. This morning I awoke to a message from a faceless profile lauding me for my daring to be confident in my pictures. He says, “I love how proud you look in your photos. Good job!”

Sir, excuse the fuck outta you! I wasn’t aware that I was doing a job by existing in this fat, Black, femme body. And since you think I'm doing such a damn good job, fuck you, pay me! I normally would clap back and read the aggressor for filth. But I didn't even have the energy, so I just blocked him. Existing is exhausting for a fat, Black woman, girl or femme. And some mornings, you just wanna get up and get ready for work without verbally handing someone their shit.

The above excerpt is so spot on. My very existence is used as either motivation porn, or is disavowed and shamed. I can't just fucking be. A thin, White woman wouldn't encounter the same type of commentary, because her being confident, comfortable and proud in who she is is normalized. Meanwhile, the fact that I would have the audacity to take a few pictures of myself, look happy and secure and post them on a dating site is a feat in the eyes of our society. FOH with that bullshit, fam.

My existence isn't a parade for you to clap and cheer (or jeer) as I walk along living my fucking life. It has taken a lot of pain and heartache to get to where I am mentally, emotionally and spiritually with myself and the space I occupy on this earth. Even now, at my heaviest (the number is none of your damned business), I am at my most confident. I feel beautiful, sexy even--whaaat?! I am 98.9% comfortable in my skin, I have a clean bill of health from my doctor as far as you are concerned (minus these muhfuggin allergies and asthma), and it ain't none of your business who is in my bed. 

My weight in pounds, my chart at the doctor's office, and who "dares" to sleep with me is none of your concern. But if you want so badly to laud my existence as me doing a good job being my gahtdamn self, cut me a check; run me my money, heaux!

I don't have much else to post here right now, as Ashleigh did a beautiful job summing up my very sentiments. But I'm sure I'll write on this subject again.

Happy Thursday!

-m

Hey, Black (Girl) Child...

About every other month out of the year, I work with children on weekends at my church.

I used to work with the 4 and 5 year olds, but wanted to experience the overwhelming adorableness that is 1-year-old walkers. And take a break from raucous 4 and 5 year olds.

These little tikes are probably the cutest things you'll ever encounter. They are from families of many different backgrounds, ethnic groups and nationalities. They have their own sets of feelings and emotions, interesting personalities, likes and dislikes, etc. It's refreshing to see uninhibited human interaction.

This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of greeting (among many others) the sweetest, brown-faced little girl. I greeted her with a big "hello" and a kind smile as I picked her up to bring her into the room with the other little ones. She didn't smile back, but she was kind and her face was full of contentment.

Later, while playing with all the kiddos, my co-teacher commented on my little sweet, brown-faced friend's demeanor. Baby girl was quiet, contented, played well with others, and genuinely chill. And because she wasn't as loud, lively, or interactive as some of the other 1 year olds, my co-teacher stated that "she does have a little attitude."

I admittedly caught my breath in my throat; it felt like a bolder. My ears were hot with frustration from the violent words I'd just heard. My stomach turned with hurt for the little girl; I felt sick. While her mind may not have fully conceived what was being said about her, I knew the damage those handful of words could cause. I attempted to reinforce positivity by saying something along the lines of "she's just independent and quiet...observant." I continued to reiterate this in different ways throughout our time with the kiddos. Not just so my co-teacher could hear it, but so Baby girl could maybe see how those positive reinforcements outweighed that bad one of an unfortunate many to come. So that her quiet strength and contentment can ring loudly in her ear above presumptions about her character.

In case you were wondering, my co-teacher is non-Black and female. Yes, this matters. Here's why...

As a Black woman who once was a Black girl child, I can share my hindsight views when it comes to being a Black girl child in an overwhelmingly white [male] dominated world. I often questioned myself, my feelings, my actions or inactions, my intellect, my reservations, the validity of my very being.

When a white student's hand was picked over mine to answer a question in elementary school. When a white student said "nigga" in my presence in the lunch line in middle school and didn't recognize her wrong when I acknowledged that she shouldn't have said it--even in my own uncertainty of why she shouldn't have said it, I knew it was not okay. When in college a non-Black professor questioned the honesty of my work by accusing me of plagiarism in a classroom full of my non-Black peers. Or the many times I felt non-Black voices were privileged over mine because perhaps I was too angry, attitudinal, or presumably not as smart or as critical a thinker as the other kids.

Whatever the reasons, as a Black girl child, existence is exhausting from the beginning.

Baby girl was minding her sweet, brown-faced business being 1 year old and adorable when she was presumed to be attitudinal by a non-Black woman. 

This assumption that because I'm not fitting into your perfectly cut-out box, that I just don't fit at all. That I have to be "on" all the time. But if I'm fully feeling, I'm overemotional or overreacting; I'm a bitch; I have an attitude. These kinds of notions are damaging at best. Even to our children. More specifically, our girl children.

A Black girl child doesn't have the space to be listless, neither does she have the space to be fully feeling. At least not in this society. And if/when we are to claim that space and take it up completely, we must fight for ourselves and one another to do so.

So, as a response to my co-teacher and as encouragement to my sweet, brown-faced little friend and all other Black girl children...

Hey, Black Girl Child, an adaptation from the work of Countee Cullen

Hey, Black Girl Child

I know who you are

Who you really are

You are just like me

And there have been many telling you what to be

But if you try, you can be

What you want to be

Hey, Black Girl Child

I don't know where you are going

But you have a choice in where you are really going

I know you can learn

What you want to learn

If you try to learn

What you can learn

Hey, Black Girl Child

Don'tchu know you are strong?

I mean REALLY strong?!

I know you can do

What you want to do

If you try to do

What you can do

Hey, Black Girl Child

Be what you wanna be

Learn what you must learn

Do what you can do

And tomorrow your nation

Will be what you want it to be...maybe

Until then, just be

Requite

I'd asked myself a few times over why is it I love you
And I recall the Christ and how He loved us first; so, we love Him in return
It is the least we could do...the very least
For whatever reason, you loved me first
You allowed your heart to be wild and abandon security for risk of loving me
Freely
For you to love me, though I don't understand it
Though I don't always fully believe it
Makes me want to love you in return
It is the least I could do...the very least

Missing you

Originally written September 21, 2015

Some would maintain that you can't miss what never was
They would be wrong
For they know not of the many times you've kissed my lips with your words
They haven't felt the jumble of butterflies I get when your grasp steadies my hips with mere thought
Or the comfort I've gotten in the way you held the small of my back with your care
And some days, it feels unfair
That you can't wrap me in your physical embrace
But until then, I'll let your words kiss my lips

Insomnia

Originally written August 23, 2015

You are my insomnia.
It's unfair that you've taken over my mind.
Sweet goodnights end with me staying awake daydreaming of sweet, good nights next to you.
It's unfair.
How you've hitched yourself up to me without warning.
I don't wanna call it love. But...I can't sleep.

Default

Originally written September 9, 2015

There exists an insurmountable number of words sufficient to express my sentiments for you.
However, my lips and heart default to one.
And who's to say how foolish I've become
In light of a whirlwind romance?
Swept in your arms, enjoying this dance.
While I'm afraid, these butterflies excite me.
While I'm timid, your passion ignites me.
I await the day we'll finally come face to face.
Until then, my heart remains foolishly true.
While my head and mind tell me like,
My heart and lips tell me I love you.

My Love

Originally written on September 1, 2015

I'm not sure I can trust you with my love.

Forgive me my love.

The truth is, I'm jaded; I'd hoped that I hadn't been fazed by the ways others have hurt me

I find it hard to trust that you won't hurt me or desert me

I'm not sure I can't rust you with my 'I love yous.'

Forgive me, my love.

The truth is, I wonder if they will be abused; misused, appropriated for selfish tools to hack away at my being

Depleting their meaning

Taken and emptied

I'm not sure that this is even love.

Forgive me, my heart.

The truth is, I fear that this is the part where I've fallen; where I thought I'd heard love calling only to answer to strange heavy breathing

Heart rate steadily increasing

I think this is love, but I'm having trouble believing

Forgive me, my love.

I'm not sure that I cannot trust you

Give me a reason to not trust you.

Remiss

Originally written July 2015

I'd be remiss to not admit that I replayed the kiss I longed for your to plant on my lips.
Passionate. Soft. Warm. Heavy.
Only looking to gaze into my eyes to hold my soul steady.
I wanted to give more of myself to you.
But to my great dismay, you couldn't let me.

Escape

Originally written June-July 2015

I want to be your escape.
Your break away from the world
Your window seat.
The waves along the shore crashing against your feet.
Let me be your sunrise, your brighter day.
Eyes you can look into and lose your troubles...
Even if for only a moment.
Let me be your moment
Away from it all.
Your lifeline call when you feel yourself slipping.
Let me be your gripping.
Get your bearings with me.
Just hold on and enjoy if only for this moment.
Let me be your escape.

Untitled

Originally written July 9, 2015

I just want someone who is gonna love me freely with full abandon.

With no clauses or pauses.

Without fear of my wildness.

Love my mind and the ebb and flow of every thought. 

As though this is the very purpose for which he'd been wrought.

Hammered, beaten, shaped...

To love me effortlessly

Even when he doesn't like me.

Even when he wants to spite me.

His very being aches to love me.

Deeply and dauntlessly.

'him' - a haiku

I'm missing your voice
It's the closest thing I have
Akin to your touch

No. 18 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Untitled

Never let another tell your story
Never let another curtail your freedom
They will starve to eat you alive
Do not give them power by feeding them

Mirakol Smith, April 30, 2015

No. 17 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month, TRIGGER WARNING

This is dedicated to the women (and men) who fought and are fighting daily and for those who died during their fight. A fight they didn't choose. ‪#‎NationalSexualAssaultAwarenessMonth‬

Please also note that this is not a comprehensive, complete story. It is a fragment of the many stories of many women (and some men). This story is also inspired by some of my own life events. Appreciate this part of my mind / piece of my heart.

Victim-Blaming

He was her bad habit
Like bitten nails on nubby finger pads 

Picking at healing scabs       
                
Uncomfortable, yet comforting

And who could gauge what's worse?

Her seeming complacency
Or his contentment with lending hurt
                                               
He passed out jabs like Rocky and beef slabs
Leaving her rare, black and blue

Willing herself to believe that this love was true
And this not only affects her, it's killing her kids, two

And she'll never see her grow up, and wipe her tears
Never tell him it's okay to cry while facing his fears

He'd buried wounds so deep, it's difficult to dig in and heal
So she let the infection steep and tried to conceal

Until she wasted inwardly away

All but a beautiful bandaged corpse
And those she knew would say, 'but he showed such great remorse!'       

'She must have done something wrong!'

'Why did she make him so upset?'
'She must've done something she'd soon find to regret'
                                         
There ain't no rest for the wicked
Her offender walks free
As she lay gone forever
It was her fault; it must be

Mirakol Smith, April 30, 2015

No. 16 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Everybody Knows

Auntie Nina sang to me tales of Billie clubs beating Black bodies
And Hollidays past
The bitter taste of festive cakes and pies made of Strange Fruit
They made jest and just expect us to ingest hateful truths
We hang while our forefathers laugh

Everybody knows about Mississippi, God.
Everybody knows about Alabama, God.
Everybody knows about South Africa, God.
Everybody knows about LA, God.
Everybody knows about Texas, God.
Everybody knows about Florida, God.
Everybody knows about Nigeria, God.
Everybody knows about New York, God.
Everybody knows about Ferguson, God.
Everybody knows about Kenya, God.
Everybody knows about Baltimore, God.

Damn...

Mirakol Smith, April 28, 2015

No. 15 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Untitled

I wanted a change. So I...locked my hair, pierced my nose and wore red lipstick. Sticks. Sticks and stones may break my bones. Bones. Breaking bones. Broken. Searching for myself in a world to which I am foreign, unchosen. For acceptance in a space that was too small for me. I am much greater. He who dwells in me is much greater.

Mirakol Smith, originally written on January 22, 2015

No. 14 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month (maybe u can do this? Ha)

Untitled

On the outside

I'm all smiles and giggles.
Hugs and kind words.

Inwardly, I'm silently screaming.

My hurt is unearthed
At the sound of triggers.

Pulling me forward and backwards again.
Lies inside telling me I can't win.

And they seem to never lose.

I find myself favoring snooze because I just don't want to leave my bed.

Recalling all the things the darkness in me said.

Maintaining them as truth.

Mirakol Smith, April 26, 2015

No. 13 of my 30 in 15 for Nation Poetry Month (don't know if I'm gonna make it, lol)

Ode to Black Men

Forgive me if I

Stare
Drool a little bit
Twirl my hair

Catch a whiff of your smell
Graze your arm or chest
Excuse me while I
Catch my breath

Less than I can say
I'll watch your step
As you walk my way
I speak of the depth

Of your brown, brown eyes
Your tall, wide gait      

You're no more wise
That I've taken the bait      
                                                       
Of the love that danced on your lips as you spoke

Or your sun-kissed skin
Cacao is akin to your melanin
Don't flash that winning grin
I almost choke   
                                                     
On my words to describe you

Many come close, but none contend...
There is just something about Black men.

Mirakol Smith, April 25, 2015