december

december 29, 2024

there’s so much noise. i deleted my social media before i left. sometimes it gets to be too much and i can’t hear the silence in my head so i deleted it. kept pinterest because it often helps rewrite the narratives in my head. my feed is filled with manifesting affirmations and the subconscious is powerful so the app stays, for now. i kept substack because i like writing but even that is turning into its own version of twitters/blueksy…and i’m disappointed but i don’t have the bandwidth to figure out why.

i’m doing this thing.

the noise feels like there’s too much of it and it’s all too loud, a constant irritating hum in the background. there’s consistently something wrong with something, everywhere i look, no matter where i look. and i might be doing too good of a job of reversing the desensitization because i’m feeling a lot. i scroll and read about the corporate bots on spotify adding their music to as many playlists as possible so that they can keep making money make more money. i scroll some more and read about how three babies froze to death in palestine over christmas, i close the app and chose another only to see some influencers hack of how to start an online business in three easy steps.

and my heart keeps breaking and i don’t know how to keep my heart from breaking. it takes time for it to break. and then it takes time to put it back together. i want to blame myself for feeling too much of it, be angry with myself for feeling too much of it. “this, is irresponsible makhela,” i whisper to myself. there’s a narrative somewhere, a manual of what to do with all of the feeling. think, think, think, someone help me think. i don’t know where it is, i lost it. so i write. i sit here and i write and i hope that somewhere sometime when i’m done writing it won’t feel like every cell, molecule and atom in my body is weeping and writhing.

i don’t want to run a business, i low key don’t even want to make money. this used to be because i didn’t trust myself with money, but now it’s because i’m just so bloody over with everything hinging on money, how much you have, how much you don’t have. it’s a game i don’t want to play anymore but i feel stuck and i’m frantically feeling my way along the walls trying to find a hidden exit. someone please, please tap me on the shoulder when you find the gooddamn exit.

i feel like a child stomping her feet and screaming about-

i feel like a child

i feel like a child

i feel like a child

i’m getting every sign in the book that i’m on the right path that things are coming together for me but tonight, tonight, tonight i still have to sleep in my motherfucking car.

how can i make this fun

how can i make this fun

how can i make this fun

that’s what you do with things that are uncomfortable right. that’s what you do when things are hard and new and you're adjusting and you’re trying not to lose it. it’s what i do, what my mom taught me to do, find something familiar, something cozy and fulfilling to eat.

how can i make this fun

i feel like a parent, parenting my inner child, showing up for her because she’s freaking out “you said we’d be okay but tonight we have to sleep in our car and this? this doesn’t look like “okay.” did we really half to leave? why did we leave, why did you leave?” she’s started pointing her finger at me in an accusatory way like leaving wasn’t her idea and i’m over it.

“okay honey,” i try to reason with myself like a parent caught by their child not knowing the right answer but committed to bullshit anyway, “listen where we are right now isn’t ideal, but it’s what we’ve got for now soooo let’s go get your favorite chicken tendies and get comfy and pick a good parking spot and pretend we’re having a sleepover outside! we’ve got our squishmellow and our favorite blankie. we can pick a movie to watch on the ipad and pretend we’re an ipad kid!” parent makhela has arms thrown up in the air, eyebrows are high with a hopeful smile on her face. i’m using my excited voice to elicit some sort of something from myself and my inner child isn’t buying it but she’s stopped complaining. so it’s a win, for now.

i arrived to town, sat in my car and slowly began to freak out. i had a clear plan for how to get here and the plan i had for once i arrived was fraying at the edges faster than i could hold together. i could feel my inner child start to wind up, my body was humming and my tear ducts were performing their opening sequence. a friend who knew something was wrong texted me “wobbly beginnings don’t doom the rest of the journey,” and i’ve been repeating to myself everyday since.

how can i make it fun

this is temporary, this situation is temporary

these feelings are temporary.

a rocky beginning doesn’t mean a doomed journey

how can i make this fun…

i’m doing a thing. and this thing i’m doing is lonely. i drove 17 hours the other week to get to the city my friend lives in with her brand new very cute, very perfect baby, in the city we both attended college in. i got in my car with $300 dollars and traveled 17 hours to start a new life. this thing, i’m doing is hard. i think i’m angry with myself for it being hard, i think i’m angry with myself for leaving. angry with myself that i couldn’t suck it up, suck down the dread and just be a good black girl and go to work and teach and pay bills and get to many degrees (because that’s what black women do) and fill my life with things that look good but don’t really matter. i think in this moment, the one where i’m hungry and have to sleep in my car, i think i’m angry with myself that i couldn’t do that.

i traveled halfway across the country and four days after i arrived, i got sick. i haven’t been sick in two and half years but 17 hours, 5 states lines, 3 hotels, and a friend’s house later and i was sick, fever, snot and all. i threw prayers up grateful it wasn’t covid and grateful that i’d at least made it to my location to be sick and cozy in peace.

i have words. i know how to write and yet i don’t know really how to write about this. i know i have to though. the thoughts have to go somewhere, the feelings have to see each other on the page so they don’t feel alone and scared, so that i don’t feel alone and scared. but this new thing i’m doing is uncomfortable in ways i didn’t know i could be uncomfortable. and it’s uncertain in a way that i am certain that my life turns out the way i want it to with every dream and wish i’ve had on full display AND the road to get there is so foggy i can barely see my hand in front of my face. can only see the hand in front of my face…

i have an idea

it's a dead end.

i have another idea

it’s a dead end.

i have another idea

it’s a dead end.

i feel dead inside

stopityou’rebeingdramatic

the answer is probably staring me in the face. the answer is probably as obvious as the nose on my face. and that is surprisingly helpful. surprisingly comforting because if i can’t see it, if it’s hiding from me than its because of maslov’s hierarchy of needs or something…

so i take a deep breath and i talk to myself like i use to talk to my first graders…okay honey, when you’re doing something new and doing something you haven’t done before you have to…? think outside the box? yes, because what works for others, only works for them because they’re not doing what you’re doing. if you want to fly, you can’t ask an elephant and a lion won’t know what to do with your wings…you have to do something different, you have to do something new. but you’ve gotten this far, and you are safe, and warm and clean so you’re doing something right…

this is temporary

this anger is temporary

this uncomfortability is temporary

a rocky beginning, doesn't mean a doomed journey

and just like that, i’ve written something and suddenly the noise isn’t so loud, and my inner child is tucked into a corner somewhere quietly sucking her thumb and reading. and what i have, what i can make, is enough for now.

m.