Day 114


This kind of continues from yesterday’s: I don’t feel normal about my blackness.

However, everyone has their own blackness, don’t they?

My Dad has his drinking, my brother has his mental health issues, my Mom has her martyrdom and drinking, my wife has her hijacking by fear or anger.  I could go further, but the point of this isn’t to harp on their flaws, it is to see the normalcy in my blackness.

It is true, my blackness controls me more than these individuals and their not-so-friendly friends.  My blackness causes me to harm myself on a nearly daily basis, whether through skipping meals or not resting or abusing my head with anorexic thoughts or isolating myself from support systems that care.  This mother fucking changeling of mine, it is dangerously more vile than these others, but it is not alone.  My blackness speaks to theirs’; it knows them by name (I’ve even heard they all have secret handshakes!).

It is true that we all have them, but mine seems different.  Perhaps it is because of what my blackness is that I feel so self-conscious about it being attached, that I feel so anxious about stripping it off and that I feel so angry when it jumps into the driver seat or even covers my 10-and-2, blind-spot checking soul?  My blackness is rooted in perfectionism and anxiety and so perhaps it has a tool in its box related to making me feel extra-fucked up about having one?

There are times when I am reading about self-help that I come across the inevitable “find the source of the problem” problem.  It is a problem because I have not been able to pinpoint with any clarity the source of my blackness.  These self-help books and gurus and aficionados believe that by understanding the root (but not obsessing about it), you have the ability to weed out the blackness.  Perhaps my issue with feeling extra-fucked-up about my blackness is this lack of understanding – another to be continued…


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