deep sea diver

I have the worst case of wanderlust.

Hello, by the way.

 

It’s been my experience after the death of someone close to me that life seems to change and remain stagnant at the same time. So much is different about me now. And absolutely nothing has changed enough for my liking.

My father being dead seems to be the biggest change of all. Not much I can do about that, but good lord I’d give anything for this realization to not punch me in the throat when I least expect it. And I don’t know my triggers beyond the obvious: note to self, do not get into discussions about death, and aggressive cancer stealing the lives of the people we love. Thanks, management.

My hair has gotten longer. I’ve gained weight. I’m going to my first Beyonc√© Giselle Knowles Carter concert in July.

My battle with depression is still a work in progress and that makes me… relieved, in a way. Of course, my mental health problems were not buried with my father six months ago. Of course not. It still feels like I’m sitting in this dark room, so black I can’t see the hand in front of my face. And so much effort has to be made to fight against that darkness for just tiniest sliver of light to slip through. It’s the effort that’s exhausting, not the dark, and it cannot be cured by magic nor prayed away by any god. I only have to live with it, manage it with medication and coping mechanisms.

Current mental health check: it’s a grey day so I’m calling it a win.

Now back to my urges, my need to escape. Changes. Wanderlust.

I want to leave for an unspecified amount of time and drop in on the places I’ve always wanted to visit, have those experiences that leave me stumbling and inadequate with envy when I hear someone else has had the privilege.

I want to see an aurora borealis in person, and visit the Maldives and Bora Bora. I want to traverse the Parisian countryside and fuck it out with the love of my life. I want to live my life as if it’s fiction on screen. I want to live.

I also want to write, and since the other items on my list take a bit of planning, here I am. I’m hoping it sticks this time.

I’ll always be a daddy’s girl.

I’ve put off this post for as long as I can but I’ve run out of time. October is almost over.

Three weeks and two days ago my father passed away. Despite living with this truth in this time span it’s still difficult in a harsh light of day sort of way to see it written so plainly.

I began this blog post two days after he died, when my life was chaos and every breath I’d taken since felt like it was being stolen from me. All I’d had the energy to type was a title that has since been changed multiple times, and the following lines:

Memorial Hospital, Chattanooga, Tn.

The location of my birth, and my father’s death.

For days. weeks now, I thought about that space between the comma; of how long and winding our paths had become after my birth and before his death, and how all of it wasn’t perfect or pretty. How much resentment I’d felt toward my dad by the time I’d left Chattanooga for college. And how I’d learned to let go of a lot of my anger through therapy and simply letting the fuck go of it all.

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Let me introduce the fantasy.

The lines blur between fantasy and dream but I remember the details all the same. I’m sitting in a chair I don’t recognize in a room that’s familiar. Sunlight filters through the blinds, and if I stare closely enough I can see dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.

I don’t care enough to stare closely. My laptop sits on my thighs — warm, warming, getting hot — and I don’t think about the threat of cancer from the heat penetrating my skin. My fingers are tap, tapping on the keyboard but it sounds off, foreign. I look down and and there are slices on my wrists and dark blood pooling. My bright pink keyboard cover is absent so the blood seeps in between the keys.

Somehow I stop typing but the words are a steady stream. Somehow I’m waiting for something but the words are a deluge, out of my control.

You can always change in front of me

I’ve always been lazy when it comes to my hair. This wasn’t much of a problem when my hair was relaxed – I wore it blunt straight, or pulled back into a ponytail most of the time, or I’d bump it with a curling iron and call it a day. My hair had been tamed by chemicals and heat and pretty much did what I wanted it to do.

When I first went natural it was like my hair had decided to be a contrarian. There were a lot of growing pains during my transition that made me question if this whole natural hair journey was worth the trouble. My answer now is, absolutely! But I still have insecurities, still have doubts and question if I know what I’m doing all these years later.

My hair is as long as it’s ever been, yet I have the strongest urge to cut it short and start anew. I want to so badly at times that I wonder what’s really holding me back.

Who’s being contrary now?

Same time every year, not the same place.

As I stare at the blinking cursor on this blank document it occurs to me that I’ve done this before, even if not quite this way. You see, the last time I was starting a new blog the technology wasn’t in place that allowed for me to create a post on my phone. But I do so now, tap tapping from fingers to WordPress app, surrounded by family and food and Frankie Beverly pounding from the speakers. At the moment it’s “Happy Feelings” if you’re curious.

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