Toxic People

It is very important to be aware of what types of people are in your life. It’s you. I mean if I’m surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, queens, thieves and lairs, means I’m guilty by association.

When I started getting my life together, sobering up, asking myself the tough questions, I started to realize the people who once were attracted to me no longer saw me. I remember when I would walk down the street in the middle of the day and attract the strangest people. It was like there was a vacant sign on my forehead for all the drug addicts, liars, hustlers, sex addicts and whatever. I couldn’t understand why they noticed me, but I also noticed them. It was as if we were traveling on the same tragic level of existence.

I changed. They didn’t. We don’t see each other anymore.

I remember when I started AA, it was just a game. I was just trying to hustle it. I figured if I went to a couple of meetings my lover would decide I was trying and get back with me. I figured if I went to a couple of meetings and had proof, I wouldn’t be evicted from my apartment. My boyfriend still broke up with me. I still got evicted from my apartment. When I started AA, it was just another hustle. I lied so damn much. I would show up to the meetings, drunk. It was like I just felt the need to rebel.

What I found interesting were the types of people I started to attract in AA. They were on some bullshit themselves. I mean, they weren’t drinking or anything, but they weren’t good people.

They were toxic. AA was another hustle, game for them, the same way they used to get attention when they were drunks; they were now using AA to fill that void in their empty tragic souls. I met this one guy, and I thought he was really cool in the beginning. I started to share things with him, thought he could be trusted but then he started using against me. He would make cruel jokes about something I said to him, at first I thought that was his sense of humor and then I start to realize that’s how he got his kicks. It turned out; he didn’t have to drink to be a cruel drunk. I quickly ended that relationship.

The thing I disliked most about AA was the concept of Sponsors. I was supposed to befriend some stranger, allow that person in my life, and trust him or her blindly with my deepest and darkest secrets knowing that person has no formal psychological training. As a person with a degree in Psychology, I found the concept to be really dangerous. Trust means there is a give and take. Trust has to be earned. I would need to question everything. I would need to know if that person had sponsored others in the past and how that turned out. Every body gets sober differently. Not all addicts are the same. Not all addicts are created equal, there is a spectrum. At thirty years old and only been drinking for seven years, I had little in common with the drunk he had been doing it for thirty or forty years.

I learned in AA, I couldn’t believe every testimony that came out of some people’s mouth. Some people just liked to be Drama Queens. Some just lied for the hell of it. I was one of them. Some of them just wanted to hear themselves talk.

The stories that changed me the most were the one who were honest. It wasn’t self-serving, let me tell you how I suffered kind of bullshit, but straight to the point like the guy who said, it doesn’t matter what you tell those people or who you tell it to, it’s what you tell yourself when you are alone. If I was going to beat my addictions, it was the battle with me, not how many can I fool. I can’t fool myself. I’m the only one who knows the truth.

The truth hurts. It likes a muscle. No pain, no gain. My goal is to keep eroding my own toxicities therefore I completely disappear to those who are toxic.

Seven pounds

Am I a good person?

I saw the movie “Seven Pounds” this weekend and it was a really good movie. I also saw the “Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and “Slumdog Millionaire.” All three were very profound and got me to think about my own life and position in the universe. Seven pounds demands the question “Am I a good person?” What if you’ve done something really terrible? What if you’ve done something that you feel as if you can never forgive yourself? How do you correct the tragic mistake? I wouldn’t go as far as the character in “Seven Pounds” but I understood his intentions. I’m not going to give the movie away, but he sacrifices parts of himself to give new life to those who he figures are “good people.” It’s kind of like playing god on human terms.

I used to fear that one day I might need a new liver. I did a lot of drinking in my early youth, so I question if I lived to be in my fifties and need a new liver would I deserve it. I guess some people would say it was my own fault. I guess those people would be playing god on human terms. What makes a good person? Good people have really bad shit happen to them every day. When I was a child, I once felt my heart was too pure. It was so fragile. I felt as if some family members took advantage. When I was a child with a pure heart, I felt vulnerable and weak. I had a hard time of saying no, but others didn’t have a hard time of exploiting my kindness. I learned to say no.

I remember when I first moved to the big city from Texas. I moved to Chicago. I would walk down the street and smile and say hello to every stranger. In Texas, that’s normal. One day I said hello to the wrong person. He asked me if he could use my phone. I didn’t think too much about it. It turned out he was a crackhead. I decided to help him. I called shelters for him. I gave him half of my clothes. I fed him. He then just started showing up unexpected with some woman. I would go downstairs and ask him to leave. It started to get weird. A month later, the bastard broke into my apartment while I was at work. He had been using that entire time to figure out my schedule to rob me. If I would’ve just ignored him, I could’ve avoided getting my laptop, camera and other stuff stolen.

I don’t believe in Karma. Yet, I do believe when you harm those who have been nothing but kind, that will come back. You will have to make amends. I guess, that’s Karma.

I used to be a good person, and then things got really muddy. All my hate and rage begin to surface. I hated being so damn angry all the time. I just didn’t want to be around people. There are so many toxic people in this world, if I took everything personally, I might go ballistic.
I don’t’ want to be a good person who starts doing bad things. To remain good in such a cruel world is a burden. I once talked to my grandmother and asked her how one gets through life with their soul intact. She said, one has to learn how to deal with lost. My grandmother was a Buddhist even if she didn’t know it. Buddhism is all about the end of suffering. It’s removing all human attachments to achieve Supreme Being. It’s not easy. Every day I practice the end of suffering not just with my chants and meditation, but also how I touch and am touched by those around me. If the cashier at the grocery store has a bad attitude, I don’t allow her mood to hold me; instead I return it with a gentle smile. I want her to understand; I understand and don’t take it personally. It’s not easy because some people I really want to bitch slap. Yet, I’m learning not to allow those to reel me into their bullshit. Some people really go looking for fights. They will go on and on, try their damnest to get a response and when you don’t give it to them, they get even angrier. I’m learning to back away. (Become actualize, conceptualized, keep my sanity).
I’m learning to pick my fights wisely. I will only fight if its defense of my life or love one, not pride. I don’t need pride. I can always lose pride.

So to answer my question, am I a good person, I would say conservatively yes. I give money to the homeless with no judgment. I’m only good to good people. I guess that’s me practicing God on human terms.

Believe it

I believe.

I do believe true change is possible. Yet, real change is not easy. First, I’m beginning to realize it’s not about me re-wiring my brain. I’m created this way, nature vs. nurture for a reason. I’m going to have to learn to use my soul to create the purpose of my personality.
As the year comes to an end, I’ve been somewhat successful. I’m dramtically different than I was a year ago. I’m healthier. I’m sanier. I’m more sober.

Yet, I still have setbacks. This weekend I can say was a setback. The more I recover, I find it’s so damn easy to take five steps backwards. The more I try to repair old relationships, I find it’s so easy to fuck them up again. I try so damn hard, yet I feel as if one mistake, one resemblance of old Michael Whitley behavior and I’m like, I haven’t changed at all. It kind of feels like I’m fooling myself.

Yet I must believe. I know my intentions are truly genuine. I will win this battle, with my past, my pain, my addictions and mental illiness. I will win, or die trying.

My two cents on Rick Warren

On Jan 20th, 2009 Rick Warren, the author of “The Purpose Driven Life” will give the invocation at Obama’s inaguration, the first black president. A lot of controversy has emerged since Rick Warren is an outspoken bigot towards gays, have once stated (until last Friday on his website*) that gays are not welcome at his church unless they repent, compared homosexuality to criminal sex offenders (pedophilia, incest and polygamy**). It’s not only that he is against gay marriage; he is against the gay gene, thinks it should’ve been eradicated a long time ago. He enthusiastically campaigned for Prop 8***. It’s no surprise a lot of gays are dumbfounded why Obama would pick suck a divisive person to deliver the country’s prayer. Yes, there are those who say Obama said he would reach across the aisle, take hands and force us to hear their voices. I thought we heard their voices at Mathew Sheppard’s funerals, I thought we heard their voices at many AIDS funerals, I thought we heard their voices at the Gay parades across the country, I thought we heard their voices in the church growing up, but I guess we need to hear their voices again on the day we so many gays thought they campaigned, marched, canvass for someone who promised change. Yet, I decided to be open minded. I wanted to understand the meaning of “Invocation.”


An invocation is the act of invoking or calling upon a deity, spirit, etc., for aid, protection, inspiration, and supplication.


As a supplication or prayer it implies to call upon God to ask for protection, spiritual presence like the Lord's Prayer. Taken from bible, Matthew 6:9–13 (King James Version) in which Jesus says, our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.


As a kid growing up in a Baptist church I’ve probably said the Lord’s Prayer a thousand times. We said it before every meal. Sometimes we said it before sleep. I never really understood the meaning, just that it was forced into my memory like the American Anthem and Pledge of Allegiance.


I believe in god. I do. I’m not sure if I believe in my childhood god anymore. As I got older, I started becoming more of a Buddhist. I blame the book “Saddathra.” I’ve always believed in reincarnation even as a child. I know I’ve been here on this earth many times before. I also believe there was once a Jesus. I think Jesus has been here many times before, in many different ways. I don’t believe in Adam and Eve, not just because I’m gay, it just that it doesn’t explain a lot. I mean if man gave woman a rib, why do men and woman have the same amount of ribs. “Here's something else that disproves the story early life was asexual meaning it had both sex organs and reproduced without the need for a mate at all. It was only later when nature needed a way to control overpopulation that the sexes split into two distinct ones. And when all life starts out it starts out female. As far scientists can see it's the male sex that is a mutation of the female. Why? Because the design of the female body would be able to both germinate and carry offspring while the male could not.” I also believe God is a hermaphrodite. If god is everything, then god is one. Which means god is gay and straight, black and white, male and female. Why in life is there always an opposite. So if black is the opposite of white, and male is the opposite of female, then what is the opposite of straight, it’s gay.


The need for prayer on Election Day I feel is necessary. America at the moment is getting hopeless by the day. I wonder what happened to the invocation when President Bush was sworn into office. Interesting enough, the person that did his invocation, also known as the Pastor to the President was Cuban born - Reverend Dr. Luis Leon. (http://geocities.com/reunionfor1969/LLeon.html )


Usually the person who does the invocation is the thought to be the President’s Pastor, reverend or rabbi or spiritual leader. I guess Barack Obama spiritual advisor of twenty years, who married him and baptized his kids could no longer be part of his life. We all are told to forget Rev. Wright. He almost cost Obama his presidency. Yet, the choice of Rick Warren as the nations Pastor, spiritual advisor is so appalling. It’s “Gem” fantastic outrageous.
Yet, picking Rick Warren has forced the issues of gay Americans. Some people still think being gay is a willful choice of deviation. Some people still think all gays are going to hell. Hate crime has increased since the passing of Prop 8 which indirectly gives the entitled permission to their prejudice and hate. Some people still think gays only make up a small percentage of the population therefore not constitutional relevant. Some gays have gone back into the closet even farther. It scares the shit out of us, gay and straight, to have to deal with an issue.
I think it’s beautiful that so many gays (like me) have protested the picking of Rick Warren. I know some people have advised Obama must know what he is doing because he’s so damn pragmatic. Yet, I know different. I’ve said he is either dumb as a doorknob or smart as a fox. Or he is really truly arrogant and only care about his political future. The choice has forced gays, all gays across the spectrum, lesbians and gay men, black , white, Hispanic and transgender to say “hey, what the hell!”


I know many people, like Mellissa Elderidge, didn’t know anything about Rick Warren. I only knew him because I read the “Purpose Driven Life” like three years ago. It truly changed my life. I would still recommend the book.


After reading the book, I decided to see what I thought was a profound preacher was really about. I got online and researched him. I went to his website. I watched videos of him on YouTube****. The more I found out, the sicker in the stomach I got. I found out he hated me. I found out he didn’t think my life was purposeful. I found out he was a fat bastard. I buried his book in the back of the closet and decided to just forget about him. He showed up again. I remember watching CNN and he invited Obama and McCain to his church. I didn’t think much about it. I remember the day of Prop 8, he showed up on YouTube encouraging his followers to pass the bill. He again blasted that homosexuality was incest, pedophilia and criminal. The next day Obama won. It was a great day, being that I am black. It was a year I canvassed for Obama. I donated to his campaign. I felt I was part of the movement. I slightly forgot that not only was I black, I was also gay. I guess I saw myself as Bayard Rustin, the architecture of the March on Washington. I assumed when Obama meant change, he meant everyone. He said he was politically going to reach across the aisle. I thought that meant he was going to fight for better healthcare, school systems, taxes, jobs, things that all Americans needed. I never thought he was going to test a core part of his constituents.


I had decided along with many other gays, to protest inauguration day. I was going to make my signs and show up when Rick Warren gave his speech. I used to ask myself if I was more black than gay. I used to think of myself as a black gay man, not a gay black man. Yet, it’s becoming very clear that I am a gay black man. I still have my issues with being gay. I still have my issues with gay white men. I guess I considered myself black first because in the bigger picture of being gay, I am still black because most gay men are still white. It’s complicated.
I am so happy that America elected a black president. I felt for three weeks the world had changed. And then I realized it hadn’t. Homophobias in the black community roots are deep. The black churches were the first to turn their back on AIDS. The black churches felt AIDS was a gay disease. And when black women started getting AIDS, it was blamed on closeted black men living on the down low. Somehow being gay had leaked over to the black population. I guess Obama is just another religious black man.


I pray that Obama see the error is his ways, not be lead into temptation like he did with Rev Wright, like how he did with Axelrod who built his home, how like he did with William Ayers, like how he return his aunt’s contribution money when he suddenly found out she was in the states illegally, like how he is now distancing himself from the corrupted Illinois Governor. I will pray for Rick Warren and now I will begin to question Obama. The honeymoon is over. And he is not even in office yet.

The truth what Rick Warren has said, can’t be unsaid, but must be formally repented. Here are the notes for this article, since people really don’t have any idea who Rick Warren is. Listen in his own words.


http://www.americablog.com/2008/12/rick-warren-explicitly-bans-unrepentant.html (Since the outrage the page has been taken off, I’m assuming until after the inguration.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvyyEIEDqrQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRVPxK9VPEY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7o4QqGbQmU0&feature=related (Warren endorses Prop 8)

Special Notes: I admit since the outrage, Warren has been desperately trying to do a PR overhaul. I’m just waiting to see what happens, but in the meantime I will begin my letters to Rick Warren, trying to sort out my feelings about the entire ordeal.

Shot term memory lost.

Somebody asked me what I did last Thursday. I went into my head, and suddenly there was just darkness like something had gotten erased. I knew there was a last Thursday, but I couldn’t remember it. But it’s been happening on and on again.

Four years ago, I woke up on the ground. I remember spitting out blood. I remember spitting my teeth in my mouth. I remember the cops shining a light in my eyes, asking me if I was okay. I couldn’t remember where I was. It was like something got erased. I try to remember that night but it’s not there in my head.

I remember the fight. I remember that Halloween night being very angry at my lover. I remember the costume I wore. But after that, it goes blank.
I was told somebody beat the shit out of me. When I woke up that morning, I was in so much pain. I don’t even remember how I got home. I just remember waking up again. I found out that I had three cracked ribs and four teeth kicked out of my mouth. And then I remember spitting blood in my hands and the teeth. I went to the hospital. The doctor asked me what happened. I told him, I didn’t remember. It’s because I didn’t remember.

Did I really hit my head that hard on the sidewalk? Now, four years later it’s scaring me because it’s like blocks of time in my life are gone. I can’t remember what happened last week. There are people who say they know me, but when I go in my head, they are not there. I can remember long term things. I know my social security number. I know my third grade teacher’s name. Yet, I can’t remember if I woke up last Tuesday. I know I did, because I’m still here.

Maybe I wasn’t okay that horrible night when I was kicked and beaten that night. I couldn’t pick any of those guys out in the line-up. Maybe I’m still not okay. This lesbian told me she saw what happened. She said it was the most horrific thing she’s seen in her life. She said they just beat and kicked me like I was some dog. I’ve wondered what I did to piss them off. I don’t remember.

Obcessive Impulsive Personality Disorder

I made the greatest discovery when I introduced myself to happiness.

I finished reading a book by Dr. Gary Zukav (Mind of the Soul). I’ve actually read all of his books. In one chapter, he challenged the reader to see how he or she saw themselves in the universe. I immediately thought I saw the universe against me. I thought god was against me. I’ve always thought God was against me. If I thought God was against me, I’ve always seen myself as a victim. Yes, I had the best excuse like my shitty childhood. Yes, growing I felt I was an easy target not having parents or anyone to protect. It was like I was easy prey as a child. I had teachers abuse me. I come home with bruises on my arms and no one noticed. I was molested for like four years and no one noticed. I move from one foster home to the next foster home, from one family member to the next family member, from one abuse situation to the next abuse situation. I stopped trusting people at eight years old. I fucking hate people. I’m always waiting for someone to disappoint me. I’m always waiting for someone to reveal their true selves. I didn’t believe the good in people. I thought it was a world get or get got.
And then I feel in love. I fell in love first with this girl, Mita. I couldn’t believe she didn’t want anything form me but to love me. To make me better. She became my soul teacher. She became my soul healer. She allowed me to trust. And then I fell in love with this guy. The same guy I’m with now. It was hard loving him. It was hard giving him love. I thought I couldn’t deal with another heart break.

Funny, yesterday I was watching Oprah and the show was about “OCD.” I understood the personality disorder but from a different perspective. OCD people have a need to control the world. I realized I was the opposite. I gave up on the world a long time so I had a need to be out of control in the world. I didn’t feel the need for responsibility because I felt everything about life was meaningless. I figured we all die. That life was just one lost after another. I got tired of abandonment. I couldn’t trust. I didn’t believe in God. So life to me was meaningless for a long.
I would consider myself with Obsessive-impulsive personality disorder. It’s like I had a need to continually to fuck up. It’s the typical rebel without a cause. I just liked to rebel. I just like to fight back. I guess in some weird way in my head that makes me feel control in a universe I always felt was so out of control. I don’t care about much. I can sleep on floors. I can eat out trash cans. I can be irresponsibly sexually, because I don’t care for the rules. I always figured the rules weren’t for me. Yet, like those with OCD, I became a prisoner of my impulsiveness. When I don’t want to go to work, I don’t go. When I don’t want to pay a bill, I don’t pay it. When I don’t’ want to pay rent, I don’t pay it. When I don’t want to have friends, I curse them out. I can never be in a relationship because I need to act on my impulsion. I had a hard time getting sober, because I needed to act on my impulsions. My impulsions became my sex addiction. I think most addicts suffer from obsessive impulsive disorder.

I had to learn that I can’t control, because I don’t want to control. I saw the universe out of control. I saw myself as so insignificant. I figured I would die a John Doe and no one would notice I was even here. Yet, things have changed. That’s what I loved about getting help and education. I knew things needed to change. I constantly challenge my personality and ego. Like an OCD person who needs to trust their ritual behavior is inhibiting, I need to understand my uninhibited behavior can be counter productive.

I’ve became good at sticking to my schedule. Its simple things like brushing my teeth everyday. It’s taking a bath everyday. It’s making up my bed everyday. Some people thing that’s normal, but I’ve gone weeks without brushing my teeth or taking a bath. I would eat off the floor. I would sleep on dirty sheets. I didn’t care. I used to not be able to walk away from confrontation. I needed to destroy people I felt were out to get me. I became somewhat schizophrenic. I figured if I was pushed, I needed to push back. I hated that part of me. I hated that prison.

Freedom is the sacrifice for love. Prison is the acceptance of hate.

I don’t feel so out control anymore. Yet, I still worry. When I go into self-imposed exile is because I felt out of control. I go silent to get my mind together. I stay away from those I feel are toxic. Yet I recognize if they trigger part of my counter productive personalities. I don’t give that power away.

Yet, I’m quickly learning control. I fear when I start working again how long will it be before I start acting up. I’m convincing myself I am not a fuck up. I’m convincing myself I’m a good person. How long will it before I get fired for not showing up on time or not showing up at all. I can’t start friendships because I fear how long it will be before I do something crazy. How long will I be before I fuck up again?

I told my psychologist that my problem wasn’t success; it was getting everything and then burning it to the ground. I’ve done it some many times
.
Now every morning when I awake, I say to myself I need to believe. I believe there is a god. I do believe the universe has purpose. I do believe I have purpose. Yet, it’s a fight. Today is a good day. I’m sober. I’m home, sleeping in my own bed. My clothes are clean. I have food in my refrigerator. Life is good. I plan to keep it that way.

My dear sir, I challenge you to a duel.

I would pick the place. Rent one YMCA boxing ring, $100 dollars. I would pick the time. A month from now. I can even buy the gloves and face mask. $100 dollars. I would set him up with a trainer. I would get him a 30 day membership at the gym. I’d hire a referee. All he has to do is show his punk ass up at the place in thirty days. Total budgeted cost of the duel: $500. The pleasure of kicking his ass in front of his friends and family, priceless.

As practiced from the 11th to 20th centuries in Western societies, a duel is an engagement in combat between two individuals, with matched weapons in accordance with their combat doctrines. The Romanticism depiction of medieval duels was based on either a pretext of defense of honor, usually accompanied by a trusted representative (who might themselves fight), often in contravention of the dueling conventions, or as a matter of challenge of the champion which developed out of the desire of one party (the challenger) to redress a perceived insult to his or her sovereign's honor. The goal of the honorable duel was often not so much to kill the opponent as to gain "satisfaction", that is, to restore one's honor by demonstrating a willingness to risk one's life for it.

I think in this modern age of violence, the act of dueling should be brought back. Nobody fights fair anymore. Kids show up to school with guns and then just start shooting innocents because some girl didn’t go out on a date with him. Terrorism has taken the place of a fight with honor. It’s just murder now. I don’t think there is nothing wrong with two individuals going at it without the cheap deadly tricks. I mean an old-fashion after school beatdown. No gang fights. Let them work it in a boxing ring with witnesses and rules.

Some punk ass bitch been talking smack about me. I hate that high school cheerleader shit that goes on in the gay clubs sometimes. When I moved to DC in the beginning I was just another new face. I didn’t say much to anybody. I didn’t care about belonging to any groups. I had enough of the gay cattiness in New York, Texas and Chicago. I wasn’t about to move again.
When I first got to DC, the so call second city, or second chance city I was out of luck and broke and looking for free drinks. Somehow I got a reputation I didn’t intend. I guess because I was young, flirty, and somewhat suspicious that some people thought I was a drug dealer, prostitute or two bit hustler. They figured me trouble because I looked the part of a young black male with a cocky smile on his face. I got kicked out of a lot of clubs for that smile. A black man with too much confidence too many find a threat. Yet, at first I played the role. I liked being the bad boy. It was sexy.

I’m not a fighter. I fought too much growing up. I have 36 male cousins around my age. Everyday was a fight. I have nothing to prove. Yet, I don’t like others thinking they can just say shit about me and I not have a response.

I saw the asshole in question at the bar last Thursday. I was too drunk. The worse thing in the world is drunk fighting. I can’t win a fight if I am drunk. First, the person is unprepared. Their balance is off and emotions are running high. They can’t even use their adrenaline to steady their swings. The last time I got into a drunken bar fight, it was not good in my favor. I accidently picked a fight with a group of bastards who decided to jump me. I knew immediately there was no way I could win. When I was just kicking the one guy’s ass, I had it down but the other three fuckers decided they needed to jump in. I never believed in jumping in my friends’ fight. I feel as if that takes away their honor. I also feel it’s criminal. If my friend is getting his ass kicked, let him get his ass kicked. I once got in trouble when I was a little kid because one of my cousins decided to jump this guy who they didn’t like. The rule in my family was that if one of us got into a fight, then all of us got into that fight. I guess it worked in our favor considering there were a lot of us. It was like being attacked by a pack of wolves. I didn’t jump in that fight that day. The poor innocent guy was just being beaten to death. I was going to worsen his suffering. I wanted to stop it. I had to stop it. I guess that’s me at my heart. I don’t believe in fighting but I do believe in defending my honor.

I live in the city and people are so damn shady. They fear so damn much they are willing to do about anything to hide the fact they are cowards. They will talk about you behind your back but when confronted--they freeze up. Coward. If I say something about someone, trust me, I can say it to their face. If I stank that day, I would tell the person they need to take a bath and not giggle about it like I’m a high school cheerleader. And if I am confronted, I would probably apologize immediately because I probably been drinking and didn’t really mean it.

This guy has taken it too far. I confronted him and he would even acknowledge my existence, like I was diseased or something worse. Normally, I don’t care what other people think about me. I really don’t. What bothers me is if you said something about me, be a man and admit it. Or I will be a nigga and make a fucking scene. Yet, since turning thirty years old, I’ve consciously decided to curb my nigga moments. I’m intelligent. I am a writer. I have three college degrees. I give to charity. I give to the homeless. I don’t have the time to punch a bitch in a bar, get arrested, get a misdemeanor, have to pay bail money, have to get a lawyer and hope that’s the end of it. It usually cost around $1000-$2000 dollars. I don’t have time to end up in jail and not make it to work the next day. I hate community service. I lose money in so many directions. I think two grown men fighting in a bar is so unlady like.

So that’s why I recommend the duel. It’s more civilized. Nobody is drunk. It’s in a nice ring with proper protection. And we just beat the shit out of each other like real men. A good fight allows a person to forgive, winner or loser. A good fight says it means something. Shit I might just get my ass kicked but at least I get to defend my honor. I take back my name.

Yet, I am reminded when one of my cousins wanted to fight my best friend in high school. I feared for him. The clever best friend turned the script on my thuggish cousin. He challenged his intellect. He demanded he would only fight him if my cousin could write a thousand word paper on why they should fight. I remember the dumbfounded look on my cousin’s face. He realized he wasn't just some primitive animal and had the capability of real thought. I decided to write this blog in the same sense of my need to kick this guy’s ass. My argument is as follow:

I never liked him. I would see him out all the time but we never spoke. I just considered him part of the bar furniture. He’s one of those people you hate immediately. He has a snobbish entitled demeanor like he’s curing cancer. I don’t care. I don’t care if he has the highest IQ; I had reserved myself to no just speaking to him. But it’s hard to just ignore somebody you see every damn week. I have sometimes tried to be the bigger man and speak or smile. He usually just rolls his eyes. I try to think if I had every done anything to him. I used to drink a lot and god knows how many people I have pissed off. I didn’t want him to like me; I just wanted to know why he didn’t like me.

I heard what he said about me accidently. Funny, the irony was that I was talking smack about this other guy. This guy really did smell like pussy on fire. I couldn’t understand the smell. It wasn’t the first time he smelled that way and it was offensive. I thought it was more than him being unclean but something diseased. It’s when my bar friend turned to me and said some people have said the same thing about me. I paused. I wanted to know who would say such a thing. He pointed to the asshole in question. I decided not to care. Yet, I cared.

I was more ashamed to be honest. I immediately thought of my grandmother who would be furious I would go weeks without bathing. And then again, those were the drug years. When you are constantly high on something and drunk, time goes by so fast. I was living in a blur. I would have to be reminded by friends to bath and eat. I would go a week without eating. It was no secret to me that I often reeked of sex, weed, alcohol, and uncleanliness. I remember when I used to get on the train people immediately moved away from me. I didn’t care. I was usually high so I didn’t care about nothing.

And then I thought to myself, why I am so angry at that guy for just telling the truth. I was angrier at myself. I needed to challenge myself to a duel. I needed to kick my own ass. I was such a mess two years ago. I hate being reminded of it. I hate that my neighbors still try to get me evicted even if I haven’t done anything criminal in the last two years.

When someone pisses me off to the point I want to cause them bodily harm, I first have to pause. I have to challenge what emotion or fear in my personality was triggered. I have to deal head on with my ego and masculinity. I could kick his ass. I could really hurt the bastard. But the fight isn’t with him. The funny thing, it doesn’t matter if you get your life right, somebody is always going to remind you when you were a fuck up. It’s like people feel the need to be superior. I’m done with apologizing. I have made no amends. I was who I was because I was, that’s it.

Yet, I’m still angry. All he has to do is show up. I dare the bastard. All he has to do is say one more thing about me I don’t like. My anger may be a little misdirected, but so is he accusations. He is still a punk ass bitch.

That is Mr. Bipolar to you!

Sometimes I wonder if I am truly sick or was it all in my head. I wonder if other people believed me or just thought I was a drama queen at moments. I wonder if I just stopped drinking would my life get better. I mean would the insanity stop. But I wasn’t drinking that Monday when I refused to go to work or call. I wasn’t drinking when I cut my wrists.

It was like this noise in my head, sometimes so silent it made me feel dangerously alone, other times it was like the noise started poking me with a sharp stick for attention. The feeling often was anxious and annoyed. Sometimes the feeling made me feel so good I couldn’t stop touching myself or having sex. It was like I was in hyper drive. I didn’t know how to turn if off. But the feeling would be so crazy that it would climb tall buildings and jump off. I would crash hard, on the floor, irrationally afraid for my life. I would just lay on the floor and I would be there for days. Unable to leave the house. So afraid of something, something I knew was trying to kill me, something outside my door. The feeling, it’s so damn powerful. I’ve had it a long time. I’ve had it since I was a child. I thought learned to ignore it. I thought I learned to act normal. It was like my deep dark secret.

So something was wrong. I knew it. I knew it for a long time. I couldn’t just get control of my head. My behavior was becoming more and more erratic. I just didn’t want to hear the word: Crazy. Some people can be so cruel and ignorant. I was afraid of being labeled. I had this guy trying to be funny, talking about how my mood can change five times in ten minutes. I went quiet. It was a joke to him but it was serious to me. It hurt me to the core. I wanted to put my hands around his neck. I didn’t want to go crazy like my mama did. Like my sister did.

My life, I woke up and I was drowning in the deepest and darkest part of the ocean. I couldn’t understand how I got there. I couldn’t understand what kept pulling me under every time I managed to grab the tips of the insanity and breathe for a second. I kept slipping. And it was thundering rain, lightening striking, the heavens moved quickly, like an angry mother screaming for somebody to save her child. Somebody save me.

It seemed like I had been drowning for years, maybe even decades. I got help. I put my pride aside and checked myself into the hospital.

I was so scared that day. I had done something awful. Something that will hunt me for a long time. I just wanted to escape. I just wanted to run as far as I could. I just wanted to die. Not fake death for attention but real death. I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was too hard. I was drowning!!!!! And nobody could save me.

I went to the hospital, broken, tired, my arms marked, self inflicted, and I just laid there. For almost two weeks I just woke up, took medication, talked to a panel of psychiatrists and slept. It was probably some of the best sleep in my life.

And then one day the sun came out. One day I saw land. I didn’t even know what the sun was. I thought it was something that taunted me. I thought it was warmth I would never know because my world was just full of rainstorms and angry oceans. I felt the sun. I felt such clarity on that day. I never knew my mind could be so damn clear. It was like I could feel god in me, around me, clothing me, kissing me, hugging me, telling me he loved me. And then I looked in the mirror. I was a frightening mess. My hair was all disheveled. My eyes looked wild. I had bandages on my arms. I didn’t recognize that person anymore. I knew I wasn’t that person. I was something better. I was just another soul that had gotten lost somewhere. I needed to find my way back.

I made a promise to myself. I promised myself real change. I mean the change of energy. I spent a lot of energy on the wrong things. I was going to keep a journal documenting my change of energy. I was going to constant push myself to face my worse fears. Writing this blog is part of my worse fears. It’s like screaming to the world, I am not perfect. I remember one day in the crazy house, some woman told me I was too pretty to be crazy. She said I could be a doctor. I laughed. I thought it was the pretty ones that were always crazy.

I made a promise to myself a year ago and I haven’t broken it. Shit, I performed miracles. I had nothing a year ago. I mean nothing. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a place to stay. I didn’t have any money in my accounts. I didn’t even own a credit card because I’d always been afraid of the commitment.

And then one day, maybe by accident, maybe by desperation, I washed up on shore. I had decided to stop fighting the ocean, and just drown, I gnawed at my wrists with my teeth, and just let go. I let my body sink. I swallowed all the emptiness and got so full I sunk to the bottom. I hope to never wake. But I did wake up, choking on the frustration on dry land. The ocean had gotten tired or pitied me and threw me out. Maybe God said I will give this nigga another chance.

So there I was on dry land, the sun smashing down on me like a foot on my neck, the sand sticking in my back like chards of broken glass and I was naked. I had nothing but my soul. Before I was just ocean and the storm, the rain and thunder, but under that sun, I was just bare. That scared the shit out of me. I had too many secrets to be naked. I had too much shame.

So here I am on dry land, confused, traumatized and very pissed off. Why did it take so long for me to arrive? Why did I have to first give in to death before God decided I should live.

I wasn’t promised anything. Nobody said I could be happy because I wasn’t drowning anymore. Nobody said life was going to be perfect. I had a broken child in me to fix. I started to learn only I could fix him. I believe we die heroes, victims, survivors or villains. I was tired of being the victim.



Now the real work begins. All I want from my life now is to be grateful. I am grateful to all my good days. A good day. I wake up and I’m sober. I'm in my own bed. Not at the bathhouse or bookstore or crack house, my own bed. I first pray. I pray for strength. I pray for faith. I pray for gratitude. I always start my morning with being grateful for the day that has passed. I always do something today so that my tomorrow will be grateful. It’s simple really. I brush my teeth, facial, do my nails, make up my bed, clean the dishes, take out the trash, do my thirty minute exercise and fifteen intense minutes of yoga and I am ready.


My five prayers through the day. I first pray for faith. I start with I believe. It’s simple. I believe I woke up. I believe there is a god. I believe I have purpose in my life. I believe my dreams will come true. And I believe like I breathe. I know if I stopped believing for more than two minutes I will suffocate to death. I finally believe I am a good person. That’s most important. It’s because I believe I am enough.

The prayer of gratitude. It seems as if I’ve been in and out of the hospital my entire life. I almost lost my left leg at age 4. I got bitten by a rat that same year and lost the hearing in my right ear. I’ve been shot. I’ve been hit in the head with a brick twice. I once stepped on a rusty nail and it went through my foot. And all that was before ten years old. I grateful that I have the ability to walk. I’m grateful I have one good ear. I was told I would be deaf by that age of twenty five. That didn’t happen. I am grateful to be health. I had pneumonia and I know what it feels like to no be able to breathe. It is true, if you don’t have your health, you have nothing. You can’t play, have sex, watch television, walk around the block, laugh; all you think about is making it to the next second. It amazes me how quick some of us are willing to give up our health. Some of us are willing to do things with strangers who wouldn’t loan you a dollar but fuck you raw behind some tree in the parks.

The prayer of work. I believe in a good work ethic. I believe in the Booker T. Washington work ethic. You get good at what you’re doing now and that will open the door for you tomorrow. I didn’t use to believe in a good work ethic. I used to feel as if I owed something.

The prayer of fear. I liked to face my fears. My worse fear is rejection. I don’t know why I decided to become a writer because that is a life of steady rejections. I fear not being good enough. I fear that people are going to find out about so many lies I’ve told over the years. I try to correct those lies as much as possible.

The prayer of love and trust. I like this prayer the best. It’s the prayer before I go off to sleep. I ask myself did I love myself today. Did I tell myself I loved me? Did I respect myself? I ask myself did I love my friends and family. Did I give love instead of take love? Funny, babies come into this world ready to give love. As we get older and forget, we think we are here to just receive love. I used to cringe at the fact my mother didn’t love me enough. I had to accept that in order for me to be truly happy; I was going to have to give her love anyway.