Consideration

"Pray for me. Just holla at me, I could pray for you, try to make a play for you. Won't you show me love..."-Daniel's Bloom, Mick Jenkins

Consider this: Your body is a temple, a building of great pride and structure. Buildings burn. What's been standing for years can be destroyed in minutes. How about your spirit though? Have you ever wondered if someone else's can affect it? Understand that spirits are infectious. Be cautious of who you allow in without protection: think STD for the soul.

When all this is said and done, your soul is what will matter. Shoutout to all the Christians who talk to me like I'm a lost sheep. I don't follow your beliefs, but thank you for doing what you think is going to help me. (Those of you who are genuine in your motives) Right now, I just want knowledge. All forms of it. I want it spiritually, mentally, the whole like. Real friends, please buy me books. I will do the same for you.

Let's have a day to just go somewhere and scream, cry, pray, talk to one another. We are complex. I don't know the demons you face, but I promise you do not have to fight them alone. Let's detox. Let's spend ten minutes in the mirror admiring the ultimate creation: ourselves. Put your phone down. Take your earbuds out. Turn the TV off. Give yourself ten minutes of your undivided attention, and see what you find. I don't know if the rain I've been walking through has cleansed me, but there's been a shift. I feel the optimism I felt before I let so many other people infect me, before I began shouting at the world for not shouting back. It's so freeing. Having the experience to no longer be naive, but the confidence to be optimistic. Stand for love. Love yourself. Love others. Love water. Love sun. Love the bed that rests your body. Love the gas that lightens your head.

God is love, and we are God. God is within every cell woven together to make our body. We are walking embodiments of love. We just have to be willing to tap into it. No, we cannot save the world. It is too far gone, but certainly we can illuminate small corners within it.

Would You Mind?

"I been watching for a sign. Took a trip to clear my mind. Oh. Now I'm even more lost, and you're still so fine. Oh, my. Oh, my. Been having conversations about breakups and separations..."-Mine, Beyonce feat. Drake

Growing up with black southerners for parents, I've heard most if not all superstitions. Typically, I don't maneuver my life around the presence of ladders or cracks. That's just me, though. One superstition I've heard time and time again is that stepping over someone can stunt their growth. I like that one. It resonates more closely a real life issue-people around you stunting your growth.

This summer I intended to work and write, make time for occasional fun. For the most part, though, I wanted tunnel vision. A straight shot to my goal, nothing in my peripheral view to serve as distraction. I've learned being a control freak does not and never has worked in ny favor, so I'm relinquishing myself to the universe for a map to my path. If I'm more at peace, more composed, it's because I'm no longer haunted by all the instances I was in situations or conversations I didn't want to be in. I no longer hate my father or resent my mother. My old boyfriends are just that-old boyfriends. Flames that flickered with the joining of hands, died with the attendance of rain, and are now ashes cultivating new things within me.

This peace of mind, this clarity has come from being alone. Solitude has become a sweet companion to me. While I understand the relevance of interpersonal relationships and will always seek friendships with those on the spectrum of humility, I will never underestimate the power of being alone. I liked high school, but all four years of it had a hovering toxicity. Finding myself, burying myself in other people, trying to develop character traits that just aren't there for me, cursing the sun for sweat, cursing the moon for its sullen and lonely reminder I am alone.

I never wanted to be alone, ever, so this new development is a welcome change. Most of the people I called friends before will probably never even get my new number without asking. We probably won't meet up to reminisce or see a movie. I'll never feel uninvited. I'm not even willing to retreat physically in another person (I'm celibate now; can y'all believe it?) until my mental and spiritual health is shown the utmost care and compassion. I'm tired of yelling at my past self. She didn't know better, so she didn't do better. I'm tired of daily changing the appearance and goal of my future self. Present Andrea needs my attentiveness, so if you don't mind....

I'll be seeing ya around.

10+8

"Wonderin' what's on yo mind. It must be hard to be that fine when all these motherfuckas wanna waste your time..."-Drake Melody, Somo

I honestly am repulsed at the fact my body does not physically allow me to cry when I'm alone. If I do, it's one of those minor sniffle, wet cheeks sort of thing. I can only get a full blown wail when I'm with my parents, and that's never fun. Their advice to my aching is always, "There's no need to cry about it." God, it makes me feel like an overgrown toddler. I know they mean well, but I wish my emotions didn't cause an obvious distress to them. At eighteen, the plan was to had saved up boucoups of money and move out of mom's house. The issue? I didn't get a job until seventeen and abused the hell out of having a steady income.

It's just now beginning to formulate a serious issue for me. I've come to the realization that all the things I grew a bitterness for are unnecessary. Therefore the couple thousands I've spent on fast food, clothes that don't even fit my new body, phones, and other useless things, I now understand could've been managed way better....of course I realized this one bankruptcy too late because now my money is no longer mine to just store away. It all has to be paid out to something, and the little amount I will be able to keep, I'll do so fervently.

If you're anything like me, you know got bullied for not rocking labels, staying in your tax bracket, etc, understand this clearly. It. Does. Not. Matter. You can't take it with you, so if you're going to waste money you earn, purchase experiences. Go somewhere with friends. Hell, go alone if you have a vehicle. Do something that is at least storytelling worthy. My supreme pizza purchases are hardly worth discussing or writing about. Only one served as inspiration for a poem, and it was the delivery wait that compelled me to write, not the pizza itself.

I'm hoping I have no exceptionally young readers, but if so, please understand the value of a dollar. Don't worship it, don't think it makes you more important than the person without it, but do understand it is necessary to move on from one place to another. To quote Diamond, my favorite fictional stripper, "Make the money. Don't let it make you."

By the Time You Read This, I'll Still Be Here

"Wrote him a goodbye letter today with conviction in every stroke, licked the envelope, and sent it away..."-Special Delivery, Bridget Kelly

I'll begin with a list of my current problems.

1.Unemployment

2.Lack of funds

3.Only writing poetry, diary entries, and of course this 

4.Chicago looking far as fuck 

5.Constant denial of self 

A simple call back could change numbers one and two considering I've applied nearly everywhere in this godforsaken town. 

Three is a tad more complex. I have characters swarming around in my head, situations, plots, dialogue. I'm just unsure how to mesh them. The longer I wait, the more stuck I feel. 

Four, again can be solved the same ways as one and two. 

Five. I know what I want, but either it's harmful to me or people I care for. I'm so tired. 

An Apology Letter to the People I Resent Daily

"We look for love, no time for tears. Wasted water's all that is. It don't make no flowers grow..."-Just the Two of Us, Bill Withers and Grover Washington Jr.

I'll begin with a list. If you are present on this list, I highly recommend you stay a while. If you are not, then I suppose there's really nothing gluing you here, but know you are welcome. All are welcome. Let's begin.

1.The girl with no daddy issues.
2.Extrovert
3.One or both halves of a healthy relationship (romantically)


Girl With No Daddy Issues:
I'm sorry I didn't like your posts on Father's Day. I may have thought some things unnecessary and cruel. You are not too ugly for your dad to be there, and the presence of yours does not amplify the emotional absence of mine. You certainly did not place his palms against my head. You did not make the arms that cradled me as an infant headlock me in adolescence. You did not ignore my open diaries spilling over with protests of, "I hate you and cannot wait for you to die." Above all, you did not pinch my thighs when I was four or tell me I couldn't play soccer. I cry as I write this to you because none of this fault belongs to me, yet somehow I pinned it to you: a stranger, perhaps even a friend. Your being loved is not my tragedy. My mistake. I do ask that someday you sit me down and explain just what it feels like to be born with access to this man's warmth and guidance and not have to search for it in boys that don't text back, boys that aren't men, boys that throw tantrums at your thirst for growth, boys that only trade conversation for nudes, boys that say 'I love you' for sport, boys that don't realize you're fourteen and they're older and it matters so much that they think you're pretty, boys that fake interest when you say you're a writer, boys that flirt with other girls in the mall in front of your face and laugh when you walk to the car without a word, boys with false "Daddy" traits. Tell me what it's like to be supported simply because you're you and you exist in all your glory. How does that work? Do you thank your mom for being good at picking? What's it like to physically have the desire to hug him? Knowing there won't be any smart remark after? No cynicism? No doubt? Why is it I feel like you owe me an apology as I write this? Do you care about girls like me? Do you know how much better I could be if I were a girl like you? Do you?

Extrovert:
You're typically walking slow with your friends in the food court. I get annoyed because my objective is clear: Get to the store I'm going to and get out with little to no eye contact with the various array of fuckboys and girls that can afford to dress better than me. Y'all are always in the damn way, walking slow, Snapping everything, holding my first year's tuition in some shopping bags. When I pass, you and your crew erupt with laughter and although logically I know it isn't toward me, I hate you for it. So loud. So noticeable. I'm sorry that I mean mug you in stores or go in the drive-throughs so I don't have to feel the washing machine that is my stomach when you're nearby in McDonald's. I'm sorry for believing you exist solely to vex me and my awkwardness. It's not like I don't have friends or that I can't talk to people. It's just that you harbor something I'll never fully be able to grasp and doubt I'd utilize even if I could. You're faceless. I just know your look-same clothes and hair as my past bullies. Loud laugh, ready to desecrate the confidence I've been severely inept with through the years. I used to have the advantage of intelligence over you, but now you all are showing up in honors classes, universities, libraries. I hate you for it. Always walking slow. Sometimes you even come in the form of a cute dude flirting with me. I'm sorry that I assume you're dumb. I'm sorry I remain unimpressed. You are not the reason I demand relentless affection from familiar and safe sources. You're not the reason I want my circle small enough to suffocate me. You are not the reason I pride myself on cutting people off faster than split ends. You are not the reason I tried the clique shit, and all those hoes were fake. I sincerely apologize.

One or Both Halves of a Healthy Romantic Relationship:
You know who you are. Been together umpteen years. Still go on dates. He looks at you with a warmth that could melt the remaining glaciers. She talks about you with puppies and rainbows in her eyes. I hate you niggas. Y'all do the most on holidays. You make scrolling through social media the bane of my existence, yet I continue to lurk. My self-destruction makes you two addictive. I have to keep looking at the smiles on your faces, the pride of holding one another. I have to wonder, "Have I ever had that? Will  I ever have that?" You two make me believe, but how can I believe in something I've never come close to touching? You aren't a trophy. You are loved. You aren't another good fuck. You are loved. You aren't the designated weed buyer, sponge, psychologist, space filler, or pretty little fool. You are loved.

And I'm so sorry I hate you for it.

Reconstruction

"Story of my life: searching for the right, but it keeps avoiding me..."-Unfaithful, Rihanna

I'm closing up shop.

While practicing singing in the car with my best friend, he said a word that unlocked something. "Project. Don't be afraid to be loud." Project.

It was strange the way two syllables broke down some barrier within myself I didn't even know was present. Aside from being sensitive and soft spoken, I have found myself constantly looking for approval. I note this in my post "Reasons Not to Say Sorry," and while I have been applying the attitude I promised myself as much as possible, it didn't stick that even with my close relationships, I act as if certain people only cater to certain parts of me. Take my best friend,for example; he listens to me sing (seriously sing) on a regular basis. He was there in December and March when I tearfully packed my suitcase into his trunk. I'm comfortable with his silence. Our friendship is metaphorically comparable to that of a grandparent and grandchild. Around him, I never find myself in danger of being spanked for eating too much (being myself) or jumping on the bed (being honest).

I have friends that are good for yelling the frustrations of my love life to, friends that I can have my breakdowns around, and friends that I'm comfortable sharing good news with. (Very selective about who I share with due to the fear of negative energy being thwarted on my plans)

I even have friends that are reflections of things I doubt I'll become such as good by conventional standards, anxiety-free, in a stable and loving relationship. Those are the friends I resent when I talk to my overbearing father or am waiting another hour for a text back. In spite of myself, I don't always know how to love them back because them loving me (in my head) equates to pitying me, and that's the shit I hate.

Why is it, though, that people I'm supposed to be close to are only allowed certain parts of me? I should only surround myself with grandparents. That being said, it's time to do a sweep-through. There are enough watered-down versions of me: in the work place, educational settings, at home around my parents. People chosen to be in my close-knit circle should be those that I feel secure being loud with, people I can project to. My fears, plans, hopes, prayers, and anger should not have to be dished out according to whose car I'm in, and it no longer will be.

I've decided.

June 05, 2017 (Monday)
"Love yourself, girl, or nobody will..."

This will be harder than I expected. Being a different kind of Andrea is going to require strength I'm not fully aware of. It's there somewhere. Buried beneath my false proclamations of love and who/what I am. I am NOT someone who is stuck. I am NOT someone seeking approval. No permission slip was signed for me to pick up a dick or a Bible. I have stories I will bleed into ______'s ears because he loves me. Stories I will write into the hard drive of a computer long jammed with Word documents. God spoke joy into my nightmares. The things that fuel my insomnia have long passed, yet I stay up battling them. Strange cuts from the night sting in the shower when a rag hits. My body cries out to me in exhaustion, "Will we always be this damaged?"

--Diary Entry

No, we won't always be this damaged. I've decided.

Love is a Losing Game

"He treated me like a lady, and once you get used to being treated well, you can't go back to bullshit..."-Savannah, Waiting to Exhale (film)

I've been a hopeless romantic since I was roughly four or five years old and bingewatched "Beauty and the Beast." Numerously throughout my old diaries ranging from age 9 and up, I discussed love and marriage as a form of escapism. As a kid, I wrote of having a husband like he would sustain me, be the one to save me, and reimburse love stolen before. Looking back on it doesn't make me sad. While now I've matured and grown to understand love and marriage are much more complex things (the two of us won't be pissing goddamn butterflies every day), I still someday want a part of it.

Sometimes I feel dumb in regards to how high a priority it is for me. That no matter all the traveling I'll do, books I'll read and write, degrees I'll obtain, and incredible adventures I'll partake in, if I have to walk into my house alone, I'll feel I've failed in some way. Like no matter all the fetching and rolling over I've done, licking faces, and keeping my coat nice and shiny, I'll be a good bitch worth a treat or two, the occasional belly rub, but time and time again, I won't be enough, and I'll watch all the other bitches get adopted, be loved, placed in houses with owners that will always cherish them.

Meanwhile, I'll still be in the cage.

It isn't like I need validation of my worth from a man. I know my worth, which is why being apparently unlovable to the opposite gender confuses the everlasting fuck out of me. I'm pretty. Supportive. Protective. Independent. Realistic. Loyal. Humble. Funny. Aware.

And I'm not desperate. I'll come to an empty house and cuddle my damn self before I let some loser ruin my credit/emotional health while continuing to occupy my bed. No, no. Still, it's nice to think there's a man out there who will look at me and say, "That's going to be my wife" and do everything possible to ensure that happens. Specifically, I want this to be a Black man. A Black man. I want my husband to be a Black man. "Drea, that's your problem. You're narrowing down your options. Love doesn't know color."

Oh really? Tell that to all these other people looking for partners with the sole intentions of producing "good-haired, pretty (a.k.a. lightskinned)" children.

I'll gladly pursue a BLACK ass man to be my BLACK ass husband, have BLACK ass children (if I ever fully decide I want children) with NAPPY ass hair. Love may not know color, but most of my color has been denied love, so that's bullshit.
That being said, I'm open to everyone else's choices because they don't affect me in any way.

I digress. It's not like I haven't been loved before both platonically and romantically. However, I haven't been loved romantically to the point where it was sincere enough for either of us to stay. I haven't loved sincerely enough for either of us to stay at times. This blog, in case you haven't noticed, is a confessional. I'm literally giving you all the link to my sins, not in the hopes of consolation or in the care of receiving judgment. I want to expose myself for myself. I've learned if I don't lie to me, I won't lie to you, and I won't accept lies from you.

In case you need a refresher or you're new here, take a moment to look back at my Badu post. It's essential for what I'm about to write. Got it? Good.

The effect of that social stigma, aside from the worsening of my anxiety and the religion I forced down to help me sleep at night, brought in me an indescribable desire to recreate myself. Not in the healthy way that arts school gave me, but in a way that made me literally rewire my conscious thoughts. As aforementioned, if I do not lie to myself, I am incapable of lying to others. Sophomore year, I lied. Did nothing but it. This Andrea was one for the books. From the things she wrote in her diary (every "thought" a lie) to her outward actions ("If it weren't for Jesus, the insecurities would've eaten me alive."), to the complete repression of her true desires.

There was only one moment, one time that I was honest with myself that year. I wrote, "The reason I don't drink or smoke or party and have sex isn't so much that I don't want to. I want to indulge in everything bad. It's human nature..." I forgot the rest of what I said, and that particular diary is located in another room that I'm not willing to get up and go to right now. Yes, that one moment was one where I allowed myself to think what I wanted, and I did absolutely nothing about it. I let it go.

Why? I didn't have the balls to indulge in "badness." Remember that acquaintance I mentioned in Badu? I made myself fall in love with him, flaunt being his girlfriend, go through all the motions and pain of a real relationship because this reinvention, this Andrea that disassociated from her true form, was a good girl. Clean reputation. Church-going. Wholesome. Had never done anything sexually outside of a relationship. Was pieced together from only the "best" parts of me.

Are you understanding what I am telling you? Are the wheels turning? Subconsciously, I knew what the hell I was doing, but I didn't allow that part to speak. Only pure thoughts from this pure Andrea. This Andrea that I was supposed to be. Frankly, she deserves an Oscar. I'm not boastful of this time period because it isn't something I take pride in. I squeezed into a box and convinced myself to be completely satisfied there. Genuine feelings did develop, but by then, I saw both of us in our true forms and they weren't compatible.

I feel that my love life is karma for my thoughts and actions. For those of you that don't know what karma is, it is basically the universe repaying one for his/her actions be them positive or negative. I am learning I am not a good person in the conventional ways. I am content with that. It's my truth, and I accept it. All my pursuits of romantic love have been to fulfill some selfish need or another.

All except one. There is one person I have loved wholly. He has seen dimensions of me that have been consistently barred to people. This person was a shelter that I still, despite how stupid it makes me feel, believe will shield me from the storm.

To myself and others affected by my destructiveness, I am honestly so sorry.

A Compilation of Thoughts

"But all our phrasing-race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy-serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must never look away from this." -Between the World and Me, Novel by Ta-Nehisi Coates


This hiatus from people is, while rather difficult, something I'm finding sincere pleasure in. Staying indoors and reading/writing, exploring myself, as well as gaining well-needed knowledge for the next phase of my life has been an absolute joy, so why not? Why not let America fund the furthering of my eloquence so I can later dissolve division among the general public and my people? My people aren't black people. My people aren't women. My people are people with a heart capable enough for enthusiastic empathy and a mind willing enough to witness, realize, and act against injustice.
After discussing potentially going into the Air Force Reserve to help financially aid my college education, I began thinking about America and all its bigotry, its false pride, and the "strange fruit" cobbler it's had for dessert so long.
I decided it was something I'd gladly do: rob a piece of land that has me mentally reconstructing myself, relearning what safety actually is, mentally reprimanding myself for fearing a black man walking past my house at night but not a white man that gives me that awkward smile when our eyes meet outside the grocery store.



We cannot be friends if you believe "good hair" is anything more than a wash and condition. We cannot be friends if my sensitivity (although controlled, but still noticeable) bothers you. We cannot be friends if you glance at the ever-present dangers to my health and happiness and decide it is too much for you to bear. If my persecution makes you uncomfortable TOWARD me instead of FOR me, then please IGNORE me just like you do the problems I face.
I don't speak on anything unless I know what I'm talking about, therefore babbling "intellectuals" don't arouse me. Hearing this, reading part of that, and adding a bunch of things that sound "statistical" do not intimidate or modify my opinion in any given conversation or debate.


I will not smile at you because you think I should. I will not laugh quieter in public. I will not birth a baby I'm not ready for.


What I will do is kick myself in the ass for letting my old, white best friend explain to me the difference between Black People and Niggers is that, "Niggers don't work or take care of their kids." That wasn't a crucial or definitive response. Last I checked, deadbeat parents were in every race. Just like the first rapists I learned about from history were slave owners (of course I'm aware there were many prior). Or the first thief was a nigga that died thinking he was in an entirely different country. Damn, how's that for "uneducated" like every person on welfare (minority or otherwise) is presumed to be?


Friends, am I making you uncomfortable? That question is an oxymoron. We're not friends if my consciousness rouses discomfort in you. Don't confuse my reticence with complacency. Don't believe my gentle hand can't form a proper fist. Because I don't constantly loud mouth my ideals, don't believe there are none present.


I have the luxury of God, of believing there is something out there that pushes me in the directions I ask to go. Meaning if I pray for growth, I will go through a breakup, be broke, move from the suburban ghetto to the urban ghetto, and attend a school where for two years, I only have a pocketful of true friends, some including staff. However, I will come out ready to move to one of the most dangerous cities in the nation, hoping to later prompt some change, write better than I ever thought possible, become a lover of all things Andrea, and understand I got exactly what I asked for.
God doesn't openly reside everywhere. It is a choice to believe, not a necessity nor a measure of moral standing. It isn't a white man on a cloud watching us fuck. It isn't rooting for us to be mistreated "just because." I am handed the comfort of a higher power because of my geographical region, my physical and mental capabilities, the perpetual chances of betterment being in my favor. Helpless people that have no way of becoming anything more-caught between defensive and defenseless-I don't disdain their dismissal of the belief. Everything is perspective when we get down to it, nothing less, nothing more. Is the glass half-empty or half full? Well let's drink and determine if we've had enough.

Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder?

"If you want, we can be runaways runnin' from any site of love..."-Desperado, Rihanna


"I should've picked you." A screenshot sent by one of my close friends from an ex.


Like loving me was an unfortunate lottery pick. Being back in this town is cancer for me right now, but it's teaching me a lot about myself and helping me understand the past. Everything is magnified in hindsight. You search for places it went wrong, lines that were blurred one minute, then completely transparent the next. Perhaps they were never even there.


Friends, how well do you really know me? For those that are on the side of knowing me well (knowing about "the trailer", the scar on my left wrist's origin, my Badu post characters), tell me this: have you ever wondered how I act in a relationship? You hear me talk about my significant other constantly and every conversation seems to drift toward them, but do you know how possessive or sensitive I am? Or insensitive while we're at it. I'm like a constantly tampered-with switch. Flicking, flicking, flicking. It's honestly a sight to see.


Reason I'm my worst self in a relationship: Love makes me an ugly thing because I'm a control freak.


That being said, I don't mean I want to control the person I'm with. I don't expect less than I give. I mean I want to control circumstances and the emotional spectrum I'm put through. I don't want to look stupid, which makes me act stupid. Example? I feel that your level of excitement to see me should match or exceed mine. You seem happy to see your little thotpockets on Instagram, therefore you should be happy to see me, or I'm going to have an attitude. That attitude is going to turn into an argument and even if you're "not bout to argue" with me, I'm going to argue with you, so..... Am I making myself clear? Like is it understood what I'm trying to say right now?


Anyway, I sort of feel like things I want/need should be obvious and when it isn't, I have a problem. I'm just sort of bad with communication as a whole. Either I say less than what I need to or I'm just passive-aggressive. I let things build. That's another reason I'm my worst self in a relationship. I'm in a situation where I have to depend solely on another human being's intuitiveness or common sense to get what I need from him. That. Shit. Does. Not. Mix.


I digress. The point is, I have some things about me that are really sus, especially if I'm involving another person, which is why I really just want to be away from people right now. I'm including friends in that as well as Snooki*. (I can't do a proper footnote on here, but there is a definition for that word listed at the bottom of this page.) I feel like I've exhausted every friendship I have. My roommate once told me that people have a right to decide if they want to put up with my bullshit, that I shouldn't just assume and make the choice for them.


Sadly, assuming is the one thing I'm consistently good at. I don't want anyone to have to deal with me right now. I'm exploring all negatives of my life right now so I can create a better picture. Until it's developed, I want to be alone. Until I'm developed, I want to be alone.


*Snooki: A pet name for the person I'm romantically involved with at the time.

About Last Summer

"I'm coming through with metaphor after metaphor like Meta 5, I'm still alive..." -Last Dance, Lil B and Chance the Rapper feat. Noname Gypsy

I inadvertently began a trend with my blog titles. The pattern was long title, one-word title. Forgive me for breaking that pattern. Then again, don't. You probably didn't notice it anyway. Upon scrolling through the archives this morning, I came across this little number.

Circa July 2016

Aside from being more slim, less thick, and having a full head of shrunken curls, apparently I had some semblance of self-esteem that I lost along the way (about November of that same year) and found again in like March.

I've had two major haircuts since this photo was taken (and gotten a real nose piercing). The loss of hair isn't what's making me feel a type of way right now. Scrolling through all these old photos this morning, I realized I lost a lot more about myself than a few inches of ombré  hair.  I didn't give myself credit last summer, but I was really putting effort into my life. I was drinking lots of water, taking amazing care of my hair, and working twelve hour shifts at Checkers like it was nothing. I was dating again. (Dreadhead) I was experimenting and finding my own style, and I wrote part of my novella and even the pilot for a show last summer. It's safe to say I was really on my sh*t. I don't know at what point I decided this person wasn't worth being around, but with every major change in my life, my hair is the first thing I attack. I got an undercut (that I loved by the way. Thanks to Hot Shots in Brookhaven, MS), then later dyed my hair red. Once that color faded and I was overall just sick of everything, one night I asked my roommate to part my hair off for me. Next thing I knew, the scissors were snatching off over a year and a half's worth of growth.

In that moment, I didn't care about how long I had spent fretting over my hair growth or how much money I'd spent on oils and conditioners. I didn't care how fluffy my hair was when I slept on it in class or that I finally had the versatility I wanted. All I cared about was that I was in control of something. That after all the unsolicited opinions and actions that had been bestowed upon me in the past eighteen years, I got to decide what I wanted. Chop, chop, chop. Problem solved, right? Wrong.

I was just repeating the same cycle I always do when I'm fed up: make an outward change to display supposed inward growth, feel better for a month or two, and then it's right back to needing something different. The issue is I can never determine what exactly it is that I need. Sure, the haircuts have been liberating and have taught me to enjoy my facial structure for what it is, but now I'm back to square one: growing my hair out and figuring out what exactly it is I want from life. I have a more solid idea about both these things due to past experiences. More than anything, I need to learn contentment. Gather a little patience. Learn to rejoice in what life is teaching me and be grateful for all my encounters and relationships with other people. Something is wrong with being around someone you've been close to since second grade and not knowing how to love him anymore. Something is wrong with resenting people with families that they actually look forward to seeing. Something is wrong with wanting an apology from a world that can't begin to fathom how long I've been angry at it.

There's just a lot...wrong that needs to be under some form of control. I want to find a peace that seems to constantly evade me. And as far as my hair, well it was still growing through the most undesirable conditions in my life. Apparently it can fend for itself. I've always been able to call myself on my own bullsh*t, but not so much on my good attributes. That's the main reason I'm always trying to change. It'll feel bizarre at first, giving myself a barrage of compliments, but it is necessary if I ever want to be okay with now. I'll let whatever's next come to me instead of me rapidly (and quite destructively) seeking it.