Where Do I Start?

I have nothing to say. Nothing to write. 

Just Say No! (To relationships as an insecure person)

 I'm at that stage in life where I clearly recognize love as a fantasy, and you can call it "bitter".

I really don't give a damn.

If you have a lot of "love" (platonic or romantic) in your life, congratulations! You're probably just extremely useful in some way. You build someone's ego, you've got money, or you come from a good family, OR you two are just trying to spite someone else. People do not "love" for the sake of love. 

People only "love" people that mistreat them or are indifferent to their existence. Actual lovergirls will die out here trying to find a suitable receiver for all they have to offer. I'm not saying I'm the most unique or beautiful woman in the world, but as I've explained before on this blog, I'm at the very least reasonable and committed. There's no need for me to compile a grocery list of everything else that I am. Hell, I'm to the point where I'd rather create a fucking spreadsheet on an IBM computer before I intellectualize the fact I'm a person. 

I didn't ask to be here, and it seems quite clear to me no one wants me here anyway: not my rude ass mother, not my lame ass exes, not my former "friends." I exist in a fucking vacuum,

but I exist nonetheless. 

I've complained about my state of lovelessness for a decade now. No youth, no beauty, no pussy, no anything can make people care about you who simply don't want to. At least when my life was in shambles, I understood people avoiding the chaos. 

Now I'm "perfect" at best..."well enough" at worst, and still....here we are. I've ran out of things to blame it on, but I'm also not stupid enough to feel there's some deficit within me that people can sense. Quite the contrary, I think most people assume themselves unworthy of being around me, and they're likely right...but that has more to do with them and how they're handling their perceived shortcomings than it says about me.

Frankly, I should be grateful. At least the days of soul-absorbing sponges disguising themselves as comrades are behind me. That's because I'm honest enough to see it now. I know when I'm being approached to fulfill someone's projections or irrational fears. I know when someone is simply going to suck me dry, and that's most people. I know when I'm being lovebombed, and that's the rest of them...

I don't avoid people because I'm insecure. When I was insecure, I was the most open to what others had to bring and realized that what they brought for me was always bullshit. I'm done. 

Privacy is a prison. I’m a flexer at heart.

 

“Sometimes you gotta pop out and show n!ggas….” -Kendrick Lamar, “Not Like Us”

I’m not humble nor have I ever been. Humility was a defense mechanism I could use to cloak the fact I am indeed a bad b!tch: accomplished, ambitious, sexy. I was all these things before the world could accept my spunky, fabulous package. I reflect on my early diva days fondly: wearing platform wedges to 8th grade science, discovering Clinique mascara samples (still the best mascara I’ve ever used in life), getting first chair in band on a recurrent basis. 

Getting accepted to art school felt obvious: I was a good writer that needed refining and a space to evolve further into my destiny before adulthood could assuage my passion at worst, distract me at best. I’ve accomplished so much that I was able to still maintain a modicum of confidence during these hard years where so many inner and outer changes transpired for me and led to more questions than answers. Perhaps it’s my new car talking, but I think I’m over the hump. 

I say all that to say I grew a good relationship with confidence early on, and it’s one of the most beneficial relationships I’ve had to date. Even though it can’t supplement me doing the work to overcome some of my personal issues, it can see me through the tunnel. My only sadness is that I simply don’t announce anymore. Announcing feels performative even though I have every rhyme and reason to brag. I’ve learned to just let my work speak for itself. If my audience needs me to say I’m the best at whatever I’m doing, that’s not an audience I identify with. I love real life and real reactions to what I have to offer, and being private about how much I’m actually working can only benefit me.

Last Call

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm and Suicide

If you were to ask me why I've spent the majority of my life being so nonchalant toward men with the exception of a couple undeserving souls, I could offer you a plentiful list.

Nothing, however, and I do mean NOTHING, takes the cake over learning today that a nigga who tried to get in my pants in high school lied about his mom dying. I'm genuinely gagged---not because the attempt worked but because WHO goes to that length to get laid?

***

I wrote the above portion a couple weeks ago. The past couple of days is what really takes the cake over some garbage from high school. Here I am yet again looking at a motherf*cker I know shouldn't be in my life. It's not like I'm not willing to leave; he isn't. It complicates things because I technically can't force him to go, but I also dread the idea I've been coerced out of my own safe space. Home doesn't feel like home because it isn't. 

I haven't cut myself in years, and then boom. There I was just needing to escape being screamed at for this or for that. I can't keep up anymore. The overarching theme is always that I deserve it, that it's my fault. Talking too much or showing emotions or rejecting things that harm me means I deserve yelling and discord and violence. 

Evidently, I still haven't learned the place my father tried his best to show me with his own violence.

What's sad is that when I am willing to play the role--to be the miserable, self-loathing, thoughtless and speechless person that doesn't "deserve" violence---that's also not good enough because then I'm "overexaggerating" and things are still---you guessed it---my fault. I'm "causing my own pain" just by existing, which means they're basically telling me I only exist to endure pain. 

The expectation for me to be without reasonable boundaries is the reason I am so enraged. At every interval of my life, there are people who believe I'm supposed to let them trample over me simply because I exist, and there's something they don't like about it. I'm supposed to allow shallow relationships, unhealthy job environments, and familial drama. I'm supposed to be screamed at, accused, betrayed and never fight back. I'm supposed to die. They want me to die, and I guess it's not happening quickly enough. I genuinely believe most of the people I've ever known would be indifferent or relieved to learn of my Earthly absence.

No one loves me, and I'm not allowed to cry about it, talk about it, think about it, or even feel it. This is the only place I can come to, and it's not even a place. 

 

The Bad Bitch Diet

 

"Cut them fake hoes off, and I ain't feel nothin'." -Numb, JT

Today I'm getting by water. I'm submerging my feet. I'm going to hopefully feel the sun after all these rainy days and getting up at early af o'clock. 

I want to warm my skin and visit myself...sit in silence with my phone in the car because sometimes, perhaps very often, it really *is* that damn phone.

Perhaps my oracle cards will tell a different story today, one of triumph and self-mastery. I will be grateful for all the combinations of celestial dust, fate, irony, and fortitude it took to animate me. My locs will continue winding into themselves. I will rest my palms on the same earth that witnessed my weeping. It will offer me cushioning. 

Whether or not I feel more or less of what I'm anticipating, I will be consumed. Bad bitches are always consumed by people. They watch, whisper, poke, police. To offer all that attention without true care feels sick. I haven't learned anything new about people since I was sixteen. I've simply forgotten and remembered in cycles. What more is there to learn besides the fact that people will eat me both figuratively and literally without actually acquiring a taste for me? 

My former homeboy described me as a "turkey sandwich" (reliable, tasty without the fuss), and that, ironically, is one of the more endearing things I've been described as. I understood what he meant. I'm like home, but dwellings only have the quality of the people occupying them. My best tenant is myself, so I've refrained from letting people in for quite some time, even for a brief visit. 

What's consumed is rarely edified. People don't trust me, and that is a mutual feeling. How many weird bitches, obsessive niggas, and the disappointments left by them should I allow myself to endure? I've maxed out on fucks to extend. 

Fuck the radio silence after being all goofy in my face. Fuck the fake concern. Fuck the proximity. Fuck the weird ass projections.  Fuck the hoes that want me gone so they can play dress-up with my aura. 

Starve.

Happy for Me

 

"Who can say if your heart grows where your love chose? Only time." --Enya "Only Time"

    Visibility was never the core problem. Nunca. 

    Those desiring invisibility are either hiding something or want to be hidden themselves, which is indicative of repulsion or worse...self-hate.

    Self-hate was never my ministry. Nunca. Repulsion is ironically dignified in this context because repulsion is social rejection. While one can reasonably weigh potential social outcomes, there are no complete predictions to be made. Self-love is the constant in social's variable game; therefore, I've never minded being visible. 

   What I do mind, no hablo. Not anymore. 

    I used to believe I was relatable, that sharing myself with others was actually honorable. I am not relatable. Rather, I'm something more fun; I'm entertaining. 

    A spectacle. A theatric. A specimen of charm.

    Charm is deceptive, I know, but what isn't? Where is the vanishing point between deception and seduction? Life has to seduce us. Why else would we bother if not for the illusion of splendor? Something worthwhile?

    To summarize, I have not been hiding. I've been tasting the formula of privacy, and it's muy bueno.

Adios.

Drea 

    

I Can't Sleep for the First Time in Years

 I think I figured out why J. Cole's retirement is so...emotional for me.

#insomnia #jcole #thefalloff #mentalillness

Mental Illness

    I have no idea who reads this blog, what type of people or why; but in the 5+ years since I stopped expressing myself here, there are still visitors. Google seems to be doing its job. Or Bing. DuckDuckGo? Who the hell are y'all? 

    The last time I stayed awake too long (three days to be exact), my world collapsed. I'll spare the gory details, but the words "acute psychosis" are what I'm trying to avoid (by the way, there's nothing "cute" about it). Besides insomnia, the other commonality between that time is that J. Cole had just dropped a project: The Off Season to be exact. At the time, The Off Season wasn't just "a" project: it was "the" project. 

    "Krispy Kreme dreams. Sometimes my dogs wanna kill twelve," he spat in the first track "95 South." I was smitten. Not only had one of my favorite artists shown up at the right time (hell, I needed something to pace to while I wrote a collection of articles that was supposed to make me rich, famous, and a serious author), but he prophesied everything that I was going through at the time from seeing treasured friends become unrecognizable characters to keeping my head up during an eviction. This feels different, however. There's no current tragedy in my life. There is nothing I'm fighting against and truthfully, there's hardly anything I'm even fighting for.

 J. Cole has been in my life since I was about fourteen, my first boyfriend hyping him up on the phone, always with me dismissing what I'd later find to be good music simply because I hated his radio hits.

 He followed me to art school where my toxic new boyfriend made my "Love Yourz" lyrics his bio after I did (and after we broke up. Yeuck!). He was there again senior year as my roommate blasted "Adolescence '06" and although I had known "A Tale of Two Citiez" and "No Role Modelz" were constantly on repeat on my iPod, I had no idea I had been missing so much of a beautiful album until his lyrics hit me.

A New Love

    I too wanted to be known by the baddest bitches in school, though not for romantic purposes...and my shoes were a little old. I felt he understood me, and that understanding has been holding up strongly for the past ten years. My zip codes have changed, my weight, my relational statuses, even my educational attainment. The constant to all my variables has been being a J. Cole fan (and remaining one after The Apology because that was irreverently a nonissue for me). It's almost like rocking with him all these years made me realize something I couldn't prove in reality: that perhaps I'm not truly the problem. Perhaps if I had felt acknowledged or even worse...validated...the majority of my relationships platonic or otherwise would've survived. It proved that being loyal was never the problem but that my loyalty will never allow me to swallow my personhood.

It will never allow me to say "I'm willing to stay even when I feel unseen, unheard, and ultimately unloved." I'm going to let you in on a little secret...the world tells you things will get better if you do...that if you stop being a mess, people will accommodate you. As someone who has been both a mess and nearly perfect, I can attest to you that it's a lie.

The Reality of "Perfection"

The half-homeless version of me had more friends. The sexpot with her nips pierced got significantly more play from the males (since they've taken to calling us "females" now.) than the prim and proper---dare I say---real me (when wasn't that the case, though?). Lastly, the version of me that holds a degree hardly sees a financial difference between the high school-some college version of me. 

To some degree it's a relief. I thought that all the things inherently "wrong" with me were the cause of me not being "enough." If I was still measuring myself by the arbitrary guidelines of perfection, I would be extremely confused as to why my life is not reflecting the "perfection" that exists within. Maybe another commonality between I and J. Cole is that we're both simply over it regardless of if we have more to offer or not; we both realize that maybe it's time for someone else to bear the burden of transparency, consistency, and ultimately...loyalty.

xoxo,

Drea

Always Stay Gracious: Best Revenge is Your Paper

I know that Kimberly Foster is more educated than myself and has visibly good intentions with her content, but one thing that still irritates the shit out of me is her stating that when dark-skinned Black women have sisterhood and friendship with each other, they're fighting against hiearchies as opposed to light-skinned groups of women "probably upholding hierarchy." 

This implication is gross to me. Yes, I understand what she means. Yes, I understand there will be nuances between our lived experiences, especially with the steep gaps in our social, political, and educational comparisons. Respectfully, her take is still garbage in my opinion. This mindset is harmful because those of us that have dared to risk vulnerability with women in general, but especially women that differ greatly in appearance or aesthetic can attest to the bullying, malicious intent, abuse, and mental devastation it has caused us. 

I rarely meet women that are similar to me in body type, appearance, and compatibility. Even if by some miracle I do, the horrors I've faced by choosing people based off their charm, wit, intelligence, and other qualities I find endearing while ignoring their outer appearances, will likely cause me to withhold myself from them too. I am officially un-open to caring about anyone other than myself and my romantic partner. I am especially, however, cautious of woman-child, insecure, cut-throat women trying to win me over with half-assed performances of liking me. I want bitches to leave me alone, and there is no poetic way to say that. 

I am not bitter. I am not excluding people off the benefit of looking "cool" or being socially acceptable to strangers that don't give more of a damn about me than so-called "friends" or family did. I'm not even looking to make anyone regret their decisions to mistreat me. That would be giving away my power, and alas, I'm unwilling to spare any more. I'm sure everyone that's mishandled me has found their new scapegoat or became one themselves (deservingly so. fucking losers.). 

The irony about spending so much of my life having been insecure and hoping for others to see my worth is that they always did. When I step in a room, I disrupt the flow. People react to me in the strongest ways they can. They have tried relentlessly to undermine my confidence, self-image, accomplishments, and happiness. That behavior is unforgivable and if avoiding a bitch with a wider back than me or darker/lighter skin or even smaller boobs keeps me safe, I'm not fucking sorry for that. None of them were sorry for traumatizing me, so I'm not about to be sorry I don't grant them access to ruin my life. 

After all, that's clearly the goal. What other intention does someone have to try and intimidate you with their size? Or emotionally manipulate you? Or have a clear dislike for you yet are unable to leave you the hell alone? Let it be known that bitches hate more than just my appearance. 

Drunk Blog Post #1

I'm wine-drunk in the kitchen with my boyfriend and his mom. I love these people. I love hearing their stories. When I was a sad little girl not even too, too long ago, I never dreamed I'd have a family of my own that loves me. The only one absent is Onyx, who is sound asleep in the bedroom closet. We're waiting for pizza. The CSR of Domino's knew we were all drunk over the phone. This nigga asked if we want cheese when I said "Only ham and pepperoni on the pizza." My boyfriend and his mom laughed loud as hell in the background, so I said we were all drunk to make this nigga feel better. We are, though. I'm hearing stories about Mr. John's (My boyfriend's dad) friend Floyd. I'm texting an old coworker from this shitty sales job I only stayed at for like a month. It's nice to be alive. I hope that after quarantine me and Nadia, me and Drew, me and all the people I love will link again.

I'm legit in awe of how happy my life is in comparison to how miserable it used to be. I can't say it's completely unexpected. I'm working on a book that needs to exist soon. I love you. I love myself. I hope that all of you in need of healing find it or that it finds you. Please, please know I love you if you love me. It's simple. It's all so simple. Goodnight, y'all. 10:52 and signing off.

Also I miss the strip club. A lot more than I ever realized. 

Pole to Pulitzer

“I'm writing this from one of the La Quinta Inns in New Orleans. My thighs have pole bruises from today's audition.”

I was supposed to do this entry months ago, and that was the opener. December was a weird time. I abruptly quit Walmart after a month of research and decided that if I’m going to be this young, this toned, and this beautiful I’m going to take advantage and start dancing.

It had some ups and downs, but once I finally found a club worth working at, I slowly began digging myself out of the financial hole that had ensued from us struggling for a few months trying to get accustomed to living on our own and together.

I’ve never had money. My dad used to buy my shoes about a couple sizes too big so that I could wear them for years on end. My mom scrounged every penny to send me to arts school to grow up and be some great writer.

I have grown up, and I’m a great writer because I’m an honest one. COVID-19 has been a blessing and a curse. Ms. Rona gave me a break from niggas squeezing my thighs and has given me ample creative opportunity. I’ve been painting and flowing and detangling my hair without being on a time crunch.

I’ve rekindled friendships I presumed dead, I’ve revamped my blog AGAIN, and in the face of this crisis, I’ve decided to be consistent with my blog once more. My publications in journals matter to me a lot, but there’s no reason I can’t do both. My professional writing does not have to suffocate my personal writing, and I will no longer let one take precedence over the other.

I used to think perhaps I have some self-inflated ego because I believe in my capabilities. That isn’t true. It’s the only way to survive. Dancing taught me that. When I was younger and friendless (Okay, okay not friendless but my friends were phony and I never saw them outside of school. Same thing), I submerged myself in music. I used to choreograph shit in my head for hours on end. I’m not a Black Swan. I’m Mercedes: the rose that grew from concrete. The 5” woman that becomes 5’5 with those platforms on. Spinning on that pole is invigorating even if it is temporary.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss work. Telling a tall tale. I love my work and before touching became illegal, my work loved me back.

Now, though, it’s on pause. Pausing one thing isn’t that bad when you’re resuming another. Yes, I’m broke, but I’m broke due to a GLOBAL crisis; I wouldn’t dare take that personally.  In this time, I’ve also made note of who’s truly there for me and who I’m truly there for. All this shall pass. By the end of it, maybe my essay collection will be complete. (Hint, hint, hint)

Also, I forgot to mention I’ve finally reached a place of inner peace. I did that prior to COVID getting out of hand, but now its capacity is stretching. I can do whatever I want. I *do* whatever I want. So welcome to Biggity Babe’s Blog. Welcome to my awakening. 

Calling All Black Intellectuals

If you're cringing at the title of this entry, believe me; so am I. The truth is, though, that's actually part of the reason why I'm using it. If you were ever a Black in an AP class, a Black that likes to read, or a Black that at any point followed one of those pretentious ass hotep pages, then you've either been labelled or considered yourself a "Black Intellectual". Why, though? Is blackness and intelligence so rarely compounded that we feel a need to specify exactly anytime a Black person is intelligent?

The truth is, we all (I mean as humans) like to think we're special. That we have these amazing attributes that make people like us and make our lives worth living. The truth? None of us are really all that great. No matter how brilliant you think you are, you have to close your eyes and keep them closed for an extended period of time, you have to defecate, drink water, the whole nine. You have to live, and that's all you need to do. Stop placing yourself on a pedestal because you don't fit into the usual confines of what it means to be Black.

You aren't special and despite any ostracizing you may have faced in the past at the hands of other Black people and the patronizing at the hands of White people, what you do is normal. Not good. Not great. Just normal. Keep reading, keep staying informed, stay hydrated. Witcha Black ass. 

My Natural Hair Journey (December 2014-Present)

Alright y'all, so this is from my relaxed hair days. I began getting texture softeners when I was bout ten maybe because heat alone was no longer working to control my hair, and my mom was not with the shits. These pictures were taken freshman year in the early parts of 2014. I ended up getting my last relaxer December of that year. It's weird now that I think about it because I always count myself as being natural from 2014, but if we're being technical, I've only been fully natural since about September/October of 2015 (had a few stray pieces of relaxed hair on my head after my big chops). 

As you can see, my hair was EXTREMELY dry and brittle-looking. I thought that was just the norm. I'd wand curl and flat-iron it with absolutely zero heat protectant (I didn't even know about heat protectant to be honest with you), and after it was straightened, I never moisturized it with anything out of fear of it either being greasy and/or reverting back to a frizzy state. I had no curl pattern at all, so my hair was completely relaxed/fried.

The cringe part of me decided to revamp my look by wearing fake glasses (no not those, ones with lenses in them) and cutting my hair to neck length. I absolutely loved the cut, but my hair began growing back out really quickly. Within a few months, my hair was back grazing my shoulders and looked like this:

I still had unhealthy hair practices, but since the cut my hair had thickened up a little and seemed slightly less trifling. 

My hair was definitely a little healthier after the cut, but it was at this point I began thinking about my hair and how much it was stunted in growth. What made me realize this was the fact that my hair hadn't changed in length even though I was looking at old pictures from years prior. In YEARS my hair hadn't gotten any longer than collarbone length? That definitely wasn't okay, so I ended up on YouTube looking at this:

*playing the video won't take you away from this page*

Initially, my plan was to simply grow my hair out while continuing to be relaxed. I figured I could have the best of both worlds, but somehow I ended up stumbling upon Jewelliana Palencia's YouTube channel and watched this:




This was all I needed to see to know I wouldn't be following the relaxed hair journey. I immediately decided the big chop would be my next line of action even though I was very afraid of it because I was uncomfortable with my face and head shape, but I didn't care. I figured I would just wear braids or something until my hair was long even though I had literally never gotten braids before.

In 2015, I chopped.The thing about cutting my hair was that I wasn't confident enough to completely rid myself of all the longer pieces. I kept some of them and would bantu knot my hair at night to "blend" it all together. I didn't realize just how ridiculous it looked, but that's okay. We live and learn. I kept rocking this for about a month or so, I think, before cutting off more of the long pieces.

This was the result. I absolutely hated it and felt incredibly ugly because I could no longer do frohawks or anything to make myself look a little prettier. 

I ended up getting crochet braids that summer and kept them in for about three or four weeks before I got tired of them.

Fast forward to July 4th. I was super excited to see my length, so I straightened my hair. It puffed back up almost immediately, but when I went to a July 4th celebration, my then-boyfriend's mom (or sister. I forgot.) took the liberty of straightening it for me. (Still didn't use any heat protectant, but I didn't suffer any damage) This was the length I had, so after seven months post relaxer, my hair was looking pretty healthy and layered and seemed to be growing well. 

In August of 2015, I dyed my hair a honey blonde. (Ignore my horrible ass makeup) and kept that color for a looooong time. Even after the color started growing out, I loved the ombre look I had going on, so I didn't mind at all. At this point in my hair journey, I still had a few relaxed pieces here and there, but I was about 98% natural. I would twist my hair every single night religiously and grease my scalp with African Pride grease, and I don't even remember what I was putting on my hair to moisturize it (possibly the grease?), but whatever I was doing, my hair was still pretty healthy. 

When I felt like I was finally gaining some growth, I started straying away from the safer styles like my puffs. I became interested in top knots and overall would wear my hair "down" a little bit more. 

I had told myself I wouldn't wear blue lipstick until my hair was big, so obviously I must've felt my hair was big sksksksksks. 

The back of my hair has always been looser, therefore when I stretched it like the rest of my hair, it looked damaged, but I promise it was just overstretched. 

One of the very few braid-outs I've ever done in my life.

Baby, spring of 2016, I felt like I had IIIIIIINNNNCHEEES. I was wearing my hair all sorts of ways and really just having fun with it. This crown twist that you see above was like my go-to style other than my high puff with the little tendrils on the sides. My hair actually enjoyed being manipulated and my growth never stunted from me playing with it. 

*Summer of 2016 I wore my hair under a wig for about a month, then afterwards I took a social media hiatus to learn how to appreciate the way I look, so I was a lot more comfortable wearing updos like two puffs and things of that nature because I wasn't on Instagram comparing my growth to everyone else's. It was extremely freeing, and the result of all that protective styling was that my hair GREEEEEEW*

My wash-and-gos were so full that I didn't mind the shrinkage. I had never done a wash and go in my life until that summer. By this point, I was a year and seven months post relaxer, and my hair was flourishing. I was extremely pleased with my length. 

My hair was healthy, thriving, and I was having a little glo-up too and was no longer dressing like an after-school special. 

August of 2016 when school started back, I was too stoo-stoo-stoopid to recognize my depression was in full swing or that I even had depression for that matter. I was antsy and unhappy as hell all the time and couldn't for the life of me understand why, so I did some stuff. Therapy? Nope. Reaching out to loved ones? Try again. I dyed my hair red and started smoking weed. Yay. 

I loved, loved, loved this red, but it faded away after about three washes. Tragic. That was my last time dyeing (dying?) my hair while it was long. I was still antsy, so I got an undercut. It was a small design on the back of my head. Really cute. That haircut was a gateway drug to a more drastic haircut, however. 

It was somewhat impulsive, but I had off and on considered cutting my hair this way even when it was short. I ended up getting this little bit of hair that was left shaved down as well, so I was working with a tapered fade (and still kept getting my undercut design shaved into my head). I didn't even make it to two years post-relaxer before cutting all of my hair off. I was like a year and ten months post-relaxer.

I loved the cut and rocked the hell out of it from October 2016-April 2017. I got tired of it, then I decided to start from scratch growing it back out. 

This is what it looked like after four months of growing out the top and sides. 

Fast forward two years after my third and final big chop. 

After two years of switching up regimens, hearing unsolicited comments on my texture, loving and hating my face shape and hair type, I'm here. I'm also incredibly late with this post even though I promised it on my Instagram weeks ago, but here. Here it is. Thank you all. 

xoxo,

Drea

Telling the Truth or Playing Victim: Are the Two Mutually Exclusive?

Just so y'all know, clicking on the videos (well on my recent posts anyway) won't take you out of this tab.

I recently wrote a nonfiction piece detailing that through most of high school I used boys as a distraction and filler from what I was missing from my home life. I did edits on it at places where it was just tooooo cringe even though to some degree it is supposed to be cringe because it's written from my voice at said time. Still, it was just....a lot in some places. I read back over it and realized it was mainly shit-talking my ex-boyfriends and not really expressing why I needed them or how I was using them. It was, but not enough, so I withdrew it from any magazines or journals I sent it to. I told the truth, but I was also making myself look better than everyone else.

And I have a bad habit of doing that. In a lot of situations when I'm telling the truth, I don't always express my part of the truth. That's unfair. At the end of the day, I know those people will probably never write about me and put it on a public platform. I didn't say they couldn't. I said it probably wouldn't happen, so whatever little platforms I get to discuss them, I should be fair.

They're victims too, just in different ways from me. So how do I go about fixing this? How do I learn to tell my story (and theirs) in the most neutral way possible while still having emotions and a good story? Simple. I listen to myself in my most humble state. In my humility, I tell the truth on equal and respectful grounds. The opening of the piece is truthful. It's just the rest that needs work. Wish me luck.

Bullethead

It is 4:16 on Sunday.

I have to be clocked in at Dollar General in 44 minutes. I don't want to clock in at Dollar General, but somebody's gotta do it. I don't have another persona that can go work for me and pretend to be okay. 

I killed all the other Andreas. They were getting in the way, but they were good liars, and now having all of them weighing inside of me, keeping me grounded instead of in space where I usually am, makes me want to cry.

I can't, though because now I have 42 minutes, and I already did my eye makeup. I am so, so tired. 

Please Don't Take Me Back

Please stop showing me things I no longer belong to. Stop making me cry at night. Stop making me de-forgive people after I've stopped being angry. You're relentless and cruel. You steal my laughter and reverse it like playing a song backwards. You shove it back into body, make it strangle me for your amusement. You pound my mind with sorrow until my headaches pound me back to numbness.

I'm begging you. Leave me alone. Stop making me log in to look at pages of people I no longer know; I no longer want to know. Stop dragging me through mud and rocks and broken glass because I've chosen to be in love. You make it so hard for me. I'm sorry for what you went through; I am, partly because I enjoyed you going through it, partly because I'm no longer in it with you.

You're miserable. You tell everyone. You write about it in my diaries. You keep postponing the therapist's consultation. You don't want me to forget.

Stop it. Fucking stop it. I'm trying to be wholly alright. You're trying to be holey, incomplete. You need excuses; I do not.

The only problem is that this isn't an open letter to another person, another force. It's to me. Let me live.

I'm Good Enough. I Think.

Hiya. Case ya didn't know, I'm Andrea, and I author this blog.

MY INSECURITIES HAVE BEEN COMING FOR MY NECK LATELY. 

As much as I hate it, I constantly reflect on my adolescence because truthfully it wasn't that long ago. I'm only twenty. 

Throughout most of my adolescence I was bullied a lot by regular classmates and even friends. I'm trying to get to a point where I don't really hold that against anyone because after all, we were all shitty in our teens, but yikes. I've just resorted to pretending a few people don't exist.

There is one friend, however, that teased me, and I've truly been able to forgive, so I'm really pleased with that. Anyway, my insecurities aren't so much based on my looks. They're usually about my intellect or my social skills. I have intense social anxiety, and it's worsened since moving to Louisiana where no one knows me, and I've literally been able to fall off the radar for most of the people I used to know. 

I can't post a caption, but the above photo is me hiding in the bathroom at a function Sunday. That being said, being insecure about my appearance is super weird, but that's what's been happening lately. I don't really know what to do for it. I've removed myself from my main social media source (Instagram) for a little while because that usually helps. Don't get me wrong. I think I'm really pretty, and I like myself. I've worked hard to, but I just....I don't know. Sometimes it feels like something's missing, and like today I was on the verge of tears because my two year natural journey is coming up in April, and I feel so baldheaded.

My hair is at a decent length, but I figured by this time my afro would be huge, and I'd just have this voluminous natural hair, and that's just not the case. It's disappointing because I've taken care of my hair and, to a lesser degree, myself. To have a goal and not even be able to see it really has me feeling a way.

It's not even about my hair at this point. It's really just about the fact that I did what I was supposed to, and I'm not reaping the benefits.

ALSO I'M REALLY TIRED OF COLLEGE?????

This is a pretty smooth semester, but I still have a good ways to go before my Associate's Degree is in my hand, and I'm really exasperated at this point. I want to finish, and I plan to finish. I don't want this to be time I've wasted, but god. 
I keep trying to tell myself I'm a published author, and I'm on the right path to my dreams and yada, yada, yada. I'm just really impatient and trying to create roots anywhere is difficult for me. I've always been on the run. My family moved all over town when I was growing up. I changed friends like draws in school. I've always had to flake on plans. I can't even pretend, however, that I'm a product of environment. Most of this is just me and my inability to let things go. 

Before I go, here's a song I really enjoy. Hope it helps you too.

It's 2019, and what we're not doing is....

Keeping our toxic family members in our lives "just because they're blood." If you can't avoid it, I don't blame you. This is for the people that can and choose not to.

Letting people mispronounce our names. AN*DREE*UH is not hard to say, and I'm correcting everyone all 2019. You should too. I don't care how difficult your name is. If they've heard you say it more than once, they can learn it. 

 Letting people shit all over our pronouns. (Flashback to a few weeks ago when I misgendered Adri's video game character. Yikes, Andrea)

Staying in unhealthy relationships because we think we don't deserve better. Torture yourself on your own time. You don't have to allow someone else to. 

Letting people touch us without permission or not speaking up when they do. (Creepy girl at work puts her hand on your shoulder. Tell her to move it.)   

Assuming women are trustworthy. Shitty people come in all forms. I think gender norms give us this image of hypermasculinity as normal for men and nurturing behavior as normal for women. No. Always be vigilant of who's in your space.

Spending all our money.

Giving more than we get. Match everyone's energy cause, hunty, if you do not you'll keep having to post cryptic Tweets about ya social circle.

Idealizing this "future" version of ourselves instead of doing things we believe that person would do. 

Petty

"Anything I like goes in the cart. I might spend it all to prove a point..." --Chun Swae, Nicki Minaj feat Swae Lee

The word "petty" is overused and annoying as hell now. It's kind of like "problematic." The terminology is now so redundant and misused that really when something is labelled as such it's almost difficult to give it credibility. Some things I think are petty: coworkers. They're weird as shit. I've never had a job where I liked all or even half of my coworkers. I think it's petty to pseudo-apologize to someone for something you know you did wrong. You know the types of apologies I'm talking about. It's the ones where they're apologizing, but they're still blaming you for whatever they did. 

What I don't think is petty? Unfollowing and/or blocking people on social media. There's literally nothing attached to that I can even say is petty. You think this couple is annoying? Block. You've already ignored this guy's DMs twice, and he's still trying? Block. He/She is posting super cringe material? B L O C K. I don't even keep up with my followers. I know they fluctuate consistently. Every time I post, I lose and/or gain some followers, but hey. People have every right to guard their intake, and if they don't want me as a part of their intake, that's completely fine. 

Now I will be candid as I always am on this blog. I'll unfollow or block anyone for the aforementioned reasons, but I'll also do it to avoid being negative myself.

Let me clarify.

Let's say I'm at a time in my life where I'm really unhappy. Things are just not going right no matter what I do. If there's a person (or some people) that seem super duper happy all on the TL (even if it isn't true), I may have to mute them for a bit to avoid comparisons or sending negativity their way. At the end of the day, it is extremely hard for me to be cheerful for other people when my life sucks. That's a character flaw I'm not actively working on, but I do know it needs to get better. (To clarify, this doesn't include my really close friends. I can always be happy for them because I love them, but even their good news can sometimes skew me a little).

The bottom line is this. We're all growing and evolving. The less we make things seem like personal attacks, the more happy and productive we can be. It will also make it easier so that when we actually are attacked, we know we're not in the wrong for standing up for ourselves. 

Be good and watch your intake.

xoxo, Drea

Possible Blog Change????

Alright so I don't know if it's because bitches are nosey or what, BUT it seems my more personal entries are preferred. Since I said I'd come through being an even badder bitch this year (as I do every year. I really just get better with age.), I'm determined to promote my blog more.

Alright, honies. I like the idea of the blog being a "mixtape metaphor." I'm just kind of sick of numbering tracks. I don't know what my next theme will be, and I'm always open to ideas, but you guys don't really interact with me like I wish you would, so I never know exactly what you want. I've long promised a blog entry dealing with porn industry racism, and I still intend to do that, but damn if I do all this research, are you guys actually even going to spend time reading it? That's all I want to know.

This year is going to bring a lot of changes to my personal life and one of those changes includes living with my significant other. I'm excited for this because we have what was referred to in my communications class as a "symmetrical interpersonal relationship." Meaning we're pretty much on the same wavelength all across the board. I like that. I like the idea that I will have my partner alongside me adulting without being invasive or problematic to my space and well-being. I am finally happy despite the fact that I am mentally exhausted a majority of the time. I'll probably feel better once my student refund drops. Money makes my psyche a dozen times better.

I have to go to my part-time today (I mean as I do every weekend), but GOOD GOD I DO NOT FEEL LIKE GOING. I really just need to sleep for about two weeks, and then I could come back and be the Andrea I need to be. Seeing as that's impossible, however, I hope you guys had a better week than me.

xoxo, Drea

Accountability (Interlude)

"Be gone when I count to three..." -Backwood, Ari Lennox






The first post of 2019 should explore some life updates.

*I'm not single anymore. Jonathan and I are going for round two of dating. (Insert hella heart eyes)

*I bought a trailer last year and am currently waiting for it to be moved to its lot. (Of course people closest to me are invited to come visit)

*I made the Chancellor's List last semester.

*I've had two publications come out this year. (If you follow me on any social media, you already know the one for this month is linked in my "Other Writings" already.)

*I have health insurance, so I'm going to therapy this year.

In addition to some life updates, it should also mention some things I've come into terms with.

*I probably won't be talking to my parents more than a handful of times per year beginning this year. I'm okay with that.

*I've fucked people over as much as they've fucked me over, and there are certain people that I still owe apologies to. At some point, in the near future, I intend to deliver on what's owed from me.

*I'm really talented and driven, and despite how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I will find success in anything I'm determined to. I don't plan on stopping anytime soon.

With that being said, I want to wish everyone a very fruitful and happy new year even though I'm a month late with posting this. I pray you all find the healing and inspiration you deserve. I'm also going to go ahead and rebuke any negative energy coming toward me because fuck allat. It's been difficult to be consistent on this blog, but I promise I will eventually get it together and somehow get back into the groove of consistency with these posts.

Stay up.

xoxo, Drea