Life Lessons, Inspired By Converge…

i am one of those people who tend to utilize YouTube as a podcast medium, as opposed to a visual one.

In the midst of doing chores i was listening to a recently-uploaded interview/performance from Massachusetts-based band, Converge; and as with most things i listen to, i began reflecting upon my life.

While i tend to welcome getting older, it’s always strange to see my peers, or people in my age group (who have also been in the punk/hardcore scene) experiencing it as well. There is an obvious wisdom that occurs, after many years of mistakes and life lessons; but to hear (guitarist) Kurt Ballou and (vocalist) Jacob Bannon touch on their lives as ‘family men’, that gave me a bit of pause.
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Even though thoughts about ‘boyfriends’ and ‘girlfriends’ get passed around; as children those conversations tend to be vapid- at least in my mind, this was the case. Indeed, i was teased as a kid for not really pining for boys- or anyone, frankly. At 11 years old, it was assumed by classmates that i was the much-conflated combination of ‘gay’ and ‘asexual’, dispelling the notion always told to queer kids that we are all “too young to know what sexuality is.” i was eventually set up with a boy named Phillip (who looked like Wanye from Boyz II Men), and while i thought he was generally a nice guy, i wasn’t attracted to him in the ways people wanted me to be. There were also particular things he did that would have been nice and silly if we were hanging out as friends, but unappealing as ‘boyfriend material’, such as eat the whole portion of a birthday cake with my name on it.

i was happy for my classmates and friends who were ‘dating’, but it wasn’t ever something i saw for myself, based on what i saw around me.

A few years later, in high school, i developed my first crush. As a matter of fact i developed many crushes- throughout high school, throughout college and all throughout the rest of my 20s- every single one, resulting in rejection. In combination with the internalization of thinking i was stupid and worthless (since i heard that so much growing up); i also internalized that i was unlovable, since not one person i was interested in reciprocated the feelings.

i used to always be told my friends that i’d “make a good wife and/or mother,” but i never really understood what that meant, especially when the people who always told me this had no interest in me, as they were married and/or had kids themselves. i’d also have a few people tell me years after the fact how they had some interest in me; but again, they themselves tended to be in a partnership at the time of their reveal.

i always saw people seeing me as between the binary/dichotomy of a sibling/homie, or sex object. The homies never found me appealing enough to think about a partnership; and the people who saw me as someone they wanted sex with, they either didn’t see me as a friend at all, or used friendship as a means to get to sex.

While i wasn’t hateful or misanthropic regarding the subject of romance, there were times i performed what would perhaps be considered in this day and age ‘incel’ behavior, where i would continually push this futile hope onto the person i had feelings for, despite clearly knowing they were not into me. i am honestly surprised, and incredibly grateful, that those people did not push me away. They were incredibly patient with me, and contributed to a massive life lesson. i have no idea where any of them are at now, but in many ways, i am indebted to them.
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i’ve spent my life never knowing what a romantic partnership felt like.

i’ve always dreamt of having a long-term romantic partner: someone i could have massively deep and massively long, drawn-out philosophical conversations about life, politics, art- pretty much everything you do with platonic friends, except you’d spend much more time with them every day. We’d both come from our jobs and commiserate, eat together, ride bikes together… If we were not with friends or our jobs, it would be us together.

Obviously, this is the most ideal situation anyone who romanticizes partnerships can have. Some would even say it’s unrealistic. That said, i never even got a modicum of this. i’ve been in ‘partnerships’ (if you could call them that); but the primary objective was sexual- something that was not necessarily even a factor in how i ‘idealized’ partnerships.

In the midst of all the rejections there were people who were into me, however, for them it was sexual. As a matter of fact, the first person i ever went out with (when i was 19) was going okay, until it was clear things were about to turn sexual. i left their apartment, and we didn’t really talk much after that. i experienced an incident or two after that, and it led me to start feeling as if, the only way i will know what it feels like to be in a ‘relationship’, was to prioritize the sex thing. No one prioritized romance or emotional bonds at all.

i spent many years not talking about my feelings, because i didn’t know how to express them, or who to express them to.
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In my late 20s, despite seeing plenty of red flags, i asked a man significantly older than me to be in a partnership. With an extremely low self-esteem, i still figured i would receive some semblance of a ‘romantic’ relationship, particularly since he was older. unsurprisingly, i discovered immediately that his priority was also a sexual relationship. He also immediately became possessive and emotionally abusive. There are things he did that violated my trust (such as coerce me to not use a condom); and the moment he threatened physical violence, i woke up and immediately made the decision to leave him.
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It was 14 years before i was with someone else.

That 14 years was both by choice and not by choice. Again, no one has ever shown romantic interest in me. Anyone who has shown interest in me in that time let it be known that it was purely for sexual purposes, so i declined.

i also had to figure out who i was. i had to learn to love myself. i had to learn to like myself.

It was not until the age of 39 (interestingly, the age where the process of perimenopause began) where i first looked in the mirror (after years of not doing so) and saying, “I like myself.”

It wasn’t until the age of 42 where i said, “I love myself.” It was also the age i ended up meeting someone younger, and being involved with them. Despite me being adamant about wanting a long-term romantic partnership (and he being adamant about wanting the opposite), i still became involved with him for reasons not unlike any other time. The ‘futile hope’ still peered though.

As always in my experience, sex was primary for him. He also had patterns of wanting to break me down, then giving compliments. He also had tendencies to ghost.

He ‘broke up’ with me the day before i got hit by a truck.

He visited me in the hospital a couple of times; however, the moment i will never forget is, in the middle of telling me i’m the bravest person he knows, he asked if i was going to get fat, given my more recent disabled body. Months later (while my body was still in healing mode) i received a text from him, saying he couldn’t speak with me anymore. i felt incredibly hurt by this; after a couple of weeks though, i received that rejection as another one of life’s lessons.
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i’ve been rejected so many times in my life, i lost count. My ‘solution’ was to suffer in silence, and withhold whatever feelings i had for anyone (if at all) internally. The other thing i’d learn to do was to stay focused on whatever organizing i was doing; whatever music, art, getting tattoos, martial arts, exercise or any other project i was doing. i stayed occupied because the other choice would be to cry and lament that ‘no one likes me.’

There is such a primary focus on men when it comes to ‘grind’ and ‘work’ culture- with all of your Lex Friedman, Toby Morse and Rich Roll podcasts praising it all as a virtue of sorts; if you focus and work hard, much success will come to you. A question i have is, how much did the need to consume oneself so much in the ‘work’ have to do with a reaction to constantly facing rejection? Also, how many people who aren’t cis men experience this very thing?
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As i was listening to Ballou and Bannon, i started to wonder, do most people actually know what this feels like? A lot of people spend their lives ‘hooking up’. Are most people who do this actually aromantic, but are conditioned in believing that before being coerced into more ‘romantic’ institutions such as marriage or long-term partnerships, one must sew their oats?

How many people get married and raise children with someone they are romantically attracted to, and emotionally bonded with- or are people married because they wanted to know what it felt like?

And even if if that is the case, why do we think marriage is the only option?

i always told myself i wanted kids, because i would treat my kids in the exact opposite way i was treated. But is that a sustainable reason to want kids?
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i’ve spent my life never knowing what a romantic partnership felt like, and to be honest, i most likely will never know what it feels like- not in the way i’ve always imagined it to be. i will most likely never experience being the parent i’ve wanted to be, specially as i am learning to live with my disabled body, which still feels relatively new, even after almost five years.

i understand that with this ‘new’ body, i am even less desirable in the eyes of society, and i have less of a desire to lament said undesirability. Frankly, i am grateful to have survived.

While i wish what happened to me on no one; it has contributed to me readjusting what desirability means, and what being in a partnership means. In these (almost) five years, there’s literally only been one person who has so much as flirted with me, and this was a person who worked at the airport in Fiji. And i know i was tired, but even though he asked me if i was married; i think i recall him even saying he was married.
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In this more recent part of my life’s journey, i am still learning about myself, and questioning everything i’ve been conditioned with… whether it’s about friendships, relationships in general, or my own body. Occasionally i still do battle the tiny “Why does no one like me?” peering from the side of my brain; however, i do have a wonderful life partner, and this experience is leading me to readjust whatever idealizations i’ve long held about partnerships, based on whatever trauma-based defense mechanisms i’ve grasped. i’ve had to do a lot of compromising, which is one of the key components in sustainability of any relationship, be it familial, platonic or romantic.

While there will indeed be people who love you (even if you don’t love yourself); you will not begin to understand the why, until you allow yourself to be loved.

Or even liked.
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There is nothing inherently wrong with having fears or doubts, for some of them are well-founded. However, when you can take some time for yourself, converge all of these fears and doubts, and let them know they have a space to exist- but they can not hoard so much space where nothing or no one else can function, then the work begins.

And we must remember, this is everyday work.

Thanks Kurt Ballou and Jacob Bannon, for inspiring this little moment of clarity.

My Friend Cicely

i’ve cried so much these past few weeks, but right now i am crying in the ways i did when i was lying in the hospital bed after i got hit by a truck, in immense pain. My heart is in so much pain right now, and it is difficult to breathe.

Today (24 September) would have been the day cicely turned 45 years old; however, it was the day of her memorial, after a long fight with metastatic breast cancer. i have seen her every day beside me since the news of her passing. Her not being here physically never felt real, until this day. i dreaded the appearance of this day, because i never wanted her to leave my side. And though i’ve cried almost every day; even though i’ve had chest pains and unstable sleep and unshakable dread this whole time- today specifically feels as if i’ve been hit by a truck all over again.

Despite her currently being in the presence of the ancestors- or perhaps because of it- cicely has become an even greater teacher to me than she was throughout her life on earth.

September 3, 2024 at 11:40 am (and 59 seconds) is when i received the voice message.

“I am at home in hospice; what that means is that I won’t be getting any more medical interventions. I’m… I’m just getting comfortable, and they’re making me comfortable before I die.”

Immediately, in tears, i sent my own message. She responded that she did not want to hide anything from me, but it all happened so fast, as she had a fall and ended up in the hospital.

Within a matter of days, she was gone.

Cicely and i met 16 or so years ago, in Portland, Oregon; a place visually known to many for its beauty, but for so many others (including ourselves), it was well-versed in the art of passive aggressiveness and covert racism. She and i met- two African punk kids, angry about the inhumanity of capitalism. We aimed to do something about it. We immediately bonded over our love for bands like Crass (a band logo she had tattooed on her), and as much as we loved the band, understood they were not immune from critique. Her method of ‘loving critique’ is something she lived by, as long as i knew her.

We never let a moment pass where “I love you” was not shared with one another. We spoke almost every single day, whether it was by phone or voice message. When the longer conversations became a little less frequent (because of the effects of the chemotherapy) we made every moment count.

In a modern society where people do most of their communications through social media or texting, cicely countered that in her desire for deeper connections. You could spend hours on the phone with her. Superficial or brief conversations were antithetical to her communication style. She needed to get to the root of things. She was surgical in her approach to get everything out of you- not out of maliciousness, but because she knew there was more to a person than what we were giving to the world, and ourselves. Whatever answer you had to her questions, she tended to follow it up with a ‘Why?’ or ‘Explain further, what you mean.” It was not always comfortable, but it was necessary.

Prior to becoming an amputee i moved through the world in a way that was less restricted. i experienced less ideation and periods of depression because of it. After the accident it hit me (no pun intended) that most people around me did not move in the same ways. The world instantly changed. i became incredibly isolated, as i learned that people generally did not enjoy (or have time for) hours-long conversation about dissecting politics, films, and other forms of art. The depression and ideation returned in an even fuller form.

Throughout this, cicely was a brilliant light in the midst of an ever-present dimness. Despite her own massive variations in ill health, she was one of the only ones to take time to have those long conversations with me. While she explicitly never wanted me to be sad for her process of declination (and of course i never listened), she always felt just as sad that she could never be as present for me as she’d wanted to be in these times.

*Messages from cicely- 2008 and 2023, respectively*

In a place where people are so consumed by their day and ‘don’t have time’ (for whatever it is they are saying they don’t have time for), no matter how sick she was, when she was physically able to she could find the time to send messages of joy to those she loved. She saw the prioritizing of her friends’ mental and physical health, just as much as she prioritized her own.

As i sat throughout her celebration of life i thought about our many conversations about relationships. While a majority of people in our surroundings consider the term ‘relationship’ to be primarily romantic; how we both defined it extended beyond that. You can have a relationship with a romantic partner, but you could also have one with the bus driver you see every day. We both also understood that the key to maintaining a sustainable organization is the building of relationships.

While we both agreed on this premise, how we approached relationships were different. While both she and i prioritized friendships over romantic relationships, my notion of friendships were that i held very few close to me. i’d always consider cicely to be one of my closest friends- i stopped regularly using the term ‘best friend’ years ago, because it seemed a bit too hierarchical for my tastes. For me, a close friend is someone who consistently has been with me in some of my lowest moments; we have struggled together, yelled together and laughed together. i can tell this person my most vulnerable and intimate of experiences.

At the celebration of life/memorial, i discovered she’s had many whom she’s had this sort of relationship with. I internally laughed a bit, because everything she’d told me about what relationships meant to her made so much sense, seeing it in action, even after her passing. She was poly-platonic and anti-hierarchical in the purest sense.

We both also shared a commonality in that we both bought houses, and were living with our life partners. She was one of the few people i confided in as i was going through the process of purchasing a house. i had been opposed to purchasing a house for as long as i can remember, but she was my cheerleader the whole time, giving me tips and letting me know she would be of assistance wherever she’s needed.

i remember when she first told me told me that she was in the process of closing, then it finally happened.

Five months later, she’s gone.

Another thing we had in common was that as serious as we were about organizing and fighting systems of oppression, we felt just as strongly about laughter and music. We both love(d) singing and dancing, and bad jokes. We both were punk kids, but we listened to anything that sounded good to us.

One of the moments i will always cherish is her recording of ‘Skyscraper’ by Bad Religion, one of my favorite bands of all time (and as she said, “…one of my first punk bands I loved.”). Despite them being one of my favorite bands, it’s been incredibly difficult to listen to them lately, as whenever i do i think of cicely and i break down.

She was music. She was beauty.

She saw the beauty in herself, in a society that would have never deemed her beautiful- as an African woman, as a woman whose body was ravaged with cancer, and as a women who was far from thin. She did not care what society thought, and neither did i: She was one of the most stunningly beautiful people you’d ever meet. Just as she was assured in her femininity (she loved to dress up and proudly considered herself to be a ‘girly girl’), she was just as assertive in the fight against patriarchy. She never saw these things as mutually exclusive. She took up space as a disabled woman (and never allowed for condescension or patronizing/ableist sentiments), and understood the difference between the social and medical models of disability (a subject we would spend quite a bit of time on with each other).

She was the embodiment of ‘the personal is political’. She understood that politics was defined as not only the relationship to labor/class, but also, the relationships we have with each other. Because she was consistent in how she lived, she never had to alter or minimize her language, according to whomever she was speaking with. As a teacher, she uplifted students who were otherwise underestimated by the system. She valued them as much as she valued someone she considered a friend. Even if you held a different ideological or political position, she aimed to figure out why you held that position, and treated you with the same levels of humanity in her critique and questions as she would anyone else, because you are a person, and she didn’t feel the need to use the same tactics as capitalist society to beat anyone down. As long as your objectives were not to harm, she’d come to an understanding about the differences. Her analysis and wit were sharp as a fresh blade, so if you were questioned by her, you better come with a similar sharpness.

Despite (unfortunately) being remote, i am truly humbled and grateful to have been asked to say a few words for her celebration of life. Here were my words:

Text: i’ve sat at a desk and lied in bed for hours over the past number days, thinking of a number of superlatives i could list when it comes to my dear friend cicely; and the only word i could think of is one that has both positive and negative associations, depending on who you speak with: anomaly, that word signifying abnormality; that deviation of what society has conditioned us to deem ‘normal’.

In a world where Africans aren’t supposed to listen to and love punk music; cicely and i met because of our shared love for it; i saw that Crass tattoo on her wrist, and i knew we would be friends forever. In a time when disabled bodies are still being seen as undesirable or unsightly; she exuded a proud femininity, and lovingly and patiently discouraged whatever levels of shame i’ve had around my own disability. In a society that convinces us that having ‘a seat at the table’ is a solution to resolve inequities, she and i (and many of our comrades) have actively resisted these capitalist notions and ideological frameworks through organization and political education, and engagement.

With all of this (and more), cicely only has taken on the characteristic of an anomaly, because we have bestowed that onto her. She was no different than the rest of us-she just made the decision to live fearlessly. i could talk for hours about the conversations we’ve shared over the years and the wisdom she’s bestowed, but i don’t think that’s necessary. Many of us who are here to honor and celebrate her life have a number of experiences so varied, you could patch together a quilt. And none of this would matter, because as we feel blanketed by her wisdom she would pull that quilt off and say, ‘Pull that thing off of you, and be who you really are.’

She was, and is, no different than the rest of us, and this is why we love her. We’ve had every opportunity over the 15 or 16 years we’ve known each other to say “I love you” whenever we could. i am so moved that i got to say it to her in the moments her final physical form was present, and i continue to say it in her presence with the ancestors, as her impact is still evident.

i love you cicely rogers. Please don’t forget it.

She was music. She was beauty. She was sharp. She was wise.

She is cicely. My friend cicely.

And i love her forever. Thank you cicely, for everything.

i called 988 (again).

i tried laying back in bed to make attempts at ceasing the intrusive thoughts but they wouldn’t stop, so i decided to write. i’m writing whatever comes out, so it may seem incoherent.

The last time i called this hotline, it was a different number, but it was changed to make it more memorable for anyone who needs to dial it. There are plenty of times i have the intrusive thoughts, but i never bother to call- i just acknowledge i have them, and wait for them to pass. Many times when i’m having an episode i know what to look for. There are times though, where the thoughts are so intrusive, ‘the end’ is the only thing that makes sense.

It was 3:03 in the morning when i decided to dial. Most people are in bed at this hour, so reaching out to a friend or loved one (as is usually suggested) would not have been a good idea. Most people who don’t deal with intrusive thoughts move about their lives, and perhaps don’t know how pervasive these thoughts could be. When having conversations with folks, there are conversations, but not necessarily a checking in, which is what someone like me needs: a constant checking in. Having someone there to just listen, even if the both of us are silent, is very important. The key is that someone is present- not just physically. i have friends, but i am still incessantly lonely.

i have friends, but calling the hotline still seems to be a choice i feel i have to make.

Being an amputee, it’s not easy for me to simply just go out and hang out with friends. i spend most of my time in the house alone. Most days, people do not check in with me. People don’t come over to check in with me. People don’t regularly call. i feel like it’s me doing most of the reaching out, asking how people are. Sometimes i don’t get an answer back. i do this with the understanding that people have their own lives, and i shouldn’t expect everyone to cater to me. That expectation would not make sense. At the same time it’s incredibly frustrating, where i get a tinge of anxiety that no one has checked in or said hello, so i end up texting a bunch of people, asking how they are.

i also cannot expect one person to do all of that labor, and i would feel horrible asking for that. i’ve tried hard to accept that at this point, everyone in my life’s communication style is different than mine- i love multiple hour-long conversations or hangout sessions about intensely dissecting art, films and music- sometimes lasting from late evening to sun up; passionately discussing political theory and events, just wandering for hours and taking strolls outside… i have to acknowledge that the older i get, those days are gone. Everyone around me has their own lives with marriage or committed partnerships, children, or some other being or thing that leads them to not being able to do these things. As a person who had a 40+ hour job, organizing, practicing jiu jitsu… i was still able to do these things, because it was important for me to do.

But being and amputee now and not having as close of in-person (or any type of) deep human connections, i still desire these things. i am not able to just go out and get whatever needs i have, then i can go back and be the typical introvert. i am an introvert, but i still desire deep human connection. But no one else in my life desires these things in the same ways i do. And it hurts.

It makes me feel as if everyone’s life is better off without me, so i won’t be in their way. So i called the number.

One of the things you are advised to do is to reach out to others in your life. But if you spend so much of the time mostly reaching out in the first place (when you are not having these thoughts), doing so when you are having the thoughts doesn’t mean that people are going to regularly start reaching out. People may do it based on the immediacy, but then their communication dies down, and the cycle repeats. So then you think, ‘It doesn’t make sense for me to reach out to people.’

The folks at the hotline are dedicated specifically to listening to you. In a lot of ways i feel horrible for calling them, in the same way i feel about even calling a friend when i am having an episode: People say i should call them, but it’s putting a lot of emotional labor on them to take in my trauma, when they actually may be having some of their own. That said, the hotline is there, where folks are specifically here to listen, so despite my reservations i called the number.

After i spoke with someone i cried until i fell asleep. i got up, did all my regular things, and still had the thoughts. They committed to doing a follow-up call, which they actually did today. The person on the line with me talked about some things i could do (including discussing what a safety plan could look like), and they even texted me some links and resources. i am not a fan of receiving links via text (i’d rather have them emailed to me, or better yet, i’d love if someone actually talked to me), but it was helpful to have them follow up.

So here we are. i tried going back to bed to stop the thoughts, but i decided to write. i guess the next thing for me to do is to actually vocalize what it is i need. i am very aware that while i don’t think this is asking for too much, others may think of it as a lot. i am also not expecting one person to fulfill all of these things for me- again, that would make little sense. Whether or not people are available or willing to do these things, that is another conversation. i just wanted to be clear, in case anyone was curious.

All of the things i named earlier (the hours-long conversations, etc.), i would love to happen. The reality is, i don’t think it will. So, at the very least, someone checking in with me every day is something i need, so i don’t feel so alone. Even if it’s a ‘How are you doing?’. A phone call would be even better, if one has time to do that. i prefer those to texts.

i don’t want to have to call 988, but sometimes, it may be the only choice i have. Besides the other one.

the final stages of inevitability: kittylumbia’s last moments on earth

i woke up today, feeling extremely heavy; this weight of doubt, guilt, acceptance have all combined. i sprung right up, wondering if i’m doing the right thing. i sat up wondering if she is okay with all of this- how much pain is she in? i look over and see her, and a wave of sadness takes over. the muppet song ‘saying goodbye’ plays repeatedly in my head, and i begin to cry.

right before the alarm goes off i have a dream. i was in what appeared to be a basement/laundry room environment, with ants running near me, performing their colony duties. they were moving back and forth near a tree (which was the connection between the room and the outside). suddenly i see a drop of what is clearly cat poop by my feet. it looked like it came from a kitten though. before i could look down again, the ants have pulled it away, over by this tree. i look over to the tree, and there are very tiny kittens and cats, resting. they were all the same tiny size (of a cat paw), no matter their age. the mama cats were protecting the kittens, who were in a state of rest. one of the kittens was getting ready to fall into the ‘present’ the ants brought over, and i lightly screamed, ‘NO!’, when the mother ran to move the kittens. the ants started going crazy, and a fight was getting ready to break out, right as the alarm went off.

the day has been filled with procrastination… i know in my heart this is the best thing to do, but my head keeps asking if it is. it’s very clear lumbia’s health has deteriorated, to the point where she’d regularly stopped eating much. at 12 years old, she weighed five pounds. she stops to eat for a few moments, then goes back in her space to curl up. she had stopped grooming herself essentially, and her energy’s just extremely low. her eyes no longer have the same life in them. i would look over to see if she was still breathing.

the closer we got to that moment of inevitability, i began to waver between nausea, butterflies, weakness and tears. that ride/walk to the veterinarian’s was one of the longest we ever had. i wanted to prolong those last moments with her. when we got there i didn’t even announce myself; i just sat down, took her out of the carrier and comforted her. there was a dog who came in around the same time, and his loud bark scared her. i have never seen her so calm at the vet before. she usually darts out of the carrier and out of my arms. like many other cats she disliked the fact that vet experience was out of her ‘comfort zone’. this was a huge sign to me, that she was telling me this was the end. she was just tired.

the receptionist finally asked if i had an appointment; i told her i did, and my name. she just walked towards me, grabbed the carrier and we walked to a part of the clinic i had never been to before, while i carried lumbia. her silence implied that she felt sorry for the both of us. it was very clear to lumbia that something big was going to happen, because the room we entered looked entirely different than the ones we normally go to when she’s gotten a check-up. the room, despite being slightly bigger than the majority of the rooms, looked and felt ominous, fort obvious reasons. i sit down, and lumbia proceeds to give me a big, long hug; with lots of nose kisses. i can only figure this is her way of saying goodbye. the nurse/assistant comes in and we deal with all the finances/logistics/signatures so i won’t have to do it before i leave. after a few more minutes with her, the assistant takes lumbia to get an IV attached to her front right leg.

he brings her back, and makes a lighthearted joke. he’s been making them consistently since the day before, when i brought her in to get weighed, and to make the final appointment. i don’t envy his position, where one needs to keep it light in order to not go crazy… surrounded by sickness and transition. he asks me if, in her final moments, i would like her on my lap, or on the table. i opted for her to be on my lap.

the doctor comes in after what seems like forever, with two needles. she walks in as i have tears streaming down my face. she has a sorrowful look on hers. i don’t envy her job either. she comments on how lumby looks tired. the first needle goes into the IV that is bandaged to her arm; she moves slightly as a natural reaction, but barely. she became so weak that she wasn’t even responding to needles. i could tell that she stopped breathing before the full contents of the needle entered her body. the doctor then put a needle with saline solution in the IV. it happened extremely quickly, and she left quietly. she did not have a seizure; no fluids or solids left her body.

it was approximately 4:35 pm.

the doctor moved her right front leg and her tail, so that her whole body ended up facing my right side. it looked as if she was just taking a nap. the leg that was still bandaged was covering her right eye; both of which were still slightly open, glossed over. i cried throughout this experience, but when she placed the stethoscope over lumby’s heart and declared that she was gone, i wailed. it does not matter how much you’re aware of the inevitable; when reality sets in, you’re still affected. i spent about 15 more minutes with her after she left, just crying and trying to make sense of how unreal this experience is, despite having experienced it before (back in 2004 with holly, who had pulmonary carcinoma). as she lay there lifeless, it was a lot easier to see how much lumby wasted away. lumby’s looks were deceptive, because she was a burmese kitty. her build was really stocky, even when she was wasting away. you could feel her ribs, you could feel her breastbone. i ended up feeling what felt like a lump in her belly, which led me to think even more that she was suffering from cancer. nine months ago, it was discovered she had kidney failure; however, one is able to usually stabilize (if not cure) said kidney failure. her health deteriorated to a point where she lost half her body weight. she stopped eating at regular rates. she began to vomit regularly.

my friend.

my companion.

my love face… is gone.

i keep replaying these moments in my life, to make some sort of sense of it all.

david was so kind to dig a hole. we surrounded the box lumby was placed in, said our kind words, and thanked lumbia. i took the shovel and was the first to put dirt over her. it felt like i was burying my child, or best friend.

i am at the point where i cannot slow down, or i will break down. i am really tired, but i don’t want to go to bed. for hours, i have still seen her silhouette, brushing past the chair i am sitting in. when taking a shower, i heard her voice. her transition is still fresh, so connecting with something or someone close to earth makes sense.

my hope is that she knows she was loved.

a self-diagnosis of love…

the winter months are approaching; as it gets darker out earlier, i do my best to prepare myself mentally. it could be anything from taking extra vitamin d, to intentionally eating healthier. one thing that makes me warm-hearted is spending time with my dear cat friend, lumbia. when i curl up to rest she’s right there to curl up as well. she’s an older cat (10, soon to be 11) and though she’s still quite active she loves to live a basic life- eating/drinking, resting and going to the ‘bathroom’. it’s a lot like when we humans get older.

lumbia and i met when she was 2 years old; she came into my life after i ended a very toxic relationship. the more we spent time together over the years i recognized that she is extremely sensitive to the energy around her. she’s really friendly to most humans; however there have been a couple of people she avoided. she is very talkative with specific tones when she is in need of something. she’s also sensitive or allergic to certain things (like fleas), and will throw up when she has an allergic reaction.

she is extremely sensitive to the energy i carry. whenever i’ve been depressed she takes that on. it actually makes me sadder, because i didn’t want to make her sad. whenever i am happy she’s receptive to that as well. whenever i leave she gives this look of ‘you’re leaving AGAIN??!!’ and goes back in a little ball to rest; when i come home she gives me a very vocal greeting, and walks up to me.

a lot of humans just look at cats or dogs (or birds, snakes, mice, etc.) as a ‘pet’ and may not necessarily consider their emotions to match our own, especially if they have been around for a long time. and of course, they choose us. if we treat them with love and respect, they will be dedicated to us.

it’s a lot like us humans.

as a human i am constantly learning about myself and the world around me daily. the older i get, the more i find myself sensitive to energy in general. there have been these feelings though, these sensations i’ve had ever since i was a child; and i had no idea how to articulate these feelings. i though i had always been alone in these feelings, and it was not until recently where i learned it had a name.

ASMR.

autonomous sensory meridian response. anyone who experiences ASMR would know exactly what i mean when i speak about it- it’s that pleasurable tingling in the head (and sometimes shoulders/ arms/ears, fingers/etc.), when you see someone in the midst of a task, or speaking, or writing. there’s not a lot of research on it (as it’s a more recent phenomenon (in terms of its name)), but people have been experiencing this for years. it’s nice to know i’m not alone in this feeling- there are others i personally know who experience this as well. it’s also interesting to know that not everyone experiences this.

i wonder if it’s a defence mechanism which developed for people who were under stress as children- such as abusive households- and these specific things which trigger the ASMR are reminders of a ‘safe space’. is it directly related to the chakras? is it related at all to a mild OCD? do people who have this have a high sensitivity to the energy around them? is it genetic?

i found out today that my sister also experiences this; however i know that not all siblings share this same quality.

in many ways it feels like this special club; these codes which have yet to be discovered are known only by those who experience them. percentages are not known, and there continues to be surveys and films around the subject, to know more about why and how people feel what they do.

http://www.asmr-research.org/

it’s also one of the first ever ‘diagnosable’ episodes not shrouded in negativity; since it is related to the pleasure center being triggered, there is a curiosity without ridicule or malice about it.

watching people create things gives me the sensation; it is not necessarily something i can conjure up myself by will or force. for instance, the earrings you see in the above photos… as much as i focus on (and love) making jewelry, cooking, writing, etc., it has to be others doing it in order for me to be triggered. this is definitely a journey i enjoy being a part of. and yes, i do wonder if cats experience something similar.

as lumbia curls up and rests, i wonder what dreams she has, as her ears twitch; are they good or bad? does she know she is loved, and does she love others, in the way cats somehow do, in their own language? rest away little one, for it’s always a new day for you to explore.

just like for us humans.

my mistake was to think i made a mistake

i’ve become so much more accepting of the fact that certain pieces of music speak to me at a certain time for a reason. i have so-called ‘songs of the week’ which stay with me for anytime from a week to a month.

this is what they are- for now:

i recall the days growing up as a child, where music was used at times to counteract the violence in the home. due to this i always looked at music as a way of diversion, with healing potential. i don’t recall a time when music was NOT played in the house; however it wasn’t until i was about 19 years old when i began to truly appreciate and love music for the gift that it is. as a teenager i used to hang out at a (sadly, now-closed) record shop on 6th street in the east village, new york city; just wide-eyed and taking in lessons from knowledgeable men 10 to 50 years my senior. my mother was my first musical teacher, pat. longo the second. i will forever be thankful for their lessons.

ironically the greatest musical teacher for me, at 19 years old, was the radio. within weeks of each other, both ‘maiden voyage’ and ‘giant steps’ exited the speakers, and without knowing what those two songs were, i overstood true beauty. i had to find out immediately what those songs were. love is indeed stronger than any compartmentalized notions of these waves of sound. modelled after a tone poem, ‘maiden voyage’ flowed as effortlessly as gwendolyn brooks’ or nikki giovanni’s prose; i listen to george coleman and freddie hubbard’s saxophone and trumpet-respectfully- and i imagine those warm sunny saturdays, strolling over the brooklyn bridge. i imagine those meditative moments as i listen to tony williams’ drums merge with ron carter and herbie hancock’s bass and piano call-and response where we had opportunities to watch the sun set on top of a tenement roof.

‘giant steps’- i heard coltrane’s scatting tenor saxophone, and to me it rivalled ella in grace. never had i heard an instrument sing in that way before. i began to memorize the quick notes in my head. there’s something about this that makes my spirit soar. both the albums those songs derive from have been two of my favourite albums of all time for years.

music can indeed be (and IS) a healing force of the universe, as albert ayler and mary maria parks so aptly put it. just as music should be an ever-flowing mode of communication spanning generations, so should our lives. however, just like far too many of us do to music; we hold on to these aspects of our lives to the point where it holds us back. it is one thing to honor our ancestors and the art they created; but it’s imperative we honor the spirit of what they do as opposed to the physical body itself, so we as artists, activists, and individuals could positively progress and engage with the generations proceeding our own.

this current overstanding allows me to make sense of my own histories. the journey i’ve taken has been one of no regrets. i feel as if i’m here to learn and experience as much as possible in my short time here on earth. i’ve met and spent time with so many people with different levels of fame and success (some of those moments also changing my life), i’ve travelled a few places around the world, i’ve been without a place to stay, i’ve been between living in comfort and living in poverty; i’ve been assaulted, robbed, stalked, abused; i’ve attempted suicide several times; i’ve been depressed, i’ve been loved and disliked (and perhaps hated)…

i think so many of these struggles stem from the fact that i have never really fit in anywhere. i didn’t necessarily fit in with the family dynamic growing up; i didn’t always fit amongst my peers growing up due to my views and experiences, and i don’t necessarily fit now for the same reasons. the difference is that now, i don’t see my differences as a hindrance.

i was the one who kept my head in the books when everyone else wanted to play; i was the one who became a vegetarian (then vegan) when i was told it would kill me; i was the one who played in punk rock bands… i was the one who studied anarchism and various spiritual practises; i was the one who regularly stopped watching television at the age of 18; i was the one who thrift shopped and shaved all my hair off. i was the one who majored in photography and made super 8 films… i did all of these things i wasn’t supposed to do as a young black person.

i never thought of my life in this way as all of these things were happening; however, i realize ultimately that i was the one who lived according to the way i wanted to live. i followed my heart/intuition and let the universe guide me. we all have several paths presented to us when we enter this earth; it is up to us to choose which path we are going to take.

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the path i’ve taken has again, been challenging to the people or society around me at one time or another. i remember being the ‘odd one out’ because i wasn’t really interested in dating boys at the age of 11 or 12. some of my classmates already were in romantic relationships, and while i didn’t say anything i always thought that was too early to be in a relationship with anyone. i remember thinking people were ‘cute’, but it was nothing too big. at 11 i wanted to play; i wanted to still be a kid, and dating seemed like a big responsibility no kid should really be experiencing, with emotional baggage peering around the corner.

of course, even at that age i was accused of being gay- ‘what- you don’t like boys? well you CLEARLY like girls!!!’. even at that age, to me sexuality and intense romantic feelings were private. i wasn’t even processing sexual orientation at that age, and yet people decided to label me long before i felt ready to have romantic relationships. and of course (because they felt sorry for me), people decided to set me up with a young man who went to the same school, who was more ready than i ever was. i remember thinking that i was not into him, but i quietly/reluctantly obliged, noting one of the few times i recall actually caving into peer or societal pressure. another girl was into him… and he treated her quite mean. i thought to myself, ‘is this what it’s like?’ and i knew this was not the life i wanted.

despite not being into romantic relationships at that time, i’ve always been a romantic in some way, even as a child. i’ve always been an idealist to varying degrees, wanting to see others happy, even if i wasn’t. i remember a couple of my classmates being romantically linked; one of them knew that i wrote poetry, so they wanted me to write a piece, declaring love to the other. i was always interested in why people saw certain things in each other, and i was also interested in how i could write about something at that age that i’ve never really felt or experienced.

i remember all throughout older childhood and preadolescence i would do things for people- cleaning their desks, patting their heads, writing things for them; and i wonder if it was a way for me to get the attention from my peers in the way i wasn’t getting at home. it wasn’t until i was in my 20s that i was aware of how much boundaries existed for people. i didn’t realize that people in my world generally weren’t as starved for affection as i was.

it wasn’t until i was 15- a late bloomer to some- before i actually ‘officially’ liked anyone, thinking i could just declare my feelings. after this period came a series of mishandled relationships and mass rejections. throughout this time i spent time with a lot of guys significantly older than me, and was usually the ‘little sister’. very rarely did any of these men declare feelings for me. the men i hung out with usually were in committed relationships, and did not stray from that. in fact, i became friendly with their wives and partners; thus dispelling the myth that women and men can’t be ‘just friends’.

i was always the ‘bridesmaid’, the ‘friend’… i’ve always been convinced that this was how i was going to live out the rest of my days. admittedly it was something i found comfort in, due to this extreme fear of rejection. for a while i was actually sad about it, since the older i got i saw a lot of my friends and acquaintances getting married and becoming parents. relationships gradually change once you have other commitments to tend to. there’s not much in the way of rationalizing the ‘cat lady’ future (as mentioned in the inaugural post); it just appears to be something that is. i’ve just learned to accept it, and cherish the relationships i’ve had when i had them. i know that i’ve learned something from everyone, even if it seems minute.

my fear of rejection has lessened tremendously over the years, and i’ve learned to take each case of it as a lesson.

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and here is where we return to music. for many artists, depression or devastating events fuel what one does with their art. at some points it’s a reflection, and others, a diversion.

there are two artists i have in mind when i think of this: michael jackson (who i consider my teacher (and have a different blog dedicated to him)) and isaac hayes. both artists were phenomenal performers and composers in their own right, as well as generous outside of their profession. both helped to build/fund schools in the continent of africa; both were crowned honorary kings (in ghana and côte d’ivoire, respectfully), both were concerned about injustice… their painful experiences also fuelled their art.

recently watching films documenting their lives (either personal or through performance) put things in perspective for me. mr. hayes was said by friends and family members to have suffered from a low-self esteem. and of course michael has publicly stated that he did what he did in terms of his looks, in order to please his father. both men in my view were incredibly handsome; and even though both took advantage of their looks to get mileage out of their performances, somehow there was something in their minds which stated the opposite.

having experienced strong issues with self-esteem, i empathize with these two men. no matter how beautiful people think or say you are, there’s something different in the brain wiring which either makes you think they’re actually calling you ugly, or that they want something from you. and if you don’t strive towards self-rewiring, the places you can go can lend to a potentiality of danger.

both michael and isaac hayes seemingly overcompensated in their performances to make up for whatever peace of mind they lacked. they needed audiences to fuel them; they needed to keep working to feel relatively whole. it’s also interesting that both were constant seekers of a spiritual resolve or peace.

there is something about art that leads people who have struggled to it. for some it’s escapism, and others it’s for the purpose of healing/community/storytelling. i began writing songs and poetry when i was 8 years old. there’s always been a lot on my mind, and creative expression was the one thing i identified with. as a child i used to write about things such as my imaginary friends, and i graduated to the teenage years with writing about morbid subjects, to reflect whatever depression i was going through. at times i’d even sneak in actual events. i look at some of this stuff now, and i don’t regret anything i’ve written; for it’s proof that i’ve come a long way in not only my creative journey, but emotional as well.

in this journey i’m also learning to say ‘no’. i do advocate for pushing the limit (or even ‘going the extra mile’) when it comes to some things; however, i’ve realized that capacity is everything. if you tap out your resources for personal, creative and spiritual growth there becomes a point where you may run out of things to contribute or produce, and you end up repeating yourself out of habit. if you don’t openly state where your capacity lies, you may run the risk of people taking advantage of you.

people who have not grown up in a place of love may not be aware of where the capacity lies, so they may be unusually nice to people, in comparison to their peers. the need for love is so great that boundaries appear to be nowhere in sight. this seems to be what happened with mr. hayes and michael- i definitely know this is what happened to me growing up.

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capacity lends to the weight of something. again, whatever capacity you have, this most likely will determine how much energy you give to something. the more energy you have makes less room for negation or lapses in discernment- you are better able to clearly see the types of energy in people you encounter. the more energy you have makes less room for mistakes.

do mistakes carry weight? indeed they do, and paraphrasing mr. samuel, they do depend on how you feel- about yourself, and the world around you. yes, there are genuine mistakes people make at their jobs, there are mistakes that happen with equipment or electronics, there are financial errors, etc. right now though i’m speaking to the types of mistakes specifically to human relationships. since this is the case i am wondering if bob ross was right when he stated there were no such thing as mistakes- “only happy accidents.” did mr. ross’ statement even apply to humans, or just art?

depending on how one feels, those ‘mistakes’ can be used as life lessons, devoid of the negative connotations mistakes carry on their shoulders. these ‘mistakes’ can really be gifts at times. i find that encountering the same (negative) patterns in relationships leads to a time for me to reevaluate where i am at in life, and to examine myself. i have worked hard at making the capacity for self-doubt smaller, so i can make room for allowing these lessons to come in.

and once you’ve opened yourself to that capacity; once you’ve tapped into that energy you’ll be able to fit anywhere in this world. it doesn’t matter if others don’t say you fit. whatever love or compassion you have for yourself is going to reflect your interactions with those individuals, whether or not you openly have love for them. you may not love (or even like) a person; because of where you are in your life, addressing that person with the same respect you demand for yourself is going to be a higher priority than addressing them with the same negativity they deliver towards you. when this happens- in my experience anyway- the person usually responds in kind, without the negative tone, or… they tend to just go away.

self-love, self-respect and self-appreciation really do carry weight- and it’s much stronger than pride, which can be unsteady if rooted in negativity. as the saying goes, ‘there’s only one way to go but down’; so a sense of humility is important- not just to formulate better relationships with others, but to also be open to learning more from your ‘mistakes’.

peace…