Let it Flow

For months I’ve been using Liquid Plumber and Draino in my shower because once  a week it would become slow to drain. Today, I decided to unscrew the drain and use one of those  long plastic drain cleaners ( I have no idea what they're called). First of all, as soon as I opened it I saw why nothing was going down. The clog was right under the surface, it wasn't even deep.  It was so disgusting, the amount of shampoo gunk, and build up that was underneath the service. As I put on a pair of plastic gloves to get down and dirty, I was apprehensive because I was afraid of what I might find, and God forbid have to touch. But  as I began pulling out more gunk  and goo(there wasn't really hair), I worked even more feverously. I was finally clearing this drain myself. Fast forward about 15 minutes, my shower drain was clean and completely clear. It was a beautiful sight, and I felt accomplished.

The clogged drain is a metaphor for life. We continuously go through it trying to find simple, temporary solutions to “fix” things when what we really need to is open up the drain and get to bottom of the mess. Dig deep, bit by bit pull of the gook that is blocking our hearts, minds, or spirits. Whether it’s relationships, finances, goals, trauma, or breaking bad habits, we have to attack the problem head on, do the work. Otherwise it will continue to resurface and you will find yourself standing in the murky waters of your own bullshit.

Hold on

I can officially say that the second week of January 2017 was the most emotionally draining I’ve had in a long time. But if you know me, after I have time to refill my  cup,  I reflect and figure how what's next…. how do I make it better? What can I do differently? How can I help?

Tragedy and Trauma (with capital T's)  were the words of week as I found myself needing to be there for others while internally dealing with my own emotional response. There were very few people who actually checked in to see how I was doing. Then there were people I called and they focused on how they were feelings. I ended most of my days on my couch in a catatonic state, followed b restless sleeping and wearing my mask at work. Now that the week has ended, and I've had time to think, I've learned at least two major lessons this week. The first is I've learned is ...  ask for what you need. There are some of us ( like Me) who are perceived to be these strong people who may bend but never break. And while I do consider myself to be resilient and adept at self-care, this week I really needed a shoulder to cry to on because I spent my days hugging & comforting crying teens and young women during the day, and texting, instant messaging and calling them by night. All of this after news of a successful and then thankfully an unsuccessful suicide attempt, sexual assault on video, hospitalizations and mental breakdowns. All in a matter of days. 
In the mist of it, the innate nurturer in me just wanted to make sure everyone was okay, so I sprang into comforter mode.  But when it was all done, there were about three people who called to check on me. Then I realized it’s not their fault, they assumed that I got this, because most times I do. What I should have done was said was, “Listen I’m emotionally drained and heartbroken, can someone come get my 5 year old so I can have moment to cry."  "Can someone cook me hot food because I just want to lay here."  "Let's a have chocolate or wine and talk it out."  But I didn’t, so I cannot be mad that I didn’t get what I didn’t ask for. My commitment is to make sure from now on that I ask for what I need and I teach my students and mentees to do the same because no one should suffer in silence and so many people do.  As I was there this week  for one of the strongest people, this truth was reiterated.

 This leads me to my second lesson. Early last week I learned that I’m not done with major surgery.Nope. Because of my hernia, I in fact will have to endure another 6 hour surgery, a couple of days in the hospital and 6 weeks of recovery. I was devastated when the surgeon explained why a simple laparoscopic surgery would not be enough. After a small temper tantrum in the car on the way home, I realized. I will get through this as I did all of the others, that that is just the way life works, if you don’t give up. You will get through it and come out on the other side, most times stronger, better, and more beautiful. This is also what I remind myself… and what I will teach my students and mentees as well.  It’s definitely easier said than done, especially when your world is crumbling and you don’t have emotional support or coping skills, like many of the young people in my live. I just hope that by persevering and sharing my story they can see that it is possible. Depression, illness, death, loneliness, etc. It is possible to come out on the other side. This too shall pass.  As I type this I can hear that Wilson Sister’s song in the back of my mind... "Hold on for one day, things will go your way." It’s so true, and until they can hold on to themselves, I’m going to be there to help them hold on. 

Dance with My Mother

I’d be dishonest with the world and myself if I didn’t admit that occasionally I feel a sense of envy and hurt when I see the relationship some of my closest friends have with their mothers. They party together, gamble to together, or live across the street from each other. I can’t help but think that if my mother was alive, she’d dance with me at family parties; I’ve been told all my life that she could cut a mean rug!

Sometimes I wish that I could crawl up in the bed with her like I did when I was three and be vulnerable with her. I’m come along accepting this loss, using my poetry to deal with my emotions, honoring her with my pen name and a tattoo, and having a zest for life so I can live for both of us. Anyone who knows me, knows that I believe in spirit and that much like water, we humans only change form, but our spirits, our energy never really dies. I know her spirit is present, and I get little signs every now and then, but sometimes I just want that physical presence, arms to hold, neck to smell in an embrace. I even get the bigger picture, I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t suffered the loss.  I wouldn’t have ever picked up a pen to process my feelings and written words that I can truly say have inspired others to write, reflect, or do better. I wouldn’t be the type of teacher or mentor who is on call 24/7 for babies. I wouldn’t have this relentless desire to inspire women and teens to take power over their futures instead of being consumed by the past. I know her time was limited, and her purpose was fulfilled in those 23 years (according to two different mediums and my own intuition), but sometimes it doesn’t make it any easier, and sometimes I become overwhelmed with emotions and tears fill up my eyes and I let out a broken cry. This is the reality. I never want to sound ungrateful, I’ve been more than blessed with an enormous family, surrounded by love and mother like figures, something I’m sure other people wish they had.  The older I get the more I come to understand the bigger picture, which is why 90% of the time, I can tell my story to a crowd without even a lump in my throat, but other times, l find myself wondering what would certain moments be like if she was physically there instead of just mentally. 

My mother, looking exhausted after giving me a bath

FREASTS: The last night Part I

Here I am at the 6 week mark for my surgery, and the whole experience has been surreal. Rewind to the last week of August, which was pure chaos for me. It was the first week of professional development for educators and I had to be a presenter. While my summer was great I was feeling extra fat because I needed to put extra meat on my stomach for the surgery and well, I did. Let’s be clear, you cannot spot gain  weight just like you cannot spot lose, so I was feeling plump in all areas. My breasts were the largest they'd
been in a long time and my weight was close to its highest. Therefore I only had like 2 bras I could fit and a few maxi dresses. I was highly emotional all of the time. I was like a pregnant mother nesting, preparing my house for the week would be in the hospital, preparing my toddler for  mommy being "at the doctor’s" for days and him not being able to climb on mommy or mommy not being able to pick him up when I came back. I was decorating a classroom and getting lesson plans ready for my extended absence  (8 to 12 weeks). This meant staying after school for 2 to 3 hours daily while all of the other teachers rushed off to enjoy their last days of summer. I was preparing for a surgery that would not only change my body, but would change my life! The week was flying by as I felt like there wasn't enough time for to complete my to-do list. My surgery was scheduled for August 31, the first day of school for students. I would not be there,  instead I'd be on an operating table being sliced and diced.

  It would be a 10 to 12 hour surgery, I was nervous about not coming out of it alive, I was anxious about how I would react to my “Toya the Remix”. What if I hated my freasts (fake breasts)? What if I looked at this new pair without nipples and with big scars and I panicked?  What if they were lopsided, or my abdominal scar was atrocious? I know supposedly the internet is not your friend when it comes to medicine but I did extensive research, sometimes at 2 and 3am, looking at other people’s scars, finding recovery tips, and while it helped me prepare my home, it definitely put my anxiety at an all-time high. I couldn’t sleep at night. I almost had panic attack thinking about going under and the type of pain I’d have to endure. 

 The only thing that took my attention away was the deadline for my comprehensive exam for my doctoral degree.  I couldn't continue with my dissertation until I passed. It was due September 8, no exceptions, no excuses, even medical (Please believe me, I tried). It was more than 60 pages long. And I would have to complete it a week early if I wanted to succeed.

 Fast forward to the night of Sunday, August 30^th ...the longest night ever. My hospital bag was packed, the house was spotless, everyone was asleep and I had done more research on the procedure than I needed. I had two Reiki sessions and had been put on many prayer lists, so in terms of the actual procedure, I was felt relaxed and prepared. There was only one thing weighing heavily on my mind.I knew I had to finish the exam before I went under because I knew there was no way I’d be able to write coherently once I came out of surgery. As I made edits, my eyes were strained, I wasn't sure if I was thinking clearly. I was hungry as hell, but doing the mandatory fasting, not even water.I had a toddler meltdown at about 1:00am thinking, I should just give up, I should just wait until next semester and retake it, even if it meant more loan money. I wanted my peace of mind; I needed my peace of mind. And then I heard this little voice, scratch that, a big voice tells …  BULL SH*T! You are Brenda’s Child, there’s no giving up! You busted your ass on this for a month and now you wanna quit!?

 The voice sounded a lot like Tom Hanks in a League of Their Own. But instead of yelling “There’s no crying in baseball” he was saying “There’s no giving up. People are counting on you. You aren’t a hypocrite are you? Follow Through.”  

So I did. I finished my paper at 3:34 am. I still didn't hand it in. I closed my laptop, went into the bathroom and looked at my for the last time. I felt my erect nipples for the last time, realizing I'd never know what that would be like again.

 I took a selfie of my extra-large, gravity-stricken breasts and my stomach, that since my first son was born 18 years ago, had looked like two large lips frowning.  I looked at my red sleepy eyes and then I shrugged my shoulders before I took what would be my last shower for 3weeks. Screw it, I’d sleep under anesthesia. I was going to let everything go and clear my mind for the surgery I had to report to at 5:45am.  I was signing off. 

Bittersweet Choices

   

     Even though I’m consumed with
 my dissertation, I am also

 preparing for the biggest, most complex surgery of my life; my mind and spirit are all over the place.  First off, I am beyond grateful that because of technology I am able to take steps to prevent the breast cancer that took my mother away at such a young age. But when I look at my toddler, I’m sad because my sister and I were so close to his age when she passed away. My baby is 3 ½ and he comes looking for me in the middle of the night. I couldn’t imagine not being there for him, and knowing that I was dying and wouldn’t get to see him grow up. My oldest son just graduated high school, and last week I took him to get his college ID. My mom missed that. My grandmother missed that. And so many other things in between. So lately I’m extra attached to both of them (even though the teen is totally not feeling mom). 

    Then I feel blessed again because it was my choice to wear 

my fabulous wigs, and to chop all my hair off, and it wasn’t the case for my grandmother. I remember coming home from school one day and she was sitting on the couch with a pile of hair in her lap. She explained to me that it was an effect of her chemo. Looking back, her wigs were in no way as beautiful as her once long dark hair.  And when it grew back, it looked a lot like mine does now, just gray. I have options, and it’s amazing, and it’s still scary and bittersweet.

      Then there's my mortality, something I struggled with so

much as a young person, so much that I refused to wear bandanna scarves because I remember my mother wearing them while she was in treatment. 

Now that older, and I’ve outlived my mother, it’s coming into a play again.  I’m going under the knife for 10 to 12 hours. YIKES!!! I’ll be in ICU;  in the hospital away from my baby for 5 days. I’ll have to look at my breasts without nipples or areolas for about 6 months. I will have a huge horizontal scar across my abdomen; I’ll try best to look at that with gratitude because I have a choice. That choice doesn’t involve radiation, chemo, or not being here to see my sons grow and evolve. I have a choice, but it doesn't mean I'm still not apprehensive.

Art is Complicated

As I scrolled down my news feed all week I knew eventually I would end up writing a blog about this Bill Cosby drama.  I also knew that I had thoughts, but not a clear-cut conclusion. You have conspiracy theorists who feel this is all about deflecting Black attention away from other, more important world and US topics. Others feel it’s another smear campaign against another Black man, or that the “victims” are doing it for the money. Questions have arisen about why victims waited so long, and even who the victims are. Researchers refer to this as RMA ( Rape Myth Acceptance), ideologies about a sexual assault which blames the victims, minimize the incident,  or supports the perpetrator.  This is the reason why even though there are more than an estimated 17 million rapes in the US a year, less than a quarter of them are reported.  Some women choose to suffer silently than to deal with the backlash, people questioning her morality, her dress, her sexual past, her relationship with the perpetrator. And when no one says anything, it sends the message to the perpetrator that it is ok; yielding an even more intense feeling of power and control over victims.

When I think about the how many women continue to come forward, I think about Rosa Parks, and how Coretta Scott King referred to what would become known as the Montgomery Boycott as “Spontaneous Combustion…suddenly everyone had had enough.”  This a movement exploded because it was one incident too many. Sometimes victims of sexual assault or abuse are empowered by others who show courage in stepping forward despite the consequences and speculation. So even if she slept with fifty men prior to, if sex, touching, etc., is not consensual, then it is sexual assault. Period.

I love the artistry of Bill Cosby. But as a fellow artist, it seems that the most genius of artists are usually so because they have major issues.   If you look at the greatest artists in music, paint, print, or stage, you will see they struggle with physical violence, drug use, and/ or an array of mental health issues: Prince, Michael Jackson, Chris Farley, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, Freddie Prince, Robin Williams, Virginia Wolfe Whitney Houston, Van Gogh, Tupac,  Ernest Hemingway, Michelangelo, James Brown, Edgar Allen Poe, and the list goes on and on. But we still love their art. Sometimes I think maybe I’m not that great because I’m still sane. (Just kidding, I’m know I’m great!) I digress.

Anyway, I think one of the bigger issues here is this culture has tendency to make  put our  celebrities and pioneers on pedestals, forgetting they  too are flawed, have pasts, and are not who they appear to be in the spotlight. I mean look at the number of people who aren't even celebrities but who pretend on social media, that they are not broke, jobless, deadbeat mothers and fathers. Look at people who pretend their life is so great, their relationship is perfect, and they love themselves when in actuality, they are in an abusive relationship, or an uncommitted relationship, they are lonely, they hate themselves, they are suffering. So why is it that Cosby is not a fake, but so many others are? I am in no way saying that the man is guilty. That is for a judicial system and whatever higher power he may believe in to decide. But it is not our right to pass judgment on his alleged victims.

          I have decided that I will use my artistry, my past pain to teach and lead by example, and share my challenges and my flaws and let the world know I’m flawlessly flawed. Thus this blog, Wonderfully Imperfect and Full of Complexity. And I will still watch every rerun of the Cosby Show that airs, and I will laugh out loud  guilt-free at Theo's bootleg Gordon Gartrail shirt made by Denise, Vanessa getting yelled at for doing the Locomotion in midriff, Saundra owing Claire $79.648 and 22 cents for dropping out of college,  and Rudy's feminist banter with BUD. 

Get out of the Clouds

So I totally had tears swell up in my eyes when I heard Kelly Rowland’s “Dirty Laundry” because it touched on sooo many topics. Specifically for me was the friendship aspect. It’s so hard to be happy for your friend (or family) when you’re going through some sh*t. It’s not so much jealousy as it what I call cloudy. You want to be happy, but you are so unhappy it’s ridiculous, and you can’t see past anything else. I remember going through that when one of my friends went away to college, met her a husband, got married, bought a house, and did it all in the right order. Here I was, going to a local college, a single mom, and living in an apartment. But, and I write about this in my memoir, it wasn’t my time. I couldn’t find the one for me until I was ready mentally and emotionally. I thought I was healed but I wasn’t. I had to struggle as a single mother so my testimony could touch others like me.  I had to be the one to show and prove that all is possible despite obstacles.  Now I know this. So when I hear Kelly I can relate, and  now that after several attempts,  she’s finally making her mark, it is no surprise. When your spirit and mind is right things will fall into place. Until then you can’t be jealous, or become cloudy and distant because things aren’t how you want right now. Instead reach out; look for resources and people who can help you get to where you need to be. This may be a spiritual leader, a good friend, a mentor, or sometimes just our inner self when you listen. This is what I try to instill in those around me who feel I have it all and have become distant,shoot...'cause I 've been there, done that!

                                            

Empathy Matters

For many of us when we are little toddlers we live in this protective bubble created by our parents; we are loved, nurtured and made to feel like we can do anything. I was one of those people who was blessed enough to experience this. My grandmother didn’t have high school diploma, but she had good sense to love me and build me up enough to love myself. As we grow up, we step out into the real world and for some of us, it’s like stepping out into the street and being hit by a truck at full speed. We suffer irreparable hurt, because for some reason, people don’t see or don’t acknowledge our beauty, our talent, our existence. So we build wall to protect us, walk around in armored suits and masks not being our true selves. Or we imitate those who appear to be surviving a bit better than we are. I’ll admit, I’VE DONE IT. But I’m telling you, it was something about the way I was raised that never let me lose site of who I was (except when I wanted to be T-BOZ from TLC).


But what happens to those who never felt that protection; that initial unconditional love? Do they ever take off the armor and the mask? Do they ever truly discover their uniqueness; their greatness? It’s hard when the world around them isn’t empathetic and can’t even begin to conceptualize that this person is afraid, hurting, and unsure.

My job working with many youth who are in this predicament has helped me to become more accepting and aware when I come into adults I meet. Lucky for them ;) it allows me to be more patient when I come across people who rub me the wrong way. I don’t have to be friends with them, but I can try to be understanding of the fact that they, like all of us have some unresolved issues. So I don’t go off on them, I don’t internalize their behavior. I can brush it off and keeping it moving, or perhaps be that sunshine they need for the day. This is called GROWTH. And my interaction with them, my response, may help them to grow as well.

    "Do not judge your neighbor until you have walked two moons in his moccasins." -Cheyenne Tribe