Thahabu

The bulk of my homework revolves around watching movies alone, which sounds great in theory, but takes up a lot of my time. Thankfully, my friend came to visit for the weekend. She took me out to a rap show, giving me and my burnt out eyes a much needed break from my computer screen. The show was in this small, trippy DIY space in Manhattan. They had this one gadget that threw paint at a screen that had someone’s chewing mouth on a loop. It was a little different for me because I’ve never been too keen on diving into vapor wave culture, but once people started performing I realized I actually like vapor wave and cloud rap. Well, at least I really like this one artist who performed, Taharqa. I know I’m late to the party, but it had to grow on me, OK? I also realized that I haven’t been in a moshpit in a long time. Jumping up and down, shoving people, and being shoved felt like the ultimate release to after a long year of being tired and burnt out. I feel so much better at my new school, but I still struggle with depression. No matter where I go I’m still trapped in my own head, and that’s what I find most terrifying.

On top of that, I’m getting really tired of the limited images that are associated with the “carefree black girl” and self-care. Images of lighter-skinned girls with loose curls prancing around with flowers in their hair doesn’t do anything for me when I don’t feel carefree at all. I feel more like this. The mood I’m in right now calls for pictures of black girls breaking things and being aggressive, taking up spaces and shouting at the top of their lungs.

I’m depressed, and although I’m oh so grateful for everything I have, sometimes I feel completely alone and these aren’t happy times. I have a lot to worry about and no one to talk to, or at least no one who won’t look at me with astonishment or worse, a blank stare because “it’s a lot to take in, and I don’t know what to say.” Lately, when my friends call me for emotional support it makes me even sadder, not that it annoys me like it did this past summer, because they’ve been much better about that. I’m jealous that they feel so comfortable talking to me about their most intimate problems and secrets. I wish I was comfortable enough with someone to want to confide in them like that. I can’t. My worries are like worms wriggling through dirt. I can’t even properly listen my favorite new albums, because the content is sad and I don’t want it to make me slip even deep in my depression abyss. It’s scary, not knowing what to do with your feelings.

I am one of those people who keeps all of their real problems locked away in a jar. I feel the top is beginning to give, my gooey emotions are bubbling past the lid, and I’m so on edge that anything, in any place can make me cry at moment. Except I don’t even think I know how to cry anymore. The only thing that quiets all this black noise in my head is a good book and some tea. The fact that I’m reading consistently again is evidence that my depression is nowhere near as bad as it was last year school year. Maybe the pools of black under my eyes will disappear some day.

It’s funny how I’ve been getting hit up a lot less by certain “friends” ever since I told them to stop constantly getting in touch to complain about their problems, and expecting me to take them on, without even genuinely asking me about my own mental health. It proves that my only value to them was being their emotional labor mammy. They find nothing redeemable in me besides the fact that I’m a good listener. I’m just that “strong, mature, and deep” friend, aka the friend we can use as an emotional punching bag and not ask if she’s OK after ’cause she’s “strong, mature, and deep.” I’m happy about this. I’m happy that these people have lost interest in me, ’cause they were literally draining me all summer.

Up until recently, I was haunted by some of the things my ex-friends said about me that others don’t agree with at all. A visit from a friend put everything into perspective. She kept telling me about how caring and genuine I was, and that I have nothing to worry about when it comes to being a good person. Why do all the negative things people say about me ring louder in my brain than the plethora of sweet, kind comments my true friends give me? ♦