My hot salty tears flow as freely as my laughter, from the corner of my eye to the bend of my cheek, down to the brim of my brown chin and then they just drip into my lap. My skirt is wet where the tears collect in a puddle. As I try to wipe my face, it seems as if, one tear turns into many rivers and lakes and there are not enough Kleenex within reach to sop up this mess of wet emotion.
But why am I crying? I guess it’s just me peeling back my onion-y layers. Each tear is a layer of the onion peeled back to expose the pungent odor and each smelly layer tells a story of my journey through depression. Depression has no respect of character, creed, race or gender. It will get to the best of us and its sole goal is to take us out and not think twice about. But what's funny to me is that the same way we personify depression is the same way we can give life to peace, love, happiness and most certainly freedom. Freedom is exactly what can silence depression. Freedom from oppressive, pessimistic thoughts and actions.
I remember being a happy little girl thinking that anything was possible and that magic and 3 wishes from a genie were a real thing. But where is that kid-like mentality now? What causes that anything is possible way of thinking to change?.... What could’ve possibly happened to a person to get them to depart from innocent childhood fantasies, pretend and make believe? Could it be the circumstances of life? The broken promises? The fault in our stars? My writing may not win a Pulitzer prize or even a pesky ribbon, but I would feel like I’ve reached the winners circle if I save just one life. My time here on earth will not be worthless if some little girl reads the black curvy letters that she finds on the off white pages of this of my story. I’ve asked repeatedly for the last few months what my purpose was. I thought perhaps God was too busy with the major world issues to give me an answer, a sign, smoke signal or phone call. I wondered, how could I, at the age of 30-ish be so lost? No direction? Passion-less? Emotionally destitute? Physically drained? And one step away from an insane asylum….
How could it be that I am as lost and misguided as I was at 16? What did I miss? What lesson was I totally oblivious too? Perhaps I took the wrong path when I got to that fork in the road? What about all my accomplishments? What about all that is left to be accomplished? What about the small victories? What about the setbacks? What about the failures? As the list of what-ifs grow, so does my anxiety of the future. I took the time out to write this with the goal of saving a life, but all the while, writing to you will help save my life.
My fingers stroking the keys of my laptop provide some type of complex therapy unbeknownst to me. This wordplay causes me to relive my past and attempt to gain a steady hold of my future. I guess what I am trying to say is that I can’t save another life with out first fixing my own – in the typing is therapeutic type of way… So lets say, I am the doc and the young lady reading this is the patient waiting for the illegible handwritten prescription that all docs gives to heal and mend her broken pieces. My script for the next chapter is to just live! Live past the hurt, the frustration, the unknowns, the fear, the anxiety. As I write my story, in different forms, I will be totally transparent, give some encouraging words, write poems, and let my words cry for me… you must promise to read until the end, remain judge-less… who knows the life I may save just might me my own!
The entire goal of the Hunny Bee Society is to SAVE lives - One brown girl at a time. Through storytelling, community events and outreach, the vision and mission of this society will be achieved. I look forward to you joining me on my journey.