Labels

Preface

Dear fellow lovely people, this is less of fictional story, and more of personal journey. I have tried my best to use academic, and literary language. I have altered names, and incidents to protect the identities of those involved.

If you've ever met me, you'll know one thing. I love talking. I always talk about my own stories and then people tell me theirs. Every so often, I'd forget to listen to the stories and only hear them. See, listening involves reflection. You allow the other person to open their mind and you reflect with them. Most importantly, you appreciate what they've shared with you, because it is a piece of their soul. You value their opinions and encourage them to follow their dreams. Too many of us only wait for our turn to speak. Not enough of us know what to say back. In fact, the best thing would be if we all smiled at each other when we have nothing to say at all.

Throughout my journey, I've created my own labels for every person who has touched my life. Labels such as, lover, fam, soul sister, bro, healer, guide, wise, joker, hustler, teacher, coach, fairy godmother and many more. I created these labels to erase the real labels the world gives us: bitch, crazy, whore, loser, poor, desperate, addict, depressed, useless and so on. I hope following along may help us all realize we fight the same battle together. At some point in our lives, we have experienced the same feelings and the same loss of self. It is our human nature to crave connections and sympathize with those who are hurting. We all want to be wanted, but aren't sure of what we need. My experiences have taught me to empathize and strive to respond with love. Change starts within us; it needs to begin on a personal level before we can reach social transformative change.

This is my journey of how I overcame my struggle against mental health and will continue to do so every moment to come. Follow my story, so you can have the courage to continue and share yours.

Addiction

It’s not even fun anymore. I used to love smoking cannabis. I loved taking the hit, and sitting back while the smoke billowed around me. I was always ready to roll one, and escape again. As my body filled with the substance, I finally felt so in control of who I am. It was the one thing that I could do, and escape my reality whenever I wanted. I could lose myself so deep in it, so far in my thoughts. I was perfectly free, and completely happy. Until, they took me to the hospital. Trust, that time I needed to take a hit the most. I was getting so annoyed with everyone’s questions, so annoyed with their comments about my choices. Most of all, I was done hearing what I should have done differently. I didn’t want anyone else to tell me to take my clothes off. I didn’t want any stranger to touch me. I didn’t want anyone to see me. Why couldn’t they leave me alone? I just wanted to be alone, and take my damn hit. I didn’t want to feel the pain from the IV the nurse was injecting in me. I couldn’t tell the doctor everything in front of my family. I needed my fix, but I couldn’t find it anymore.

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I used to cry so much; I still feel like crying at times. We cry alone, hide somewhere so no one sees us. When we’re alone, that’s when we feel the worst. We begin seeking connections, and affection. When we can’t find it, we overcome it by filling our minds with the side effects of substances. Then one night, I noticed it. I didn’t have anything on me. I needed something right now, to relieve me. They were yelling again, screaming, and telling me I was a bitch for not understanding. They said you’re not worth it, you’re useless, you’re like every other girl. I tried to stop all the labels, I tried to explain. So I inched closer, because I didn’t want to be alone again. My explanations became excuses, and my gratitude became complaints. They said they don’t care, you’re just crazy. I felt an obscene amount of pain, and I blacked out.

I opened my eyes, focused my vision through the tears. Then I noticed it, things seemed not so ordinary. My face felt really cold, and I could feel liquid all over me. Like someone dumped a bucket of water of my head. I looked down, and saw only dark red. Oh fuck, it was blood, everywhere. On my hands, on my body, on my clothes, on my face. I frantically looked for a mirror. That was a huge mistake, because when I saw myself, I was terrified by my own reflection.

I couldn’t recognize the person staring back at me. I wanted to scream, ‘someone help!’ Except, I couldn’t say anything. I opened my mouth, no words came out anymore. I didn’t want to cry again, I put on my superhero mask, and asked for the doctors. They asked me questions again, and the police asked too. I said, ‘just fix me.’ They looked at me as if I had escaped a psychiatric hospital. I knew they wouldn’t understand. I knew they’d only punish me further, and punish those involved. To escape it, I did it again. Found another dealer, lit up, and felt the pain leave me.