I'm afraid

There are always so many things on my mind. Specifically regarding grief, missing my daddy, and trying to figure out what this new normalcy looks like for me.

And it's hard.

And it's messy.

And it's lonely.

And yet, here I am. 

Waking up each day and trying. 

Trying to put one foot in front of the other.

Trying to "take care" of myself.

Trying to grieve.

Trying to live.

One of my favorite new podcasts is Terrible, (Thanks For Asking), which is "a funny/sad/uncomfortable podcast about talking honestly about our pain, our awkwardness, and our humanness" and it's gotten me through the last few weeks when I felt like no one really got what I was feeling and that I needed a space to feel understood. It's been SO good for my soul. 

I'm also still writing. I wrote this thing that turned into a poem (featured below) as I was reflecting on how fearful I am of losing my daddy's memory. I didn't write this for anyone to reassure me that I won't lose it or for folks to try to make me feel better. Instead, I wrote it because that's how I'm currently feeling and my feelings, regardless of how they appear to myself or others, are valid.

To those that have been and are still walking with me through the darkest season of my life, thank you!

I'm afraid 

I’m afraid of losing my daddy’s memory.

Of waking up one day and forgetting the sound of his voice;

The way that he’d call my name…most people call me Mika, but my daddy always called me by full name, Shamika, and I loved it.

I’m afraid of losing my daddy’s memory.

That one day I’ll wake up and must look at a picture of him to remember the features of his face and how his body got smaller over time as the cancer ate away at it.

I’m afraid of losing my daddy’s memory.

That people will not want to talk about him.

I experience that already and it’s only been 4 months.

There are days when I feel like I must plead for someone to say his name, to want to listen to all I want to share about him.

I’m afraid of losing my daddy’s memory.

That when I’m blessed with children of my own that I won’t be able to fully articulate the man my daddy was.

I grieve the memories my future children will never be able to make with him, but instead will have to rely on my memories to know him.

I’m afraid of losing my daddy’s memory.

So I write down as much as I can remember.

I back up all the photos online I have of him.

I talk to him daily.

I commit to keeping his spirit alive

Because I’m afraid of losing my daddy’s memory. 

No one gets me

I needed to write. To get ideas out on paper. To get out of my head. To express myself. I’ve been nervous to do so because I’m SAD and MAD and FRUSTRATED by life and people aren’t used to seeing me that way.

I’m usually the happy one with a big smile on my face.

I’m usually the one making other people feel better.

I’m usually the one finding the silver lining in crappy situations.

Now I’m the one that’s barely hanging on. And I don’t know what I need. Or if “anything” will actually make me feel better. But it feels like people want me to magically be back to old Mika. For me to get better. For me to be happy. For me to have it together. However that’s not happening!

I’m grieving.

I miss my daddy.

I’m sad and mad.

I miss my daddy.

I’m not motivated to do schoolwork.

I miss my daddy.

I’m tired all the time.

I miss my daddy.

So, I decided to write a poem. A poem about how I’m in a place where I feel like no one really gets me as I grieve. Many folks want to be helpful, and most are. I'm SO grateful for the many people who have surrounded me the past 3 months and beyond. However, no one, not even my twin sister who I share DNA with fully understands what my grief looks like because it’s unique to me and my relationship with my daddy. This poem is me taking space to express myself and to get back into a habit of writing. 

No one gets me

No one gets my smile.

That the curve of my lips

Is all muscle memory.

Automatic in its expression

Of a life that has been all smiles.

When the lips are conscious,

Their curve bends down,

My head feels the weight of the crown,

Of the grief that I wear.

Not one gets my crown.

The one no one can see

Because it’s hidden in the twists of my hair

I cannot stand to bare,

The heartache of the grief.

Three months seem like one day

Hurts more than the call that January day,

Because my heart now feels what my head always knew.

No one gets my heart.

For it lost a piece of its soul

That daddy’s little girl could always return to.

The rhythm now off beat

Each small step feels like a feat,

That my mind is not prepared to conquer.

No one gets my mind

The safety net of my being

Is now crumbling in front of me.

Fog plaguing every bend

No focus or motivation within,

To see the life that is in front of me.

No one gets my eyes.

That no longer flow tears

Because my sadness is much deeper.

Keeping the sparkle alive

So those around me thrive,

As my eyes give what the rest of me cannot.

No one gets me.

  

Remember to Laugh

A friend of mine recently reminded me to find moments to laugh.

To remember that laughter can be healing.

I honestly wasn’t trying to hear that.

I didn’t feel like laughing and I certainly didn’t feel that it would heal the ache in my soul.

And yet, I couldn’t help but think about how I kind of missed my ability to laugh and the sound of my laughter.

My laughter that usually starts as hushed giggles, where I scrunch my body up, close my eyes, and smile so brightly.

My laughter that is infectious.  Prompting those around me to join in for no good reason.

My laughter that is uniquely me. When people hear it, they know it’s me. And I like that.

Laughter.

Something so simple, yet so powerful.

Yesterday I was texting my #SisterPhD crew and our conversation was silly, honest, fun, and reminded me to laugh. Each of these women’s personality shined in ways that warmed my heart. To be in relationship with people who you can cry and laugh with is quite the gift.

And so yesterday, we laughed.

I laughed.

Cracked up hysterically actually. I’m sure my colleagues wondered what was going on in my office, but I didn’t care. Because as my friend initially said, I needed to find moments to laugh. And so I did.

I hope you’ll find a moment to laugh today. If you need help laughing, check out some of my favorite Joe Biden & President Obama Memes.

Finishing my PhD program

When I say “I don’t know if I can do this” in regards to my PhD program, I think most people think I’m grasping for a compliment or looking for affirmation. I’m actually not. I’m being completely honest that I don’t know if I can do this. I can tell that the people around me; my friends, family, and colleagues are all well-intended in their pursuit to be helpful and are confident in me in ways that are so touching. Yet, I still don’t think they truly hear me when I express my doubt about my ability to finish my doctoral program.

I don’t think they hear the emotional exhaustion that has taken over my body.

I don’t think they hear the silent tears I cry daily.

I don’t think they hear my mind racing as I ruminate over how I could have been a better daughter.

I don’t think they hear the strength it takes to get out of bed each morning.

I don’t think they hear the constant breaking of my heart.

I don’t think they hear me.

Instead, it feels like people assume I don’t think I’m smart enough or have what it takes to finish my program. Sure, those things cross my mind. Of course, I have moments of insecurity regarding my intellectual ability, but that’s not truly what it is. The reason I feel like I don’t know if I’ll finish is because I’m grieving…deeply grieving.

How can I write well thought out sentences, utilizing words unfamiliar to the core of my being when I can barely formulate the words to express how I’m feeling?

How can I read the hundreds of pages required weekly when I can’t focus and absorb the words on the page because my mind is anywhere but in my readings?

How can I keep up with the pace of my cohort when my progress is thinking about my dissertation topic, not actually producing anything on paper?

So, I stare at my computer, hoping to get some words out. Praying I comprehend some of what I read. Wishing I didn’t have to go to class unprepared yet another week. Hoping my classmates are more prepared than me because just showing up to class is a feat.

I know I’m smart. I know I’m capable. I know I can finish my PhD program, but at what cost and of what quality? I’m not superwoman. I cannot will myself into writing more, or reading more quickly. I’ve tried and I’m left sitting in my desk chair, looking out the window into the dark sky wondering how will I do it.

How will I manage to not disappoint my family?

How will I manage not being another Black woman to leave my program?

How will I manage to keep it together?

How will I do it?

And then I wake up and do it all over again because I haven’t found the answer.

I don’t know what the solution is.

I can’t move any faster.

I feel sad.

I feel mad.

I feel alone.

I feel misunderstood.

I feel trapped.

I feel pressured.

I feel disappointed.

I feel all of this.

And yet I do want to finish. I want to accomplish this dream I’ve had. I want to defy stereotypes, produce quality scholarship, and highlight the experiences of Black women. Yet, I don’t know how to accomplish this in the midst of my grief.

I don’t have a nice bow to tie this one up. I don’t have a silver lining. Grieving is hard and it sucks. I miss my daddy so much. I start grief counseling next week. I’m hoping that will help. At least it will give me a space to talk about my daddy and my feelings, unapologetically. I guess it’s a step in the right direction as I continue to journey through life as I grieve.