Bitch, please
This was my sister's idea. As much as I hate to admit it. Because she just loves to fix things. And I hate to be fixed. But the truth is, I am broken. And have been for a while. So my sister suggested I try blogging again.
When she first suggested it, I didn't even respond. The idea repelled me. To be out in the open. To try. To make an effort. It all seemed too ridiculous to contemplate. I thought, bitch, please! You have no idea what you're asking me to do.
Yet here I am.
In addition to giving props to my sister (grudgingly... sorry, B), I have to give credit to The Fitness Marshall (@thefitnessmarshall) for nudging me out of my depressed stupor. Do you know this guy? He's made a career of producing and posting fitness videos using hip-hop dance. Now he tours the country hosting fitness classes. And he's absolutely adorable to boot! Yesterday, he posted an honest look back at his life three years ago. As he writes, it was the darkest time of his life. And instead of wallowing in self-pity (hello, me!), he got off his ass and started making fitness videos because it was something he was passionate about.
(P.S. @mattcrump makes me happy, too. 50% unicorn, 100% man, so says he.)
So what am I passionate about? Fuck if I know. I love to write. I love to travel. I love adventure. I love fitness, meditation and yoga. I love investing in experiences over things. I love my family.
But leaving our home of six years was harder than I expected. Let me say that again. It was harder than I expected. Like mid-life crisis hard. Can't get out of bed hard. Crying in grocery store parking lots hard. Lose 15 pounds hard. I want to be alone, but I can't stand the loneliness hard. So, you know... hard.
I've never felt this way. This restlessness. This sense of... "this can't be my life... can it?" I've been homesick and unhappy before. I get blues when my period starts; I get the mean reds if I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about deep dark fears. But I've never been depressed. Not like this.
I think living in Nigeria made me an adrenaline junkie. Every day brought some new adventure; some good, some bad, but always unexpected. And I was good at it. I was an expert ex-pat. I took pride in it. It formed my identity. I knew people. I had a network. I had a community. I had a reputation.
Now, what am I? Who am I? The Africa lady. The Africa lady with the angry look in her eyes. (Depression gets interpreted as anger, I'm learning, but I'm not angry. Smiling just hurts right now. And music is my refuge hence the ever-present earbuds.)
"Aren't you happy to be back home?" I get asked a lot. Um... no. I was home. This place is strange to me. Strange yet strangely familiar. I have earned the ability to look at my home culture with an outsider's perspective, with a more critical and appraising eye. Do we, as Americans, really have to slap the flag on everything? What do you mean when you say let's "make America great again"? Why can't blue lives AND black lives matter? And what's with the selection of shampoos? A whole aisle just for shampoo? No wonder grocery stores feel overwhelming.
Why is everybody in my neighborhood white? Why is everybody on the high school basketball team black? Why is everything black or white instead of shades of grey? I don't know. Makes my head hurt.
I miss diversity. I miss understanding. I miss my community. I'd like to say confidently that I will find all of these things here. But... I doubt. No disrespect to the amazing people in my life here. I'm not saying that these things aren't out there for the taking. What I am saying is that I don't have the energy to look for it, to fight for it... not right now.
And when my thoughts start going down that dark spiral, it's time for me to shake off, dust off and go for a run. Or meditate.
So yeah, I gotta go.
But I'll be back.
When she first suggested it, I didn't even respond. The idea repelled me. To be out in the open. To try. To make an effort. It all seemed too ridiculous to contemplate. I thought, bitch, please! You have no idea what you're asking me to do.
Yet here I am.
In addition to giving props to my sister (grudgingly... sorry, B), I have to give credit to The Fitness Marshall (@thefitnessmarshall) for nudging me out of my depressed stupor. Do you know this guy? He's made a career of producing and posting fitness videos using hip-hop dance. Now he tours the country hosting fitness classes. And he's absolutely adorable to boot! Yesterday, he posted an honest look back at his life three years ago. As he writes, it was the darkest time of his life. And instead of wallowing in self-pity (hello, me!), he got off his ass and started making fitness videos because it was something he was passionate about.
(P.S. @mattcrump makes me happy, too. 50% unicorn, 100% man, so says he.)
So what am I passionate about? Fuck if I know. I love to write. I love to travel. I love adventure. I love fitness, meditation and yoga. I love investing in experiences over things. I love my family.
But leaving our home of six years was harder than I expected. Let me say that again. It was harder than I expected. Like mid-life crisis hard. Can't get out of bed hard. Crying in grocery store parking lots hard. Lose 15 pounds hard. I want to be alone, but I can't stand the loneliness hard. So, you know... hard.
I've never felt this way. This restlessness. This sense of... "this can't be my life... can it?" I've been homesick and unhappy before. I get blues when my period starts; I get the mean reds if I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about deep dark fears. But I've never been depressed. Not like this.
I think living in Nigeria made me an adrenaline junkie. Every day brought some new adventure; some good, some bad, but always unexpected. And I was good at it. I was an expert ex-pat. I took pride in it. It formed my identity. I knew people. I had a network. I had a community. I had a reputation.
Now, what am I? Who am I? The Africa lady. The Africa lady with the angry look in her eyes. (Depression gets interpreted as anger, I'm learning, but I'm not angry. Smiling just hurts right now. And music is my refuge hence the ever-present earbuds.)
"Aren't you happy to be back home?" I get asked a lot. Um... no. I was home. This place is strange to me. Strange yet strangely familiar. I have earned the ability to look at my home culture with an outsider's perspective, with a more critical and appraising eye. Do we, as Americans, really have to slap the flag on everything? What do you mean when you say let's "make America great again"? Why can't blue lives AND black lives matter? And what's with the selection of shampoos? A whole aisle just for shampoo? No wonder grocery stores feel overwhelming.
Why is everybody in my neighborhood white? Why is everybody on the high school basketball team black? Why is everything black or white instead of shades of grey? I don't know. Makes my head hurt.
I miss diversity. I miss understanding. I miss my community. I'd like to say confidently that I will find all of these things here. But... I doubt. No disrespect to the amazing people in my life here. I'm not saying that these things aren't out there for the taking. What I am saying is that I don't have the energy to look for it, to fight for it... not right now.
And when my thoughts start going down that dark spiral, it's time for me to shake off, dust off and go for a run. Or meditate.
So yeah, I gotta go.
But I'll be back.
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