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[itsdearsuga]

Grief: The Story of My First Major Loss.

Growing up, I only went to 2 funerals until I reached my 20’s.

My Grandfather, who was barely present in our lives. He was a man with his own set of issues, and we always had to stay in the car when we visited him those 3-4 times.

Then my late Pastor from Mowing Glade A.M.E Zion, who had mysterious health issues and eventually left us once the plug was pulled at a local hospital in Charlotte, where I once lived.

I was barely a 4th grader when both of these deaths occured in my life.

I always saw death as a catalyst for sympathy. I never truly understood it, I just knew it was a huge deal. If someone died in a person's life, I expected them to be out of school for like a month and for them to cry every 5 minutes. I just knew death to be this sad thing that was inevitable in people's experiences.

That was, until Granny’s diagnosis.

She was an avid snuff user, and growing up there was always a can of that black tar like substance that she spit out by the fireplace. I knew she spit in there but we always stayed as far away from that cursed can as possible. One day my cousin, sister and I knocked it over, and I honestly thought I was going to pass away my damn self. She used that stuff for over 50 years, some say since she was 8, and once I was in college, we received news that she had an extremely aggressive form of mouth cancer. When you’re a certified pessimist like myself from time to time, you’d probably hear the word cancer and think of the worse. But for me at that moment, it was a little different. I tried to muster up all the hope in the world for my grandmother. She cared for me and all of my cousins, she was my coffee buddy every sunday after church, I always made her laugh and we always sat on those rocking chairs on the porch, listening to the soft windchimes that clanged melodically in the countryside breeze, or played checkers in the cracker barrel before we were seated to go eat…  I remembered every bit of love and hope she gave me, and in that moment of hearing that news, I tried to return it all back to her. In all the things she handled in her years, it couldn’t be the snuff of all things that took her off this world. She held our family together, but unfortunately, the more sick she became, the more tensions rose amongst my loved ones. I never was the type that liked to talk in my family. It was a Hi then Bye kind of vibe when I walked in the room. Someone could look at my sketchbook, say I’m going to be the next picasso or something with an uncomfortable amount of enthusiasm and then keep it moving, It’s whatever. I only held long conversations with a select few in my family, but I typically kept to myself with a straight face. That’s where Granny came in with my nickname when I was kid. She called me “Suga” because of the irony of me being anything but. I hated that nickname for a long time, I thought it was to tease me, but she only called me that until, well, she passed. Her sickness was a long, grueling time in my life and my family’s lives. They fought over who took care of her, my aunts and cousins, and all I could do is watch the drama ensue or hear it over the phone from a distraught cousin all the way from Maryland. In the spring of 2018, our lives changed forever.

“Her tumor keeps coming back, they’re going to have to remove and replace the jaw.” These were the words I was told about the fate of my grandmother in the next coming weeks. This was also after she had ridiculous amounts of treatment. The granny I once knew as being a sturdy weight, eating alongside us , full of laughter and life, grew frail. She was always holding her jaw and groaning. She could barely say much without it causing her pain. It hurt like hell to see. I took time off of school and headed back to Charlotte for a little while, promising to handle my homework while I was gone. I barely slept that week. The hospital waiting room was full of loved ones during the operation, and I’ll never forget the moment before she was wheeled back. I was the last to see her, and that was the last time I heard Suga for quite awhile. Nonetheless, we played card games, visited the panera downstairs and anxiously sat and waited. Eventually, the surgery was over, and we went home while she was in recovery. Once back at the house, I only heard horror stories. One aunt said she looked like Emmett Till post surgery. I sat and listened to the hushed voices of all of my aunts as they talked about how she looked, but my mother hadn't seen her just yet. We were both worried and that was the first time I saw her cry. I could only hold her and try my best to reassure her that it can’t be that bad, but we had our own issues on top of this with our living situation, that would definitely be another blog post for another day. I stayed in my grandparents bedroom, anxiously doing my homework and talking on the phone to stay up and sane, drinking energy beverages and taking smoke breaks all night. It was hard, and I couldn’t sleep thinking about the major changes to a face that was so familiar to me. We eventually made our way to the hospital. When we arrived, I was definitely surprised. Her face was extremely swollen, and it looked as though her entire face was fused under the nose. I said nothing and when I walked in, my mother gave me a certain look as though it wasn't necessary to stay. I stayed. For days. If I wasn't by her bedside trying to teach her little signs in ASL that’d she’d eventually say whatever to and not use at all, or talking to her about how much of a pain in my the ass my classes were, I was in the lobby of the hospital, typing my essays tirelessly and staying sleep deprived. Eventually we went back to MD, and I only saw her from time to time when we went back home those few times. She didn't talk for more than 6 months, and phone calls were difficult, but when she got the ball rolling, she called my mom everyday and I eventually heard my nickname all over again. I was hopeful, until around valentines day of this year. I was working on a painting for her. One morning, she got really sick, with something like the flu, and the chemo and treatments were already too much for her immune system. I was at school that day, bitching about my work and getting annoyed at my dad's numerous text messages asking me where I was. My mom was in Greensboro for work at the time. I eventually came home and my dad told me to sit down.

Now at this point, I did experience my fair share of death, but nothing too close to me where I was broken. Nothing, besides Kaya maybe , but that loss broke me in regards to my place of empathy. And that story is another one in it’s own right. But I was truly oblivious to why my dad would need me to sit down so urgently. I guess a part of me was in a place mentally where I promised to see her again, and something in my psyche was reassuring myself that she wouldn't go anywhere until I could make that happen. Another part of me was too scared to hear what he had to say. Sure enough, I heard the worst. She was gone, and in that one moment, my entire world fell apart.

The drive after was the worst part.

I thought about the blackberry picking we did if we wanted a pie,

I thought about the times she took my scrap drawings and framed them, telling me that even the worst ones to me were everything to her.

I remember all the times I would hear my Nickname.

And everytime I heard it in my head, I was shattered all over again.

This was 6 months ago.

Now, I think I’m beginning to understand grief a little better. It feels like a never ending one way street, With an occasional traffic circle that doesn't tell you where the exits are going to take you.

Some exits take you on a beautiful scenic route, where you feel a little more comfortable to reminisce on the better days with that person, and some exits are rainy and disgusting. No matter how fast the windshields are going, you still can't see the road ahead even with the high beams on, and on top of that, you’re getting motion sickness, and it’s fucking brutal.

Grief is never a straight shot. It feels like one for a while, but the roundabouts are unexpected. Sometimes they show up after around a half a mile, and other times, they don't show up for about 7 or 8 miles.

Either way, they’re a journey that almost everyone takes, and it's okay if there's trouble on the trip because we’re human.

Love Always, Suga.

[itsdearsuga]

Depression; An Emotional Rollercoaster of an Introduction.

Late August, 2017. 8 pm.

I sat in the passenger seat of my mother's car. She had just picked me up from the train station. My sister and Father had come home before us so we were on the side of the street and the ignition had just turned off.

I told her, “ I have something I need to say.”

A couple weeks prior held some weight for me.

In 2016, I started smoking. I thought to myself, “I don’t want to die right away, but maybe this will expedite the process”

I was at that point, addicted.

Later that fall of that same year, my 19th Birthday rolled around. I didn’t tell a soul at school. I just stood alone at the train station, watching the passing amtrak fly by on the closest platform.

I thought to myself, maybe this passing train, going say, 200 mph or so, not slowing down, Maybe this train will take me where I need to go. There was a lot of meditation that ensued with this thought process.  

Early August of 2017,

I had my belongings ready. My ID, the fancy Macbook my parents gave me, because I wouldn't want to waste their money, getting it crushed by that train.I had my parents contact-info, and I looked for a trustworthy face on the platform to hand them my bag with my information. The plan was to step out and fall in front.

I watched the train pass and stepped forward, feeling the rushed breeze, but did not jump. Instead I felt weak. I watched my scheduled train that takes me to school also pass, and stayed seated on the bench of that platform, not moving a muscle. I cried for a while, but I finally took a late train to my second class for the day. I went about my day, heavy and feeling inadequate. I wasn't even brave enough to step out the way I truly wanted to in that moment. As close as I got to the edge of that platform, I still thought about the delays I would cause post- demise. I thought about the trauma it would cause for the people just trying to go to their government jobs and the other Bowie students that take that same stop.

Even in death, I would feel like a burden.  

I told my mother all of this, as she simply stared at her steering wheel.

After multiple days of repeated phone calls, people in my household checking my location, and lots and lots of cigarettes, I found myself outside of my therapist office for the first time.

“I dont think I’m suicidal. I just don't feel like being around anymore.”

“Everything begins to feel so redundant after a while.”

“My existence is feeling forced, and even my own dad said that the moment I truly became myself to the world, the only thing it would make me is a triple minority.”

As my words begin spilling aloud for the first time in my life, my therapist nods with a furrowed brow and scratches away at her clipboard. She begins to ask questions about my childhood, and I speak of my experiences aloud for the first time yet again, surprised of the things I never spoke of until then. I suddenly felt disgusted, as if I walked around a summer festival for an entire day and desperately needed a shower when I got home. Then just like that, my session was over.

I drove home in silence and thought about what to tell my folks. I felt heavier that night than any other night in my life.

Yet again, I lit another cig down the street from my home and then head inside once it's finished.

“How was it?”

The sound of my mother's voice sends a shiver down my spine as I sit down and drop another bomb on them, as if I haven't been doing too much to them to begin with.

This… Is an introduction, believe it or not.

This was the first moment I finally started going to therapy, and my parents thought it would be a good idea. I thought teenage sadness was a phase personally, and as much as I thought about getting a therapist , I still believed that therapy was for people who really “had it bad.” but nonetheless, I still went. After a few sessions, a couple of questionnaires and the infamous “how does that make you feel” inbetween, My therapist suggested that I was severely depressed, even to the point of seeking clinical help. And each week she tried referring me to someone, but I declined. Deep inside, I still felt as though the word “depressed” was too intense for just being a little “sad”. I still considered myself as the funny friend, the one that roasted others, wore the “Hotpants” and was here and always queer, offering a smile and a “take your time” if things went sour. It wasn’t until I began talking to my friends that I realized my thoughts simply… were not normal.

I would be at my friends apartment , Mikes Hard in one hand and guitar hero controller in the other, making jokes about my deepest insecurities and instead of looking up to chuckling faces, I would see concern, as my teddy bear ass friend Travis would walk up to me and awkwardly hug me in my seat, with a “you good?” hitting my eardrums shortly after.

Yeah, definitely not normal.

I was always skeptical, but as I became more aware of the state of my mind I realized that it wasn’t necessarily “sadness” that engulfed me. Like, yeah, there were moments of sadness, but there was also always something within me that the sadness was inspired by. It almost felt like a muse, that gave slight anxieties and moments of melancholy extra strength to take over my psyche.

Even in my moments of laughter, In front of my canvas Playing smash and clowning around with my friends, Watching Michael Meyers marathons with my mother and talking about how dope Jamie Lee Curtis is, Or sitting in the car with a lover as I look at the stars and feel a rare moment of safety,

There was still something lurking, like in a horror movie when the characters are oblivious to the anguish that lies ahead.

I knew there was a heaviness waiting for me. Even if Depression and I were separated for awhile, We were still in a relationship. She waited for me, like a forgiving lover only wanting to make things right, so we could be together.  

That's what depression felt like to me.

As the years passed, I found myself managing my depression more and more. I recognized our toxic tendencies and took assorted medications, supplements, and even got into roller derby so I could muster the strength to finally break up with her. And this led to a journey that will undoubtedly last a lifetime.  

In this blog, I will talk about moments like this and many more as it pertains to my life. We all have deeper layers, and for me, it was in the moment of late August, 2017 at around 8pm, that I realized, That there’s more to me than I realize, and I think that others can realize that about themselves, too. Sexuality, Grief, Depression, Love and Spirituality, those are basically our emotional food groups in life, and each week, I think I want to write about them.

That’d be pretty cool, but in the meantime,

Just know you’re not alone.

Love Always,

Suga