Sunday, August 28, 2011

Newspaper Don't Lie

I couldn’t sleep in my own room. It was unusually cold upstairs and I was afraid to walk past her room. When I had to go upstairs, I’d rush past my parent’s bedroom with my eyes cast down so I wouldn’t look in. I didn’t want to see that bed. My mind kept imagining her lying there.

August 29, 2004 was the beginning of a lifetime of pain for me and the end of my mother’s. The woman who knew me so intimately even before I was born, was dead. She died in her own bed with my father at her side while I was starting my junior year of college.

Upon arriving home after receiving the news of my mother’s death, I chose to sleep on the floor of our den rather than my own bed. My cousins slept down there with me so I wouldn’t be alone.

The morning the Star Tribune published her obituary, my male cousins went out to raid the newspaper dispensers for extra copies for the family. They came in the house at dawn to drop off the papers and I pretended to sleep. Lying there on the floor, my mind raced. “The newspaper don’t lie.” How could I continue to deny this loss when it was in the paper?

After they finished their delivery and went home, I hopped from my pallet on the floor and rushed to the bathroom. Locking myself inside, I released the intense sobs aching to burst forth from my broken heart. I desperately tried to muffle my cries. I didn’t want to wake the others, my father in particular.

My cousins Kim’El and Jackie began frantically knocking on the door, trying to get me to come out. When I finally composed myself, they told me not to lock myself in anymore, in case I passed out so they’d be able to get to me.

Seven years later, I still feel like I’m locked in that bathroom, the reality hitting me suddenly and I’m desperately fighting not to grieve too loud.

This morning I dreamed I was at a funeral. I was sitting in a middle pew, not extremely close to the front. I was sitting behind one of my younger cousins and I was holding a child’s hand next to me. Someone was singing my mother’s favorite gospel song, “Precious Lord” and I silently sat staring at the edge of the pew in front of me. Suddenly, I let out a shrill and resounding cry that seems to be alive within me, fighting to escape. Without letting go of the child’s hand, I burst into grief filled sobs.

This is what I'm feeling as the anniversary of my mother’s death approaches by the hour. I feel like this pain is living inside me and I keep it bottled up to keep from waking or disturbing others. But it won’t be contained. It always bursts forth in uncontrollable ways.

It's holding me back. There's something I want to do but can't get through it without a visit from my grief. I'm tired of it. Tired of that pressure on my chest and in my head. Tired of hot tears in my eyes and on my face. Tired to dream crippling exhaustion of being tired of grieving.
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Friday, August 26, 2011

Bey Day and the fool who almost ruined it.

Here's a video of me describing my first Beyoncé concert! She's amazing but some of her fans? Not so much. Let me know what you think.