Maybe I’m so into Obama for the wrong reasons. When he became the first ever Black president of America — I was younger, happier, healthier, and basically ready for the good times to roll.
The euphoric wave of knowing that a Black family had won the most coveted prize of all just added to the appeal of me. Yes! I’m doing quite well myself, Mr. President. Despite a disastrous economy that basically gutted the heart of our operation — I’m able to not only steadfastly retain my job, but a year after your historic win — I moved into a neighborhood with a zip code I used to wearily type into the register for rich ladies with waistlines that needed measuring for garments they could afford.
For most of Obama’s presidency — I managed to amass the most memorable collage that depicts what it means to be proud and Black in America. Yes, of course I thought he was way hotter than Jesus Christ.
And, you can bet your bottom dollar that I voted because he was African-American. Unless it was proven that he had committed atrocities beyond the realm of human comprehension — there was no way in the world — I was going to escape the duty of ushering one of the most profoundly moving events of my lifetime.
I later found out that like most leaders with good intentions — you can’t bypass the pit of hell without partaking of some of the condiments — along the way.
Right at this very moment — I’m melting into a puddle of frightening wonderment.
I’m a fucking mess.
I hate to whine. I have no patience for those who perform this act incessantly — so I guess that means I hate myself. All I do is complain about everything. Almost six months in — and my remote job makes me want to walk past my home in a directionless pattern. I know what I want. I wanted it back in 1997 and now its 2017 and I’m watching others claim it while I pretend they suck when they really don’t. I don’t like what I see when I gaze at the mirror — because she will never live up to the girl from 2009. I hate Twitter. That’s why I’m on there all the time. The messiness has forced me to stop retweeting so much. That’s the first step. Just stop and stare. The staring exposes the habit that is making it hard for me to connect. It’s a maze of competition that can make a so-called genius idea about a Black man and his daughter’s hair — become the idol of my timeline. It is dope, though — no doubt.
Instagram makes me uncomfortable because I get why I’m envious as fuck at all the amazing people — living amazing lives — from Frankfurt to their toilet seat. I’m a damn mess and so are they — but they are able to make it look so pretty and I still don’t know how to do that without rigorous training.
My mind is fuzzy from working a god-awful job that I knew was coming. I fought so hard to make it die — but my efforts were thwarted.
Despite all the reinforcements, I wasn’t able to garner the career of my dreams, marry the man whose dreams I realized or birth the kids that dreamed of us before we knew.
As I sit here in ruins while President Trump fucks us all — I can’t remember why I loved Obama so much. It wasn’t him. I mean, he made history and all and diligently performed his duties, but his arrival damningly enhanced the theory of my existence.
The editorial landscape was shifting and I was ripe and ready to pounce. I did exactly that and it was sweet. So yummy, that I abandoned the corporate realm and went full throttle to unearth the destiny that had eluded me long enough. Surely, this was the beginning of something good — after wasting my better years asking widows to renew their subscriptions to the theater — on behalf of their dearly departed.
Obama left, and so did I.
He went on to better and I embraced the worst. Our time is now a painful realization that having a Black president actually did very little to stabilize our great nation in the rationale of greatness. Just like my skills as a writer and the willingness to do all it takes to make it — did very little to advance my status.
I’m depressed most days — and I tend to numb the mood with a little help from friends — thanks to the California climate and its greenery. I feel misplaced, misunderstood and mishandled. I feel like an utter loser for complaining about how life sucks.
Dude! If you didn’t make it — that’s your fault.
Yep, that’s how I see it. All my life, I was told that America was the one place — where hard work, determination and perseverance — yields the right results. It worked for you, right? It worked for so many others. It fucking worked for Obama!
Why didn’t it work for me?
I worked hard. I didn’t take the easy road. I had to fight for my survival — every step of the way. I had to prove my worth and I believed that my disciplined mind and artistic tendencies would save me.
I was saved, but not in the way I hoped. Not in this messy vibe that parades all the accumulated junk as a reminder of what my delete button is for.
When you’re initiated into a designated fold — it becomes clear that your very best isn’t quite enough to secure your victory. Maybe the issue was that I never considered what that might look like. Of course I wanted what we all desire as humans.
But, maybe I took for granted how fast the years fly by — when you’re walking the streets of Manhattan with youthful gusto. You’re not ready to ever equate such a moment with a future that will eventually cast you in a similar role against a putrid backdrop.
I’m a goddamn mess — and I won’t doll it up for pride’s sake. I will confess that I don’t know how to live in this life with this life. It’s not about ending it all or begging for legions to assuage my fear that nobody cares.
I don’t care if you care because I don’t.
I’m reckless with my emotions and I’m tired as hell. Everything gives me need to pause and draw breath. When 2009 makes a random appearance — my energy is up — and when my feed offloads the latest shit — I become limp and vulnerable.
If I die today — this is how much I’m worth — despite all the years of service.
On paper, I’m pathetic and the exact antithesis of what the American Dream should look like. If these well-meaning folks could make it — why is your ass still burning for entry like a sad puppy — searching for a blanket to curl into.
That’s why I write.
I write to share my truth so you can decipher whether or not you can be saved. Today was really bad— and for some that means eternity — and for me — it’s just the hours in a day — filled with frustration over my questioning health and mental turbulence. Also, my 7 to 4 is another indicator that employers are recklessly enjoying the “upper hand.”
Having Trump in office has ushered the “years of living dangerously” and I won’t downplay my fear. The plague is a lot more dire than you imagined and even though I called it — I’m also wilting.
Fuck! I want to be righteously good — as my gorgeous black tresses flirt with my well-molded shoulders — and I play with the adjustable connectors that never fail to reassure my enduring appeal.
Shit! That was 2010. Nah, today it’s different. I’m literally trying to stay afloat as the content you give, and I unleash, and we internalize — keeps me up at night — as beads of sweat collect around the intersection of numbing adherence to the lighted shadows.
We are human. And yet, we’re rejecting the characteristics that make us bleed our authority to that fact. When the sun disappeared earlier than usual with the promise of darker days ahead — my mess stopped spreading.
I’m tired of the garbage I program with robotic fury — so that the deadline doesn’t eat me alive or prevent patrons from discovering the reasons why sex after forty doesn’t have to hurt at all.
Yes, you can have it all if you give your all. And if you give it all for nothing — what happens then?
You’re a mess.