know where your towel is. know when to throw it.

I’ve never been very good at hiding my feelings. They’ve developed a nasty habit of bleeding into the expressions on my face and into the words I say, as well as the behaviour I display. This has gone on ever since I can recall.


Sometimes I fool myself into thinking I’m a great pretender. It helps to get knocked down a peg or two by people that see otherwise.






It has been brought to my attention that when I get presented with bad news, I often shut down. I’ve become comfortable with the idea of going off alone for an undetermined amount of time to think about the steps that led to the bad news, and how to deal with it better should it happen again. I don’t want to burden other people with my problems.


I am slowly coming to the realisation that I need to change the way I process. I need to understand that the people around me DO care, and that I should share what I’m feeling with them because they want to be there for me when I need them. So far friends of mine and loved ones alike have taken time out of their busy lives to offer advice and console me where necessary.


(Thank you. I really appreciate your efforts and you’ve helped immensely. You know who you are.)






The way I’ve been dealing with stress has been much the same. I failed to see the destruction my methods were doing. When I’m having it rough, it affects my everyday life, including my interaction with others.


My paramour has been asked by mutual acquaintances of ours, “Is B okay?” or “Did I do something to upset B?”




Now, this isn’t very fair, is it? Actions I imagined to be harmless to others having the converse effect. To me that reads “CHANGE THIS. NOW.” Urgent stamping and all.


Change doesn’t come easy for me. What good or mandatory thing ever does? It’s part of being an adult. Hopefully sorting this out will allow me to put some positive energy into the people I care about in turn, so that they know I can be there for them too. One day at a time.

 

Onward and forward we go.

keep in touch: black hair, representation & question marks

I’ve been dabbling in different hairstyles and colours ever since I felt I could safely get away with it. For me, the start of the experimentation began several years ago, long after I’d moved away from living with parental figures in the ‘burbs, and during college studies in a big city. I also happened to work in an environment that allowed for me to explore various hair dyes and lengths without being fearful of losing my position.


As I am living out the last few years of my twenties, I decided to go in a new direction – that of natural promotion of hair growth, and no more breaking down of hair via chemical straighteners such as relaxers. (I am undecided on hair straightening combs.)


Early last fall, I hacked off most of the hair I’d dyed purple previously and since then have been developing a small afro. I shop around for different conditioners suited to curly hair, various earthy balms and oils to massage into my scalp, etc. Only recently have I decided to share my progress in picture form on some of the more known social networking sites. It yielded a rather interesting message from someone dear to me in the past:

for much of the time I knew you (especially the earlier years) I always sorta had this feeling like you were somehow repressing/ignoring/whatever your race/ethnicity/heritage. I get the feeling these days that you’re more in touch with yourself (and, for better or worse, that tends to be a part of it), and I’m happy for you for that.

My initial reaction was to smile about it and say thank you. Days later I still feel as though that was the proper action to take, while also admitting that there were some elements of me that I was hiding within the jars of Manic Panic/squeeze bottles of Special Effects dye.


To be honest, it’s difficult for me to attempt to represent what my nationality seems outwardly because I don’t truly know it. I’ve been so curious about it at times I made up stories to suit me, which understandably led to a bit of trouble.


I was adopted at age six. I’ve no clue about the people who contributed to my birth, nor the alleged siblings. Usually, tackling serious life constraints have taken precedent over finding out any of this information, but now that things seem to be ironing out again, perhaps I can trudge forward with at least obtaining papers on medical information.




Back on point to the note I received. I DO feel I am more in touch with who I am as a person. I am definitely less introverted, but I have a long way to go before anyone will call me outgoing.


I don’t think I need funky hair colours to represent anything or get people to pay attention to me, but I still think of dyed hair as a lot of fun (and like most hair decisions, a pain in the arse to maintain)! Perhaps I’ll return to it in a while; I don’t pretend to know. I enjoy where I am now, and that’s enough.