Welcome back my friend. How are you today? I’d love to hear about your day actually. Good, bad, or neutral. We Americans ask each other that question without expecting a genuine response, but in this space, I ask with intention. How are you?
The comment box is at the end of each post if you’d like to let me know. Thank you in advance for interacting with me.
At the time I’m writing this, I’m tense. Work sucked and I’m exhausted. My shoulders are scrunched, my back tight, and I could probably give myself a tension headache from how deep my frown is.
Over the last few weeks, I’m really realizing how tense I always seem to be. I literally had to buy a mouth guard to stop grinding my teeth in my sleep. How am I tense even in rest? How does that happen? Ha~
I Found the Source of the Ticking
Why? Why am I so tense? Great question…
Are you keeping up with the news these days? I unfortunately have the compulsion to stay informed on politics as a black, queer person with several disabilities.
I have been devastated over and over by the loss and grief I’m witnessing on a regular basis. I’ve watched and learned in horror with many of you as we witness death, destruction and pure evil exist on the mainstage of media.
And I refuse to allow myself to become desensitized. I choose to process my feelings and allow them to fuel me into moving forward and advocating for marginalized voices as much as I can.
Tension and frustration are being stored in our bodies at an alarming rate, and there are many people who simply take that stress out on other humans.
Violence ensues from this kind of perpetual state of dysregulation and fear. Especially without the comfort of community to cradle us and center us when we feel afraid. “Rugged individualism,” ya know?
I believe we were never meant to be this stressed as human beings.
I believe we were meant to exist in nervous system neutrality a vast majority of the time. And my therapist agrees so you know I’m probably right.
My Therapist Also Said This Works So…
I’d like to guide you on a meditation if that’s alright. This meditation includes mindfulness and progressive relaxation.
When triggered, do you notice a certain area of your body will feel tense or hot? If you’re like me, it becomes very apparent in your body that you’re triggered. You can soften that trigger by doing this exercise. At least that’s what my therapist says.
Hello readers. I want you to know that I love you dearly, but I think it’s cringe to type out this guided meditation. So for this reason, I will give your eyes a break this evening. If you’d like to join our meditation, please listen to the audio version.
Now I know this may be disappointing my reader, for that I apologize. However I can promise you that by engaging with the meditation, you’ll have a tool in your belt to help you decompress for free 99, AND the next read will be well worth the wait. 😉
Sometimes life is hard and it leads to strong emotions. It’s okay to feel strongly. You have valid reasons to feel those emotions. You didn’t consciously choose to feel that way. You are experiencing.
Be self-compassionate. You are learning. Allow yourself to be softer as you experience your emotions. Accept your feelings, call them by name “frustration, anger, disappointment, grief…” Identify where, physically, they cause tension, hotness, etc. and soften the edges. Gently ease them away.
It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s okay to feel negative emotions. Love yourself gently. You deserve your compassion and kindness.
This story comes with several content warnings. There will be mentions of attempted suicide, drug overdose, alcoholism, homophobia, and domestic violence. If this story is too heavy my dear reader, please take care of yourself first.
In my universe, the names of the humans in my life may be changed to protect their privacy.
Inception of an Innocent Dream
Of everything I wanted in life, I wanted to be an excellent wife and mother most. I already gave up the dream of being an author at 16, and I knew English teachers didn’t make much money – but that’s what I wanted to do.
If only I had the opportunity to marry a man who would be the provider I was told I wanted. Only then could follow my passion freely and make my salary of peanuts work. I could live a simple life and happily take care of my family.
Considering what it would take to be a good wife and mother was a no-brainer. I was raised sheltered and Christian, so my path was laid out for me. I needed to be devoted to God first and serve my husband second. I became more religious from ages 18 to about 21. Never mind those pesky feelings I had towards other girls. That was for play not for longevity. At least, that’s what I was told and believed at the time.
In my teens, I considered myself bisexual but hetero-romantic. Meaning I liked boys and girls but I’d only date boys. I was serious about being a mother and at the time, I only knew of one way to do so. How could I take another girl seriously if I wanted children? (Yes, I was this dumb. Please feel free to boo teenage me for this ridiculous take.)
A fresh 18 years old.
I thought I knew everything.
If I could marry well, I could really do it – love and be loved in a soft way. In a way that expresses kindness and generosity without threat of violence. For a God-fearing, kind-hearted man, I would give him 2 children and a well-decorated home.
I already cared for my siblings since the age of 9 so I was pretty familiar with cooking, cleaning, and getting kids ready for school. I figured being an actual mother wouldn’t be too much different, and as a bonus, I’d get to make the rules. In my house, my kids wouldn’t need the dishes to squeak to prove cleanliness and they could even have as much Dr. Pepper as they wanted.
I could prove to myself that love and family in a healthy way was not only possible, but an environment with which I could thrive and grow as a person. A proper partner didn’t need violence. I didn’t need to be yelled at or hit or plainly tortured in order to learn.
Tough love, shedding blood, and gaining new scars wasn’t the only way to be “loved”.
Along Came Larry
The years put wind to my face and I found myself in a teacher’s college at a state university.
Week one I met a guy at a dorm party I’d spend the next two and a half years with – Lawrence. He was charismatic, God-fearing, and wanted to be a lawyer. We moved in together after matching Disney sweaters and Adderall powered sex marathons.
Larry was younger than me and highly intelligent. At times, I found myself in awe of him. Larry was the type of guy that would annoy you until you loved him and then surprise you with a deep conversation.
Year one point five, he’d ask me to marry him over Chinese food in the living room of our studio apartment. No ring. No frills. Just maybe we should do this for real? It’s been long enough and this is what people do. Right?
It wasn’t romantic but I convinced myself that it was perfect at the time. We were two college kids in love. We hosted taco nights with our friends and binge watched Scandal together. Our home church even knew us as couple destined for greatness. A future lawyer and teacher – how precious. Clearly we were a match made in heaven.
I’d buy my own ring at a JC Penney as a “placeholder.” Spoiler alert: it was never replaced by an actual engagement ring and we told no one about wanting to get married. We wore promise rings though which were cheap and turned our fingers green.
The Beginning of the End
We upgraded to a 2 bedroom post “proposal”, when we both got good paying jobs at the same company. I use good paying very loosely my reader. This is America after all. Life was good… for awhile.
Despite doubling our salaries with our fancy new jobs, Larry hated it. He hated the job more than the average disgruntled employee and would intentionally cause problems just because. He stayed in the role only to help with the bills and he made that very clear.
One day Larry came home with exciting news.
“Babe, I got this amazing opportunity to work at a law firm. So boom, I met this guy and he told me he’d get me an interview. They just called me, after-hours mind you, and they scheduled it for tomorrow! Bae, there’s only one other applicant. I’mma get this job!” He pulls me into a bear hug in our tiny kitchen.
I’m giggling and shit, “Hell yeah babe! That’s what’s up! Look at God!”
In my head: Look at my…I mean our… dream unfolding. I’m on the right path. If this really shakes out...
“God is good!” His voice lifts.
I’m planning our future mentally like: Having his foot in the door of a law firm before he’s even in law school is so impressive! His resume will look leagues better than anyone else’s...
My instincts take over, “All the time!”
“I trust in Him so much, babe,” He cradles my face and peppers my cheeks with kisses. “The way my faith is set up…”
What is he even saying?: If the job pays well, we could even get a new car in a couple months. Then, wedding planni…
“I quit my funky ass job bae. We’re coming up!”
HUH?
“Wait, without even having the interview yet?”
“Of course baby,” wet lips press against my neck as I go stiff, “don’t you trust in God and in me? I got this. I put in my two weeks,” he kisses my unresponsive lips. “They said I should know the results of the interview next week. The job would start at the end of the month. That’s only one paycheck missed. C’mon it’s fine. It’s all good.”
He slaps my ass and gives me a quick peck. Flashing an unconvincing smile, he dances away to take a shot of bumpy face gin in celebration.
I stood stunned in silence as he called his favorite cousin to brag. As much as I had faith, my gut was screaming, “What about our bills if it doesn’t work out?”
Uncontrolled Drinking is Very Bad
Is literally anyone surprised he didn’t get the job?
Pretty immediately after getting the rejection call he started to drink heavily, party more, and treat me like his personal servant. The loss of opportunity seemed to crush his spirit.
At 1am on a random Thursday, he called me to pick him and his best friend Isaac up from a house party. He then proceeded to waste my time by extending the world’s longest drunk goodbyes with his new “friends” all whilst knowing I had an exam in the morning.
I drove to the spot in my pajamas and bonnet and waited for him. Calling, texting, calling again only to be met with radio silence. I eventually fell asleep in my car. Upon finally stumbling his sloppy ass into the car, two hours later, he proceeded to openly insult me.
I won’t tell you the insult my reader, it hurt too badly. It’s something I am still self-conscious about more than a decade later.
Mind you, this was in front of a quickly sobering Isaac, who was trying to actively teleport home to escape this nightmare of a situation. Of note, Isaac is a sweet guy with the most incredible manners. A true gentleman. And here I am…boo boo the fool arguing with this drunk asshole he calls his friend and I call a fiancé.
Arguments like this became more frequent between Larry and I.
Unemployed and glued to Call of Duty, he would drunkenly demand dinner the moment I got home from working overtime to cover his half of the bills. The apartment a wreck, I would always find him in the same dirty spot on the couch as when I left for work. If I didn’t cook, he wasn’t eating. If I didn’t clean, there would be maggots in the sink.
Weeks dragged into months of taking his deep depression out on me. Six months to be exact.
This Isn’t the Last of Larry
I broke up with him. After six months of unemployment, insults, and filth, I finally got mad enough to leave. I wasn’t, however, mad enough to kick him out of the apartment. Homelessness is unimaginably difficult, and I couldn’t imagine being the reason someone suffers that way. I’d regret that choice a few weeks later, but that’s a story for another time.
He took one room, I took the other.
On day 2 post break-up he would loudly cry in his room on the phone with another girl to try to get my attention. I blasted Amy Winehouse’s “Stronger Than Me” in retaliation.
Day 3 post break-up, I had a mock-interview with my manager in preparation for a promotion I applied for. I was dressed in my interview attire, had my flashcards at the ready, and was psyching myself up. One hour of customer service calls, then it’s showtime.
Don’t lie, I looked cute in my lil button up and sew-in.
My cellphone rang. I silenced it. It rang again. I silenced it. It rang a third time. I look at it like, “Who the fuck is blowing up my phone right now?” It’s Isaac?
“Hello?” I’m pre-annoyed.
“Hey something’s up. You gotta get home.”
I can hear the tension in his voice. “What’s up? What’s going on?”
“Larry, man, I think he’s overdosing. I don’t know what to do.”
“What?” My body froze. “Overdosed on what? What do you mean?”
I can hear Lawrence slurring between sobs in the background, “I’d rather die…She’s really leaving me…” Bile warmed the knot forming in my throat.
“Man, I don’t know. He got drunk and drank a whole thing of lean he said. His heartbeat is real slow and…he…”
My thoughts could’ve beat Usain Bolt in a race. I ain’t hear shit he said after that to be honest.
“What the fuck?” Whispering, I power walked from my cubicle to the break room. “Lean??”
Although we weren’t together, and I didn’t see a future with him, I didn’t want him to die. I told Isaac to hang up with me and call Larry’s mom, who was a nurse, while I tried to leave work.
I found my boss, and tried to explain that I had to go, but my voice faded into uncontrollable sobs, “How did this happen?” I fell apart.
The violent reality hit me all at once. He wasn’t going to let me leave so easily. I couldn’t believe he honestly went this far like… This isn’t what I wanted at all. I just wanted to stop arguing.
My boss, bless her, would not let me drive during a full mental breakdown. She booked a conference room for me for the entire remainder of my shift – the mock interview could wait. The cold plastic table in that frigid office was my best friend for the next two hours.
I cried and shook until I couldn’t anymore, and then I nervously drove home. The apartment was eerily quiet and empty.
My phone showed I got a text from Isaac confirming Larry’s mother got to the apartment. She apparently packed his things and took him to his childhood home before I could get there.
I’m not sure if he actually overdosed that day, but I can tell you that he lived.
I thought this would be the end of the tale of Larry and I. Turns out it was just strike 1 in the ballgame of chasing my dreams, and the beginning of Larry’s post-break-up crashout.
I always wondered if I told my life’s story, if anyone would believe me. No one believes the boy who cried wolf, if he cries too much. Even if there was a coyote, dog, or fox every time.
WASTED
“Girl, you won’t believe what’s goin on.”
“Life is just kickin my ass right now.”
“I’m gonna laugh about it because if I don’t, I’mma cry.”
Many of my conversations lately have started this way, and when I say lately, I mean for the past twenty years. I am, unfortunately, the “crisis” friend. From romance, to health, to home stability – you name it – drama seems to plague me and it has since birth. Honestly, pre-birth if we’re really going there, but that’s an epigenetics or spiritual conversation for another time.
In the Beginning…There was Writing
I was inspired by reading and writing at a young age – enchanted by the adventures to far off lands amidst home-grown chaos. I found myself in love with books of all kinds and dreaming of being an adventure guide – author edition.
I love to indulge in fantasy created by others, but as for myself and my pen, we prefer honest story-telling. I wanted to capture my audience with reality stained in desperate truth.
In high-school I learned about unreliable narrators. I recall thinking I would end up like that because my memory was already shot at 16.
Is the story still compelling when the truth is wrapped in menthol cigarette smoke and adrenaline?
The absurd and grotesque, the blissful and beautiful moments of my life have at times, felt like an out of body experience. How could I explain that at 16? With what vocabulary?
Anyway, because I doubted my memory as a teen, I inadvertently became an avid writer. I journal my stories, scribble my memories, brain dump my theories, and yap to anyone who would be a captive audience. I desperately want to remember who I am, who I have been, and how I’ve lived.
This is of grave importance to me.
In my twenties, I learned that of my siblings, who grew up in the same home as me, I am the only one who remembers our childhood. It is my burden to bear and story to tell.
I also found that when you can’t recall the exact specifics and no one can corroborate your story, people tend to doubt your sincerity and authenticity. If too many terrible things happen, you’re the problem.
The neighbors are always watching. Watching you take your trash out every day. Watching you come and go. Waving to you. Smiling. How friendly are these people?
Then they ask to lift your skirt. “Those socks are so sexy. I couldn’t help it.” “Dude, aren’t you like 65? I’m 23.”
Listen, the life I’ve lived… I can’t make this shit up. As I unravel my story, ask yourself, who would want to make this shit up about themselves anyway?
I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that my life is actually “normal” and “mundane”. That I’m being dramatic and overreacting like everyone says.
Yet, time and time again I find myself enchanting my friends with life stories. Those conversations always ends with, “You should have your own show! You should write a book!” Those words would ring in my head – chiming like different bells in human form.
Can I find the art and beauty even in my chaotic life?
In the Present…It’s Showtime
I’m Z. Nova. Pleasure to virtually meet you. Welcome to my specially curated show. Well, this isn’t exactly a “show” per se, but you are here watching me in a way, aren’t you? Whatever the case, I hope you’re here to kick back, be entertained, and learn to love the tragic mess that is life through my senses.
I’ll be your host, your narrator, your chef, and your adventure guide.
On this adventure, I’ll show you my life and my memories in my way. I’ll tell you about my grandmother while sharing my take on her famous eggnog recipe. I’ll paint you the worst heartbreak I’ve ever felt. I’ll sing the song that was playing when I realized I was in love.
Am I the best singer/painter/chef ? Chile, no. I’m wildly imperfect and prone to making mistakes early and often. I’m human. In this safe space, my mistakes are transformed into stories with unfinished edges and digestible lessons.
I don’t need to be 100% reliable to be 100% real.
In my experience memories are often more feeling than fact anyway. The raw, honesty of human imperfection is what makes the most compelling story. Wouldn’t you agree?
“Self Portrait” – 2016
In showing you my naked truth, I hope you are inspired toward authenticity in a world focused on who can lie “better”.
Ultimately, on the question of whether or not you believe me, the truth is, it doesn’t matter to me. My voice and my story are meant to be shared. I’m not ashamed of who I’ve been in my worst or best moments. I want to love all versions of me with full acceptance and accountability. I want you, my reader, to love yourself that deeply too.
So if by chance, my raw truth inspires you, please stick around and join me on this journey. Let’s laugh, cry, and grow together in community. But only if you believe the boy who cries wolf. Even if it’s not a wolf every time.
