Crying Space

Photo Courtesy of Wisegeek.com

When have I not cried? Yeah, that is an easier question to answer than; when have I cried? This gets me more to the point because I have cried more times than I care to remember. I cried when the Titanic sunk in the movie Titanic. When Phoebe gave up the triplets she had been carrying for his brother in Friends. I cried in almost every episode of Army Wives-that series is a tear-jerker! I cried when Md and I got engaged. I cried when Heidi tearfully bid farewell to her cousin recently and hugged him so tight, refusing to let go. When Hailey, while hugging and kissing me on the cheek, neck, eyes, mouth, told me how much she missed me when I was away in Nairobi for a whole week.

So, when have I not cried?

This warm Wednesday evening, I am walking along a busy road. I am in deep thought. Cars swish past me. Thoughts that I shouldn’t be having start creeping into my mind. They peep in. Look around for some space. There is little room, barely enough to accommodate one leg or an arm, or a small head. These thoughts are determined. They know that all they need is a small opening. True to their conviction (and thanks to my aimless walking, my straying thoughts, and a difficult day that drained me as it took its time to come to an end) they find that tiny crack to squeeze themselves through.

With one leg in, the thoughts start to slowly feed my mind with negativity. They can barely be heard since I am on a busy road and thinking is not all I am doing entirely. I am watching out for the passing cars, giving room for the human traffic going against my direction, stopping to give room to a sweating mkokoteni guy…these thoughts need my attention. They squeeze in and before I know it, two legs are in. Both arms find room. A big head squeezes in as well. They are slowly progressing from inconsequential whispers to overwhelming noises. They are taking over. My attention is drawn to them. My positivity is neglected. Surely, I am not going to kick positivity to the curb only to focus on these newcomers, now am I?

Well, I do.

A car passes by in full speed almost hitting me. I have strayed from the pavement to the road. The driver peeps out and curses me out. Just like that, the negatives find a better avenue to assert themselves: “You could have died on this road. That car could have hit you. If that happened and you died, would anyone really miss you? You really think so? Who?” Do they have a point? I think about it.

I think about so much more. I am now a walking host to bad vibes. I reek of negativity.  I stink of a bad attitude. Of bad feelings. I am all blue and full of gloom. I have a mind to get a sticker and put it on my forehead that reads: Suffering from Acute Melancholia. Highly Contagious!  

I have a lump in my throat. My eyes tingle. There are tears welling up. Fast. They want to be let out. But I am on the streets. People will see me. I might meet someone who recognizes me and they will insist on talking to me and I will feel like slapping them across the face, and I will try to talk to them anyway because it’s the right thing to do and my mouth will open and the words will refuse to come out and the tears will refuse to stay in and the waterworks will flow and the person will stand there looking all confused wondering what it is they said, or did, or who is responsible for the tears, whether I am a victim of a dead beat dad…then  I will shake my head, they will keep prodding, asking why I am upset, what has gone wrong, who has wronged me, whether I am sick or hungry, or angry or ... That sign on my forehead would have come in handy!

Seriously, who doesn’t know not to ask questions when you see a grown woman crying. Women need some alone time with their emotions sometimes. I know I do.

I need space where no one will ask me why I have tears in my eyes. Where I can cry so that the lump in my throat is cleared - I actually get a sore throat when I am stressed so there must be a connection. I need somewhere where I can cry, wail, snort, sob, heave, and not care how ugly I look. Well, I need space to wear that teary, mucus-y face with pride. And I will not answer any questions. Space that will shield me from judging looks. A place that will cushion me from labels like ‘softy’ or ‘pathetic’ or ‘unstable’ or ‘poor Renee’. Where I will not be expected to act all put together. I need a place where I can break apart.

This space will enable me to express these dark emotions the way a mother expresses milk that burn her welling breasts. The toxic emotions need to be excreted from my body before they corrode me from the inside. I am in dire need of some crying space. But where does one find that? Where in this crowded busy world?

While others can hold their tears and their hurt until they are in that comfortable crying space; in the comfort of their beds at night, behind the walls of their homes, out of glaring eyes and unwelcome queries- I don’t have that luxury. I am embarrassingly unable to hold the tears when they demand to get out!

As if on cue, one tear trickles down my cheek. Maybe this is not the best time to cross the road to the other side then? I will just stand here for a minute or two. I reach for my handkerchief from my purse…

See, until I grant these ‘visiting’ thoughts time to express their fears, their anger and disappointment. Until I acknowledge these feelings and cry them out of my system, I will not be able to smile again. Unacknowledged feelings are like that drunk cousin at a family reunion, they say. They won’t shut up so you can hear anyone else. They go on and on and on. These feelings may be unwanted but they have a purpose. After the acknowledgement, I will be able to see more clearly (I will cross that road with better care for sure!) I am then better placed to forge ahead. I can then welcome back positivity. I can even afford a smile. J

I will be ‘normal’ again in a minute. Normal meaning; jovial, full of hope, fun. But that is not really the meaning of ‘Normal’, now is it?

If you spot me standing at the corner of a street with my head bowed down and a handkerchief covering my eyes, do me a favor and move right along. There is nothing here for you to see. Just an emotional woman grabbing her rightful crying space.

And No. It couldn’t wait!

Have a positive week!

Vera Sidika: Whatever Makes You Sleep Better At Night

It is three o’clock in the a.m and sleep eludes me. I have been tossing and turning for a while. Insomnia and I are bedfellows (wink, wink!). Then Md woke up for a glass of milk and the morsel of sleep that I could have used to ignite much more, flew out the window. I had to throw away the covers and seek the solace of the keyboard.

Writing at this hour is so peaceful. So quiet that you can literally hear the ‘tap’ of your fingers on the keyboard as your thoughts flow from your head to a Microsoft word page. The sound of silence is so seductive. The air is still. The only movement is from my fingers, the only sound is the soft tap, tap, tap. This is profound serenity. I wish it could last forever.

All day yesterday, my mind was on a post I was to do. I wanted to give my two cents on Vera Sidika’s recent body changes. Her skin lightening and boob enlargement, mostly. I wrote paragraph after paragraph but the story was just not connecting the way I knew it should. For me, the best thing to do to an obstinate story that refuses to come together is to leave it alone. Let it lie there and ferment for a while. When you come back to it, its ripeness will sting your nostrils as soon as you open the page. Then you can devour it like there is no tomorrow.

I therefore let the Vera story be and I slept. All the while knowing that I owed you a post. That must be the reason why I woke up at a few minutes to 3 a.m to answer the call of nature (the things I share with you on this blog yawa!) and couldn’t go back to sleep. It’s the guilt of leaving you hanging yesterday. I could see your evil eye cast in my direction as you refreshed the page and no new post was forthcoming. Yeah, I could sense your indignation. I saw how you looked at me. How you closed the web page in annoyance. Yeah, thank you very much for interrupting my sleep by the way!

When Vera Sidika first talked about her skin lightening on TV, I wondered loudly what the hell was wrong with this woman. I shook my head, like I suspect most Kenyans out there did as she twirled her hair backwards in a ‘don’t care’ attitude. “My body is my business” she said. I analyzed her. I diagnosed her to have self-esteem issues. Concluded that as a child, she was never told that she was beautiful enough times. I, in my most judgmental outfit, prescribed a shrink to talk to her and help her deal with whatever issues she was dealing with.

I am a woman in my thirties and I too believe that my body is my business. I don’t like being judged. No one out there knows me better than I know myself. My choices now reflect on my experiences while growing up. My thought process is based on my beliefs, my values and my morals (or lack thereof, depending on who you ask)  

I imagined therefore, someone telling me that their life is better than mine. That I should do things their way, based on their beliefs and values. I imagined how it would sit with me to have someone dictate my choices to me. I concluded that it wouldn’t augur well with me. Not in the least bit. This train of thought is what prompted me out of bed.

It dawned on me (at dawn nonetheless!) that at this point in my life, I don’t appreciate being judged or being told what to do, and most probably so doesn’t Vera. As an adult (of sound mind, if I might add) I embrace the person that I am ever so tightly, than ever before. I love my hair in dreadlocks, I love how I dress. I love who I am, warts and all! I make my decisions based on what I believe in. If I can live with the choices I make, then so should everybody else.

I am all woman. Perfectly WOMAN. All grown. I have earned the privilege of being allowed to make my own mistakes. I wouldn’t appreciate it if that privilege was taken away from me.

I don’t know how old Vera is (really) but I know that the people we should be paying attention to are our children. Vera is a grown woman. We should leave her to her mistakes and focus instead in influencing our young children and our teens. We should be helping build their self esteem. We should be telling our young girls that they are beautiful. We should be teaching them to value themselves so that when they choose their role models, it will be someone who is comfortable in her own skin.

If I don’t appreciate an adult woman lightening her skin, tough! That is my problem which I have to deal with. I don’t advocate for boob enlargement through plastic surgery, but tough on me! Those are my demons to exorcise, not hers. So what if she is all fake? If she is happy with herself, who are we? Just because I go to church every (most, really J ) Sunday, does it mean I should go knocking on other people’s doors and prevail upon them to go to church with me? And if they prefer to sleep in, should I sneer and point fingers, predicting fire and brimstone on their souls in the hereafter?

Personal choices, as long as they don’t border on criminality, are to be respected. And mine are as important as the next person’s. Infringing on those choices is denying someone the right to live their lives. The right to be themselves.

Even though you will catch me dead getting a boob job or bleaching my skin (I could only ever afford ‘River Road’ bleaching anyway), I realize that people have a right to make their mistakes. They then get to learn from those mistakes. Folly is thinking that I hold a stake in someone else’s destiny. I don’t. In the same way that no one else does in mine.

Vera could possibly have whatever issues we would like to diagnose her with. But all that is speculation. We haven’t walked a mile in her shoe. We don’t know how her typical day looks like. We are clueless on how she sleeps at night. What goes through her head as it hits the pillow at the end of the day? What does she think about when she can’t sleep at 3am in the morning?

We are in no position to judge her.

I am in no position to tell her story.

When faced with decisions, whatever makes you sleep better at night suffices. It is your life, your beauty sleep. If your conscience is clear, you owe no one nothing!

We will talk and give our opinion about you, but in the end, you are the only one who gets to live with the choices you make. You will stop living the day you let others make those choices for you.

Please don’t ever let that happen. Live your life!