god?

i recently got into a discussion on twitter about god. it's strange when you tell someone you do not believe in a god. it's like... what i assume coming out of the closet feels like. you get blank stares, and people instantly pass a judgement against you. it doesn't matter how long you've known the person you profess your beliefs, or rather, non beliefs to, in that second that they know your a "non believer" you become a heathen, a savage, a poor soul. it's like you no longer walk fully upright, drag knuckles, and eat raw flesh.

I consider myself to be pretty "tolerant" (i don't really like this word because it always sounds negative) I'm a black no religion having girl, raised by white pentecostal parents. my best friends consist of a christian, a gay ex-catholic, and whatever B is. I won't sit here and say that i don't see colors and i don't label people, because that would be a lie. and anyone who says they don't is a liar, what is will say is that i don't care. i don't care about religion, or sexual orientation, or gender, or race. i don't care if you're a vegan... i don't understand it but that doesn't affect my life. My parents love jesus, i don't understand it, but i love them regardless.

at the end of the day the only thing that matters is that you're a good person, and a good friend. and everything else fuck it.

what the heck was that?!

Yesterday I had my first gyno appointment. that's one hell of an opening...(that's what she said). and while i expected to be nervous, what really happened just seemed to be... there is no word to describe it. I'm just gonna call it a cluster fuck. but here goes the story.

I was sitting in the waiting room, just me and an elderly gentleman, it was a good 10 minutes past my appointment time so my anxiety level was just steadily climbing out of control. I was thinking about bolting from the office when the door opened and a woman mispronounced my name, i corrected her in my head and picked up my purse and followed her into the room. when i walked in the room at the doctors office, a Beatles themed room, the first thing i saw was the blue footies on the stirrups. Panic. I sat uncomfortably in the chair while we had the preliminary interview. she asked me all sorts of questions of my history, and sexual history and reason for visiting. it's weird divulging this type of information to a complete stranger, one you're supposed to instantly trust. this goes against everything you've ever been taught about modesty and such. but i explained to her that while no i was not sexually active, and had not been, i wanted to get checked out just to make sure. after that I informed my nurse practitioner that I had never done any of this before, which prompted her to change tactics, and explain everything that was going to happen in the visit.

While she was explaining everything, the breast exam, the outer pelvic exam, the inner exam etc. i started to feel myself losing it. out of no where i could feel myself fighting tears and i started shaking. I broke down in the office, crying uncontrollably, neither Nurse Dawn nor I knew what the heck was happening. from this response she naturally assumed that i had been sexually assaulted, or raped, or molested and wanted to talk to me about it. when i told her that no none of those things happened, she jumped to the fact that maybe i was just uncomfortable learning about myself, which was also not the case. i just told her that this was new and it freaked me out a little. so after giving me a box of tissues, changing subjects, she stood up, pulled out a gown and a paper sheet gave me my instructions and left the room.

Now i won't give you the details of the exam because A. you don't actually want to know, and B. I don't want to relive it. but the gist is that the entire exam i cried, I was uncomfortable, but she wasn't hurting me, i just cried. she asked me if i wanted someone in there to hold my hand through the inner pelvic exam and i absolutely refused. why on Earth would i want anyone else in there. i didn't even want her in there. she kept narrating the entire time, something i didn't really want, or need, just do it and get away from me! and then lets never make eye contact again. everything checks out okay. which is good.

i put my clothes on, got my papers and left. i went instantly to my rehearsal where i broke down again in the arms of my best friend D, and spent the rest of the day exhausted: emotional, physically, and vocally. after my rehearsal i went home got a hot bath, and cried. hysterically for a really long time.

during my day i had a lot of time to think about my panic attack and then mental lapse and what actually caused it. the talk started with D and then i was in my head all day about it. but we came to the conclusion that my body issues are just so out of control the idea of being exposed in that matter was just more than my silly little mind could tolerate.

my doctors appointment was also to discuss my diabetes care and management. i was diagnosed with diabetes at age 10. and since then i have only taken care of it sporadically. and not even that much. i just always figured that if i ignored it long enough it'll go away. well, 11 years later it's still here, and it's still out of control. my doctors and nurses have been trying to get me to attend a diabetic counseling session at the hospital to try and teach me more about myself and all that junk, and I've been pretty resistant to it. but now
that i don't have a job, and I'm not going to school and I'm really just looking for things to do i might just go.

i do really want to know what happens if you sneeze with the duck lips in?

this might be good news.

so, i've been wearing the same size bra for a couple of years now. prior to finding my "proper" size i was wearing a very wrong size. it seems, as i've learned from many talk shows and internet articles that most women wear the wrong bra size. anyway back to the story, in high school i was wearing a band size too small and a cup size too big. and it would seem that i was ALWAYS getting poked, cut, and attacked by the underwire in these wrong bras. finally when i decided that maybe this bra size wasn't for me and i got my stuff together it was magic! not only did my bras last longer than 3 months, but my back didn't hurt and my chest was supported. magic i say! but now, after a couple years of wearing the bras that fit something went wrong. i've been starting to get that band cut again, (and only the ladys will understand what that means.) but for the people who don't know what that is it's when the band -the part that goes around the middle with the hooks- leaves an impression and when you remove it, it feels like you've been cut. it sucks.. and kind of hurts. okay so usually that would mean something is getting larger. but, but, but, i haven't actually grown, i've actually shrunk everywhere so the only logical explanation is that my actual breasts (ew, i hate that word i'm just gonna say it,) boobs are getting bigger. and all i have to say is... it's about damn time!

valentines day.

as i sit here alone in my living room watching jurassic park i can't help but think about all the other lonely valentines days i've had in the past. I understand that I'm only 21, and i'm really overthinking all of this but they've all been spent exactly the same way, reflecting on myself, searching for my own flaws. these flaws i've rationalized are obviously the reasons why i'm still alone and probably always will be. the older i get the more i believe that there is fundamentally something unloveable about me.

this is just a stupid sad girl post.
and i understand this. it's just that.
I never thought i was anything special, but i was hoping that maybe you did.

but there it is. I hate valentines day.

black history

growing up in a predominately white area -i was the only black kid in my class until the 8th grade- the subject of slavery really didn't come up. basically when teachers talk about slavery they say something along the lines of this

"African Americans (even though they weren't Americans... but white people still say African Americans when referring to black people just to cover their bases) were brought to this country *muffled* mostly against their will *muffled* they were kept as *whisper* slaves *whisper* and then Abe Lincoln came and about 250 years later and the African Americans were no longer slaves... and now African Americans are equals... the end"
okay, so that wasn't the actual talk, but that was the gist. the teachers touched on the regions that black people came from, the horrid conditions of how they traveled, the spirituals, the underground railroad, north vs. south. etc. but usually when you bring up the idea of slavery, white America (most of them) becomes embarrassed. as if in the 1800's it was they themselves who oppressed other people. i've always found this comical, probably because people tend to want to apologize to me... I'm Haitian... your people, your great-great-great-great-great granddaddy did nothing to me... his french cousin on the other hand... well we got issues.

but as i type this out i realized i really don't know that much about black history, most of what i have retained has been acquired from television, plays, or fictitious novels- that i read with a grain of salt. when i was younger history didn't interest me, and black history just made me sad. and today i still cannot even begin to fathom that type of hatred. I've been called the "N" word - usually never to my face-, been scoffed at, been followed around stores so many times . and it took a while to understand why i let myself feel hurt every time that happened. and it occurred to me once... it's not my problem... it's theirs. These people who believe it was okay to treat other people in this manner means that they did not have even slightly educated parents, even worse their parents were raised by somehow even less educated parents. and all the way back through history. and it's okay to feel sorry for them.

I want to learn more about my history the older i get. i want to learn about my Haitian past, and my American past. i want to properly understand the struggle, so i can properly appreciate the efforts put forth. it's weird the older I get.. the more i want to learn. who would of thought that?

Sorry if this was scattered thoughts and such...

Happy Black History Month!!!

below i've posted links about slavery... don't judge me for using Wikipedia.
when the full video hits youtube i'll post it here to... it's an excellent interview on Craig Ferguson

Wiki's Slavery in the United States page
this is a preview of Dr. Cornell West on Craig Ferguson >

i have a problem.

i have lots of unfinshed entrys... and cannot finish a single one.

this one is finished though, yay progress.

the year of change.

As this is my first blog post here (i wrote this one first, and then published it second), or anywhere rather, i feel as if i should give some sort of introduction. I've been meaning to start one of these for a while now, and now that i am unemployed, and in some sort of funk i figured why not now?

so here it goes, I'm your typical black kid from a middle class white family. I was adopted at a very young age from Haiti and have lived in the united states for 19 years. I've lived in a small town for my entire life, with one exception, when i attended an acting conservatory for a year in New York City.  Throughout my whole life I've struggled with my weight, finding acceptance, depression, and a fear of never finding love.

I don't really know why i felt so desperate to join the world of narcissists and start writing about myself publicly. i do find journaling therapeutic, and i think my friends are growing tired of hearing me bitch.

in the last year i decided it was time to change. it all revolved around my 21st birthday. In the winter of eighth grade i cut off all of my hair and went "natural", at first i hated it but i grew to love it and embrace the style that i went on to keep for 8 years. right before my birthday I decided that i needed a change, i wanted to look great in my new license picture so in a rather rash decision I went from my short natural curly hair, to relaxed. (during the year i dabbled with long braids, and while i liked the style, and having hair longer than my chin bone the $200 and the 10-12 hours it took to put in and the indescribable pain it was really not a style that i could keep for years.)

After the hair fiasco I got my first tattoo; a cute symbol four music notes minus the stems (so yes, dots) ascending upwards with a fermata centered over them. ... almost instantly i regretted it. it not that it was an awful tattoo or that I'll ever hate music or my friends it was just that i finally committed to something and that scared me.  The four notes on my hip were carefully picked, the first letter of my friends initials, including mine are A, B, C, and D. these three people are the best friends I've ever had the honor of having. I was recently Maid of Honor in A's wedding, D and I just finished designing his first album cover (it's phenomenal - the cover, and the music of course.) and B has been one of my best friends and confidant since we first became friends 8 years ago in the eighth grade.

the most recent change was that i lost my job shortly after the wedding. I went into work, clocked in as usual had a brief two minute conversation with my manager, clocked out, and left the building. i kept my composure, stayed very stoic not letting anyone know that this could have bothered me. I got in my car, called D and told him what happened. he was busy that night, my parents were at work, A was still at the job i had just been fired from, and B was with her girlfriend. I don't have a boyfriend so i drove home and sat in my car and cried uncontrollably for 4 hours (no i did not spend 4 hours crying in front of my house). the last 3 years of my life were spent at that job and being let go was a blow i never even saw coming. 3 weeks later and I'm still upset about not having a job, but I'm not crying which is always a good sign.

This year will probably be about finding a new job, and equally as important finding me. (douche baggy... I know). douche bag aside, this year, I'm doing me.