Silently Suffering

I'm done suffering it's time to get back to my life of delusion, I was happier then.

All of my adult life has been dedicated to living my dreams, while those dreams have changed time and time again. At thirty-four, I can confidently say I’ve lived a fulfilling life cultivated straight from my vision board each year. To be a manifesting magnet is a true flex in life these days.

Yet, right when I reached what I thought was my greatest fulfillment in my life, it felt like the dream itself was slowly killing me.

Killing my drive, my inspiration, my passion, my creativity, quite frankly, me.

For the longest, I didn’t understand why this was happening. I thought I had been doing everything the “right way,” so bad things weren’t supposed to still occur in my life. I’ve been more positive and viewing life from a completely new lens. I thought I’d manifested a happier life, yet I feel like the weight of the world is on my back. Grief has done a number on me, in more good ways than bad, but they are all my new normal for right now.

I moved into my dream apartment, and then boom, life turned upside down. My mom moved into my loft office, and the next day, my dad died. I’ve blamed my “success” on my dad’s death. Obviously, my greatest manifestation came with a sacrifice, and how careless of me to not ensure my father was not mine. Even to say he crossed into the spiritual realm to help me feels like a sacrifice, and I’m not willing to live carrying that burden. I am not interested in mending our relationship through a belief that the realm he exists in is the reason for my further success. This is not to denounce spirituality or the belief - I just didn’t want my Daddy to be the one I didn’t get to say goodbye to, and sometimes this is how grief sounds.

It’s radical.

It’s bold.

It’s sharp.

It will cut you like a knife when you're most vulnerable.

Grief almost had me sabotage everything. I spent my days from December until February working day and night on the Blackstack Magazine to get it published before the launch dinner. I should have waited. But I pushed through because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I took advice from people who I later discovered never had an ounce of true care and empathy for me or my circumstances. And no matter what story they decide to tell to an audience that is convenience their actions spoke louder than their words could ever.

The refusal to let grief take me out is what’s helped me get back to living free. I used to romanticize my life, play delusional, as some would say. People would come into my life, curious about how I’m living the desires I once spoke of in such quick turnarounds. I shared my tactics of living free, focusing on the positive outcomes, with an understanding that only what you put your energy into is what will present itself in your reality. And like a wildfire, my freedom went up in flames - it felt like my belief system was burned in a fire ritual.

I’ve been silently suffering as I’ve blamed myself for letting my community down by not meeting a deadline I set for myself. Sometimes I forget that I’m openly documenting the process of being a visionary. There is going to be a trial-and-error period if I’m doing something that’s not the “norm”.

Suffering in silence is knowing that you have to create the grace that you desire, but struggling to say you need a minute to get yourself together. It’s like crying while you work and trying to quickly wipe the tears away when someone walks up to you. Those moments in the bathroom mirror, telling yourself to pull it together, as if showing signs of being human is the worst thing you could do.

Here’s the thing: this is exactly the place I’ve been since February. I’m learning how dangerous it is that I can still put on a smile every day to perform. Since moving into this dream apartment, I have been placed in a role that bears more responsibility than I can manage at the moment. Paying rent at two apartments to give another Black woman an experience I wish someone would have given me. Overpaying for the launch to give another Black woman the opportunity I wish someone would have given me. Sacrificing my mental health to be a mother to my mother since my father died, a man she had been divorced from for thirty-two years.

I put everything into hiding the truth, which led to me turtling into hermit mode. Complete isolation. How the fuck did I get into this situation? How could I be so clueless? “Girl, you didn’t know these people!” I yell at myself in the moments I’m alone, angry with myself for being so empathic. Constantly trying to protect people from the flow of life, whose savior am I if I can’t even protect myself?

No more!

I am done!

In this pivot of my life, the savior complex is only applied to self. No one will come back for me after I’ve saved everyone. After all, Harriett freed herself before she could free other Black folks.

This move into a new home that is the perfect size for a family of three, free of the intention to give my mom space, and with an assistant coming in and out. I decided to check in with myself for once to see what I needed, and I needed to go back to what the move the California was all about to begin with.

I was supposed to be moving into a home that we could build into our own. I might have lost the plot for a moment.

And because this is our life, we decided to make changes that are best aligned for us as a family. I am learning with my family how to voice when I’m suffering, they see me and know when I need a hug. The confirmation comes when the hug brings immediate tears to my eyes and I can’t hold the suffering in anymore. My cry out loud is my white flag surrendering to the suffrage.

I’m done battling alone.

I’m done being a silent warrior in a fight that may not be real.

xoxo, 
Jacquie