Tag Archives: emotional

Wading

I feel like I have to give a disclaimer before I get a call asking if I'm okay. I couldn't sleep and at precisely 0313, I did what I've been putting off for so long – I wrote. This is what came of it.

And I’m here. Reading our story and feeling so fucking overwhelmed by the utter dysfunction of it all, wondering how I managed to find love in you, in your absurdity. I can’t help but feel you’ve broken me forever and you won’t ever understand because it doesn’t matter half as much to you as it does to me. Nobody will understand. Nobody has been in love with you the way I was in love with you.

I'm floating in you, in what I want you to be. You can see me, clear as day and you know what I want yet you deny me heaven. And I deny myself by clinging on to the idea that is so evidently not you. Either I drown here and the death of me will open your eyes to the actuality of what you've done or I save myself, never to wade in you again but know you're still here, being what I don't need you to be – not mine.

I'm learning and desperately trying to unlearn the mechanisms I have used to keep myself together in this time of healing. I let myself cry, I let myself think, I let myself grieve and I realise I'm living a life that no longer exists to appease you.

Finality isn't what I thought it would be. It didn't bring about the coldness of the loneliness I know I need. I feel open. I am not new but I am.

I’d like to say thank you to everyone who encouraged me to start this again. From the people who asked me if I was still writing, to those who asked me to start writing again and to those who simply said they missed my blog. It makes me teary-eyed to think I’ve touched people enough for them to notice my absence and to care to ask me to try this all again. It means the world to me.

Please, Stop Talking

I know I said I wouldn’t talk about boys but listen: I have no choice, I have to or else, there’s simply no way for me to articulate what I have to say, I apologise.

Let me first state the obvious: we are all entitled to an opinion. Whether we are asked to vocalise it is one thing but we all think things, there’s nothing anyone can do about that. What pisses me off is being on the receiving end of these completely unwarranted opinions and then having to receive the backlash of not agreeing with said person’s opinion.

Now, back to our regular scheduled programme.

There is an individual in my class who has taken an acute interest in my outward appearance and it’s grinding my gears. Really, really, grinding. I’m really over this notion that a woman can only wear makeup or decide to put an effort into her outfit or whatever and it automatically has to be for “the man”. If I say it is, then it is. If I don’t, who the hell do you think you are assuming it’s all for you?

It first started with a few hit and miss comments here and there like “Oh, who have you dressed up for then?” and “You look really pretty today, what’s happening?” Not only were these little sayings utterly unwarranted, they were backhanded as hell. So every other day, I look like trash or? Pardon? Then came the one that really just sent me over the cliff. Wait for it:

“If you wore makeup everyday, you would be perfect.”

Now, let’s take a moment to consolidate what this statement actually means, let’s break it all the way down. Let’s delve into the mind of this utterly filterless, brainless, sack of idiocy and try and decipher what this one-liner meant:

Your God-given, natural, bare face is inadequate for me to even consider finding you attractive (or looking at you or dating you, I have no bloody clue) and I have decided that it is makeup and makeup alone that can solve this conundrum. You have to look appealing to me at all times, so do it. Now.

Ladies and gentlemen, are you shaking your heads with me right now? Believe me when I say I didn’t take this comment lying down, oh no. It would have been a disservice to womanhood if I let such a thing come out of his mouth and leave it unchecked. But what gets to me above all of this is simply the fact that he didn’t get where he was wrong. He didn’t get that he couldn’t say stuff like that to me or to anyone and think it was okay.

This issue of male entitlement, I don’t think it can ever be solved. I think it’s a neurological thing, a difference in brain chemistry because it’s too damn common to just be down to conceitedness. I don’t understand how every little showcase of self-love has to be attributed to me wanting to please a member of the opposite sex. That’s not all I am, that’s not the entirety of what women are here to do. There are a gazillion and one intricacies that make me up but for some reason, a boy just wants to see it all as me wanting to impress him?

Here’s the big question: why do you feel this is so? Do you pay my rent or do you buy my groceries? Do you stay up all night and memorise chemistry mechanisms for me? Do you even care about my wellbeing, physically or even mentally? Are we emotionally invested in each other? Do you have anything to do with me besides sitting in the same classroom as me? Yet you just want to think every little iota of my appearance is based on warding off or attracting attention from the likes of you. You want to reduce me into nothing more but a billboard on legs, because that’s all it is, right? Give me a break.

I keep saying this and I will always say it: ladies, do you. I can’t stress this enough. Nobody can govern you, no one can police you. I know the privilege of self-expression isn’t as easy for some as it is for others but one day, I hope and pray, that a world will exist where women can do whatever the hell they want without having to explain or justify themselves. Until then, crush comments like the ones I’ve mentioned above and just generally tell people to shut up.

Love, your highly irritated friend,

Georgina ❤

Songs of The Week

Hypothetically Speaking

Guys, I have a friend who’s been gracious enough to allow me to share her “story” on here. And no, this friend is not me, surely. I recall the conversation pretty well so I’ll try this in a transcriptional format. Shall we?

“So, what happened?”
“There’s this guy.”
“It’s always a guy.”
“And we barely know each other. I think we’ve spoken two times in a year.”
“Okay…?”
“And yesterday, I was almost falling asleep in the student union when he comes over and we start talking about all sorts of stuff.”
“Yeah…”
“He then asks for my number and asks if I’m doing anything on Thursday.”
“Surely, you told him you were busy.”
Now, you tell me.”
“Uh oh.”
“Thursday comes around and he texts me asking if it was okay for him to come and I was all like ‘sure, see you at 6’ or whatever. In my head, there were no warning bells going off, no feelings of apprehension. I mean, it seemed harmless this whole time.”
“Oh gosh.”
“So 6pm rolls around and he comes up to my room.”
And?”
“We didn’t last 30 minutes.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish.”
“Did you…?”
No. I just couldn’t let it get that far.”
“But, pretty much everything that would build up to that point happened?”
“Yes. Don’t look at me like that.”
“You barely knew this guy.”
“I know. I don’t know what the hell happened. It just happened.”
“So after it all?”
“I didn’t feel any type of way, at all.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t feel devoid or overwhelmed? Nothing?”
“Not a single thing. I tried to think about it, about what it meant and I couldn’t think of anything. I couldn’t feel anything.”
“That’s so weird.”
“I know right? I just hooked up with a guy I hardly knew and I felt nothing.”
“Girl.”
Stop.”
“Think it’ll happen again?”
“I don’t think I could handle it. We both said it wouldn’t. The feeling of feeling nothing in itself wasn’t pleasant, I don’t want to push it.”
“Putting all this emotional turmoil aside, how was it?”
“Ah-may-zing.”

 

There was no way I could have this experience in my mind, whether it was mine or not, and not come up with some form of diagnosis to her lack of feelings towards it all. It would be cruel and unnecessarily nasty to not try to solve the mystery of no feelings when the individual going through this situation swims in a pool of feelings on a daily basis. This person can form an emotional connection to someone she’s never met, it’s almost on a spiritual level. So how does all that just vanish? How?

Honestly, I think it was a defence mechanism. Deep down, she knew the whole encounter didn’t mean anything past the physical level. Subsequently, her mind just decided to not waste valuable electrical impulses on creating a bottomless abyss of wallowing turmoil when she could be doing something much more productive. I don’t think she did anything wrong, hook-ups are hook-ups, they happen and that’s all there is to it. You can’t marry every person you’re attracted to on a primal level but if the opportunity arises to channel this energy into something beneficial for the both of you, why the hell not go for it?

I know the real thing she’s battling with is trying to justify it to herself and then to other people. Sometimes, our own rationale just decides to shrivel up and die and so we’re left with a great big question mark hanging over this very new and very grey area that we’ve newly been inducted into. I shouldn’t have an opinion about this but I do, can’t help myself. It’s just interesting to me. Just being hypothetical and empathetic, you know?

My week in comparison seemed incredibly dull: it’s just been a whirl of lectures and Pinyin translations. I got invited to a prayer meeting and I’m going. I need all the prayer I can get.

Georgina ❤

Song of the Week

#ThisIsMyArt (…ish?)

Disclaimer: about halfway through this, it seems as if I’m talking to myself. I was working it out as I was typing it out, literally. I didn’t want to change it, workings of the mind and all that jazz. I was also hopped up on ice cream when I wrote this and you know how crazy I get when I have ice cream. And, no, I didn’t just realise the coolness of hashtags, there’s an entirely substantial reason for the title.

Existential crises seem to be my latest thing. If I don’t have one at least once a month, it’s an off month but I need them, keeps me on my toes.

I’m volunteering at my local library this summer to get the little baby geniuses of my community to put down the iPads, pick up a book and stare at it for a couple of hours. I do it because I like to think I’m enabling these kids to see the beauty of words, understand and appreciate the magical worlds in the lines they read. In the few moments it takes for me to quiz them on the books, the sincerity and eagerness to impress me with their knowledge burns through the most and I find it mesmerising. Children are mystical, honestly.

The children, however, didn’t bring about this crippling need for me to re-evaluate my life; it was the guy who was my volunteering partner for the day. He was a 17 year old white male with a Justin Bieber circa 2011 haircut. It was 9:30 on a Monday morning and I was ready to sit in stone cold silence for 3 hours just to avoid any means of communicating with him. We were asked to do some book cataloguing and as we were trying to decipher the library’s incredibly ancient shelving system, the ice broke and we started talking about all kinds of things. We talked about TV shows, comics, university, career prospects and all that stuff. He told me he had sussed out what his niche was: TV or voice acting, kitchen design or drama teaching. Despite how odd the selection of goals seemed to both him and me, these things made him happy and the prospect of being either one of the three was more than enough to keep him motivated. I couldn’t help but envy him. At 16, he had such a level head on his shoulders and his path would be way easier than mine but that’s another rant for another day.

On cue, I had a teeny weeny internal meltdown. He had found his art and he was running with it. I like too many things to say I have an art and it worries me. If someone asks me what I’m good at, I won’t have an answer. Does “oh yes, well, you see, I write stuff and organic chemistry gets me going” qualify as a decent answer? I’m always asking people what my backup plan should be if being this kick-ass scientist I have totally envisioned myself being backfires on me. Writing is a comfort, it is escapism and blogging helps me share my weirdness, helps sprinkle my fairy dust all over the place. But I am also incredibly inconsistent with it and even though I’ve been doing this for 10 months (wow, 10 whole months?), I still get terrified every time I press publish. I still fret that I’m talking to a void of white noise and broadband cables. I worry that everyone who tells me I’m good is entirely bullshitting me. But then again, I feel like I am pretty good at what I do, even though I’m not entirely sure what that is. I write about what’s on my mind, I write about how I feel, I write about what’s happening to me, what is around me. Writing is a release; it is the unbuckling of the metaphorical belt on the jeans of life. Is it cheating if I really love to write about whatever it is I write about and still love knowing I can create worlds inside a beaker that can make or break a person’s insides? Am I allowed to have two arts, so to speak?

Damn it, I can. I can love writing and I can love blowing things up in a lab. Art is expression, art is creativity, it is skill, it is work and it is love. It is what you love and it is what I love and I think I’ve found it. This is what I love to do; I could shed a tear.

Now, I have some good news and some bad news. Bad news first: this blog will be more or less dormant until September. I know, I know: how can I write a whole post screaming about how much I love to write only to drop this bombshell on you? This is where the good news comes in: someone likes my writing so much, they’ve asked me to be an in-house writer on their website. Mama, I’ve made it! Obviously, I’m not trying to get fired so I want to channel my all in to the website, meaning I don’t want to post things on here that are lacking juice, you know? I say September because I’ll be back in university, I’ll have things to complain about, people to throw literal shade at, opinions to air.

I’ll be writing on a weekly basis on this website so if you really love me, you’ll find me on fvdedcollective.com which is re-launching on the 29th of July, mark yo’ calendars. I’m beyond ecstatic and I’m super nervous but I think I can do it, I hope I can. So, guys, please, be nice and visit the website when it’s open. Come and read what I and a bunch of other mind-blowingly talented people have to say. We are the youth writing for the youth and about the youth. Don’t miss me too much, I’m not far.

Songs of the Week because yeah

Until September… don’t cry, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,

Georgina ❤

 

It Is Never Too Much

I wrote this last week and I wasn’t sure whether I should post it or not. I wrote it when I was in a discordant mood. But, here it is. This blog is just a diary in a glass box anyway.

This past week, I’ve been feeling as if life has been very loud. Visualise trying to have a conversation with someone, a friendly and empty conversation. You’re halfway through this little chat but there’s a lot of noise around you; it is so overwhelming, you have to stop and just listen, listen to how the world is hurting. This isn’t white noise, I’m talking about the sounds of what human beings can do to each other and to themselves: the screams, the gun shots, the police sirens, the abject daftness that flies out of people’s mouths on a regular, the sadness, confusion.

I don’t know where I saw what I’m going to describe but for some reason, I always thought sociopaths were diagnosed this way: you’re strapped to a chair, electrodes are attached to your scalp, it is just you and a television screen, nothing else to distract you, everything is standardized and controlled. A sequence of images pop up on the screen: a daisy, a puppy, a plate of food, a decapitated body, a cloud, a bright pink newborn baby, a palm tree, a severed limb, a shoe, your own passport image, a clip of an execution by firing squad, a rainbow, a bloodied head with it’s contents splattered on a wall, a meadow. As the sequence continues, an EEG records your brain activity and if its peaks and troughs correlate with the images of gore and images of normality, you’re not a sociopath, that is, you became troubled by the nasty bits and settled by the nicer things. But if the EEG shows a seemingly steady line, that is, you didn’t even flinch at the sight of brain mush smeared on a white wall, you are indeed a sociopath. I’m sure this test is a thing; I just can’t remember where I saw it.

I was watching a show we all know and love and there was a rape scene. I watched all the way through but when it was over, I found myself thinking this is too much and I immediately felt stupid. I felt hypocritical. I can’t fully understand how rape victims feel but I can imagine. Scenes from a TV show are someone else’s reality, it could be mine. What I couldn’t watch without feeling like a total wimp is what someone is going through, has gone through and will unfortunately go through and it annoys me that I felt it was too much to see.

Seeing images of war, of hate crimes, of human despair, poverty, the aftermath of natural disasters make you feel some type of way, right? Unless you’re a psychopath, you feel some sort of empathy towards what you’re seeing but you look at it for as long as you feel is polite or necessary then you turn the page or click the next link and it’s gone. We feel sorry for the people in those scenes for a couple of minutes, maybe the whole day but then that’s it, it’s gone and we move on. That is the sad part of human nature. We don’t tend to linger, we don’t tend to fight for things that aren’t directly inconveniencing us at that present moment. Oh, the earthquake in Nepal? Boohoo. Revoked citizenship for Haitian children in Dominican Republic? Poor them. 276 girls kidnapped by Boko Haram are still missing and could be used as suicide bombers? Terrible. A shooting in a church in South Carolina? Damn, not again. A man kicks in a pregnant woman’s womb until the baby dies? What the hell? But hey, somebody else will sort it out, it’s not my problem, I’m still alive, I’m still here. I should donate a pound here and there to make myself feel better. I am anti a lot of things: anti-racism, anti-misogyny, anti-poverty, anti-everything that is utterly wrong with this planet. But I always feel like no one, especially myself, is doing anything besides thinking about these things not being a thing.

I am a human, yes? And as humans, despite the circumstances we find ourselves in, there are a gazillion and one things that could happen to any of us, all of us, at any given time. With that, it could easily be me going through what I find so disheartening to view, but the fact that it’s not me smudges out my hurt. I empathise for a while but then I don’t worry about it at all until I’m faced with another sight of something awful again. It’s such a cycle of hypocritical bullshit. And what annoys me even more is that I can’t change the world. I can’t stop every rape, I can’t stop every shooting, I can’t produce world peace, I can’t end starvation, poverty, racism and pure stupidity but I want to but that’s all it is. I want to but I can’t. What’s even worse is the fact that I can’t is okay. It’s okay for me to not be able to do anything because it is what it is. It’s okay for everyone. But I’m still angry and confused at the end of the day. My concept on humanity is very… ungraspable.

I just wish, I just hope. I do what I can in the circle around me, I absorb what I can and try to advocate in my own small way but it is never enough. It is never too much.

Georgina ❤

The Issue At Hand Evolves

I have been MIA for way too long, I know. I couldn’t think of what to write and I wasn’t even prepared to bullshit you or myself through something meaningless. They say time is the best answer to everything (they don’t, I’m just making it up as I go along) but that’s all I needed. I got my mojo back.

When we were little, there was always this curiousity towards the opposite sex. There was the whole “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” kind of thing. There was this air of innocent intrigue, keyword being innocent. From year 4-6 of primary school, the whole class used to chill together, we were all friends, good friends, friends that MSN’d together at 6pm until dinner was ready. I personally think I skipped the “boys have cooties” phase, I was born hormonally charged. I’ve always liked boys; I didn’t shy for them nor them me either. I think I had my first kiss when I was 8. I remember being so blasé when we’d play truth or dare as young’uns when first kisses were imagined by others and cherished on the top shelf of the mind of others, kept with all the much-loved memories. I didn’t see it as something monumental. It was just a thing. It was almost something I could do without.

Did your mum ever give you that talk that scared the shit out of you when you were younger? Did she ever tell you touching a boy could get you pregnant? I am so lucky for a mother who didn’t wreck my mind like that. I don’t think I knew the actual mechanics of sex until I was 11/12. Boarding school made sure I knew every single excruciating detail.

But what I’m saying is, when we were young, heterosexual friendships weren’t something that was out of the blue. They didn’t threaten anyone, really. Seeing a young boy and a girl being friends didn’t necessarily raise eyebrows as it does now. Drama evolves with time. It may have been around when we were prepubescent and it is ever so present now that we are grown but it’s just so much more in your face. The fact that you’re not meant to have a genuinely friendly friendship with a member of the opposite sex is fiercely shoved down your throat. You are almost taught to believe your platonic relationship is destined to become tinged by attraction eventually. Just wait on it.

For instance, let’s say your girlfriend/boyfriend has a best friend of the opposite sex. Wouldn’t you want to know everything about this supposed best friend; be everywhere when your significant other and said best friend are together and most importantly, know whether they are having/had sex or not? It is just impossible to have peace of mind when your lover has an opposite sex friend who was there before you. There’s no way you would allow for such a friendship to form when you are in the picture, no way in hell.

Once we reach a particular age, I’m going to say 16 as that is the legal age (stay safe, kids) even though I witnessed this and have lived this since I was 12 – platonic relationships between the sexes do not exist. You cannot have a friend who is a boy/girl and just leave it at that level. There is always that underlining tone of sex being whispered in the background even if you know in your heart that you’re not necessarily attracted to the person. I remember I was texting someone I had just met and we were in that phase of asking questions and once I got past the standard enquiries such as how old are you, where are you from, what university are you studying in, I went straight for “do you have a girlfriend?” even though I knew I wouldn’t ever be with this person in any way shape or form. Or the time I was texting someone whom I had again just met and less than an hour into our text-versation and establishing common ground, he was asking to meet with a wink emoji. The wink emoji. It’s almost primal, dare I say it. Maybe it’s our bodies’ way of ensuring we find a mate and by doing so, we are psychologically programmed to find a potential, secure said potential, establish then eliminate competition. Occasionally and unknowingly, you just catch yourself on the first step of this process and ask yourself “wait what? I don’t even like him/her, what the hell am I doing?”

I guess with age, what is important to me changes. I’m getting old, I am 19 years of age. Before I can blink, the –teen will be a distant memory. With age comes maturity; comes change that I can’t fend off even if I wanted to. My attention has shifted to what matters now but might not matter in 10 years. Tastes have changed, tolerance has changed. Things that mattered, don’t. Things that I couldn’t think about without feeling a huge swirl of emotion only make me smile now. Every little thing that happens to me is a lesson to be learnt, wisdom to be acquired, another gem to be kept. The drama evolves but it will always be around. Maybe when I’m 29, I’ll look back at this phase in time and laugh too.

Song of the Week

This song makes me bust a move.

 

And this tune tune tuneeee. This album came out the year I was born.

I will be back, promise. I’ve missed writing. I’ve missed you, blogosphere.

Until then,

Georgina ❤

 

A Trio of Randomness

Here is a trio of scribbles that the Universe has managed to trigger in the past 2 days.

Monday morning, I’m on a train, heading to my chemistry exam. I’m reading Americanah (I have around 100 pages left) because who studies an hour before an exam and this man (it’s always a man) is sitting opposite me. Nothing dodgy, nothing obscene about a man sitting opposite me, it is how it is. 10 minutes in, his legs are about 10cm apart. A bit wide but hey, I continue reading. Another 10 minutes, I glance up and he might as well be doing gymnastic practice across two seats, his legs are that widely splayed. You may or may not have seen my tweets about it. Here’s one:

It was so disturbing, I gave him the screw-face of life and that still didn’t stop him. What made it even weirder was the fact that he wasn’t channelling pervert pheromones; he was just on the train. I don’t even think he was aware of what he was doing but still, who the hell does that? No pair of ballsacks is that big, I don’t care. The only reasonable excuse would be if he had the clap or elephantitis (Google it at your own peril). I was almost tempted to mimic him. I read somewhere that when men do that, the splaying of the legs, it’s to demonstrate dominance and when they notice someone else doing it, it creates this sense of defeat; of them becoming the beta male.

I should have done it, shouldn’t I? There’s always next time.

***

I was in the hair salon on Tuesday. I had been waiting for 2 hours (standard), I was hungry, I was kind of tired and finally, I was beckoned to have my hair done. The stylist was African, obviously, but not Nigerian. I have no clue where she was from but her English wasn’t the best. She starts sectioning my hair so she can start the cornrows and suddenly she looks at me bewilderedly through the mirror. For a second, I think she’s going to tell me I have a bald spot or something, her expression is so grave. Then, she clucks her tongue in that disapproving way every African knows, parts away my front baby hairs from the rest and dismissively says “your hair not grow.” I know my front hair is shit, years of tight braids have wrecked it, it refuses to grow more than 2 inches unlike the rest of my hair even though I nourish it as if it were a human being. Still, her saying that almost pushed me to tears, right in the middle of a packed out hair salon. I had to blink at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings in flight to stop myself from blubbering in front of this woman and a room full of other people whose heads and ears were also at the mercy of these stylists. She didn’t notice and she continued braiding and I started typing this because there’s nothing like immediate emotion to spark sincere creativity.

Despite me knowing my hair is a problem and a half, her words still hurt, I don’t know why, even though she was just stating a fact. Maybe it hurt because I didn’t know her so having a stranger validate what I already know just made the situation even worse internally. I should be a psychologist, no? A part of me knows I should just cut it all off but I don’t have the balls. I would rather stuff my hair into braids or entangle it in weave than leave it out. I’m not bald, my hair isn’t obscene, I just don’t like it. It’s too short to do anything with, it’s just about shoulder length. I would post a picture to go with what I’m saying but

1) The only picture I have on my phone with my hair out, I look like roadkill in it. I am not plastering it on the internet, hello.

2) I ain’t got nothing to prove, yo.

***

Another unarmed African-American man has been killed by the very people who are paid to protect him, an earthquake has killed over 5000 people in Nepal and the Chibok girls amongst many others have possibly been found. Even though there are so many things happening around you and to your fellow citizens of the Earth, do you ever feel useless, in that you can’t actually do anything to alleviate anything that’s happening because a single you just isn’t enough? If I stopped everything and cloned myself so I was a part of the protests in Baltimore, helping out in Nepal somehow, being with the girls who have just been rescued, what does that really do for anyone? I can’t singlehandedly do anything to help anything, not even my own damn hair. It’s all just sad and if an existential moment like the one I seem to be having right now doesn’t make you feel puny, doesn’t make you feel the smallness of being one out of seven billion (and counting) human beings, I don’t know what will. What I need is an intervention, so it seems.

 

Song of the Week (thanks to my new friend, you know who you are. I didn’t know Nigeria had music like this to offer, it’s not all afrobeats after all.)

 

And, this gem here:

It’s my birthday next week Wednesday. I expect cake from all of you.

See you on the other side,

Georgina ❤