Today commemorates eight months since I have gotten the urge to turn to this forum. At my last visit, I was broken, and quite humorously, at this visit, broken no longer can summate my existence. In exactly one year, I have had few victories and so much pain and deception that I have crawled back into the safety of my introvercy. Since my last visit, (when I was a 18 year old bum, not attending school) I have made some progression. I currently work, go to school and volunteer regularly but my battle scars are still present, Scars that refuse to heal, scars which threaten to speak louder than I ever can. Scars from the three battles I have come to enlist myself in.
Though I am cognizant of black history month having long passed, my first battle is as a result of my pigmentation. Although some might argue that being black in a Caribbean setting isn’t abrasive, I choose to speak against that blasphemy. Being a black male in a society in which males are killed, enlisted in gang rivalry and brainwashed by pop culture is difficult Difficult because if you do not walk the walk and talk the talk among your common folk, society whips you relentlessly with the strap of indifference. Secondly, being black and yearning for success has brought me to the conclusion that he job market is still plagued with colorism. I chose colorism because often times prejudice is caused by people of the same race, who happened to possess a lighter pigment or some advancement. They paint you ( being a young black male) as not being capable of becoming a success and only as a future statistic which has fallen astray, not to be remembered or missed by a single being.
My second battle is a long lasting struggle with depression, bipolarity and degradation. For those that know, I am bipolar. Bipolar to the extent where my depression periods are excessive and often times led to one of my now sixteen”oops” moments, where life decided that I should suffer longer. In addition, I suffer from periods where I literally lose it. I would have no recollection of who I am, or where I am or what I am doing; as if I was under the influence of some drug. Some drug that causes me to break down and crumble despite the facade of normalcy I tried my best to display. My depression is caused by years of torment at the hand of my family. For starters, my mother hates my existence as a result of the tragedy she had to endure with my father. The same tragedy I would come to experience. All I have ever loved has been destroyed, material items, people and even my sanity. Adding to my depression is my years of pharmaceutical abuse that acted as a mode by which I could soothe my effervescent pain.
My third and final battle is that of being different; different to an extent where I cannot conform to one set societal group. For one, I am agnostic, growing up in a bible thumping christian upbringing and agnosticism don’t mix well as one can infer. In addition I had a proclivity towards learning the truth about religions, during these periods, I learnt a great deal about satanism and the plagues of conventional religions and have come to the conclusion that there is no such manifestation as a omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent being. As such, this belief has drawn distance between me and some friends. Secondly, I consider myself to be a misanthropist. The few friends I have sometimes get fatigued by my lonesomeness and the irregular way I act in public settings that are over-crowded. I do not know how to be black ironically- the way I speak and express myself appears to be too anglicized for most people. Apparently society is not ready for an educated and satiated black male who is not angry or sexist or; for some reason unbeknownst to me; is sagging his pants and following the latest ridiculous trends of pop culture and assimilating themselves to be heaven incarnate on earth. Adding to my difference ( as one would first assume by my use of the term) my bipolarity made me yearn for satisfaction which society disdains to a high regard. Satisfaction which I believe keeps me whole. This different part of me is hidden behind walls thicker than those which guard the most valuable assets. Only a handful of individuals know of this difference and gladly have chosen to keep it impenetrable.
In summation, I stand today as a solider waiting anxiously to end the battles which plague my everyday existence. Until then, my scars will forever be visible to some extent, though they lie deep within me. My name is Mike and I fight three battles.