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The television is tuned into a music channel playing late-night tunes while the rest of the house is eerily quiet. Jay-Z’s Hark Knock Life comes on and a single tear drop falls from the corner of my eye; the song touches my soul on a deeper level and I realize it is about time I tried to make sense out of the whole mess by penning down my thoughts.
My mind wonders over to my earlier coffee date with an old friend who pointed out that he thinks I have been through more than many people twice my age, and that he thinks I would have more to say than many of the celebrities who have written biographies. I remember opposing that view because at least celebrities will get an audience and interested readers because they are famous whereas me…who the fuck am I anyway??
Stopping to think about it all I open a folder of photos on my laptop. Clicking through trips to the US, Uganda, Kenya and Barbados, more tears start falling down my cheeks. I hear God talking to me through the thoughts that arise in my mind and one idea comes out stronger than the rest: I might be a nobody in this world in terms of recognition, but God has given me the ability and desire to be a storyteller. I have also been blessed with a never-resting mind, a passion for digging deeper, but most of all, I have been blessed with a fucked-up enough life to afford enough stories to fill these pages.
I have attempted to start this project many a time. Yet never before have I hd such a burning passion to tell it as is – maybe it’s because just recently I have actually survived a psychotic episode in which I was hallucinating and planning my funeral, fully ready to overdose, and then being once again saved by my best friend, my angel in disguise. The next morning I kept turning in my bed wondering how I am still alive, admiring the daylight shining through the curtains, staring at a broken razor which still had dried blood on the blade.
The scars on my skin will always be a reminder of my battle against depression and burning pain inside my soul, but they will heal, and I keep wishing that it would be the last episode I’d ever go through, and that the day would bring with it a desire to live.
To this day I am holding on to that desire, and although the television is full of picture-perfect skinny women, I shall not lose hope. I suddenly have so much love for my fat, my scars, my bent back and physical illnesses, as they will always serve as a reminder of my struggle.
I squeeze my belly and the lard makes me cringe, but in my heart I have such admiration for these mementos of my pain, my losses, my battles and my self-hatred. Suddenly I am proud to be me – ain nobody gonna fuck with me no more. This is me, this is my story, and this is the verbal blood that is pouring out of the open wounds that my past has carved into my soul.
This is the time it all needs to come out. Everything suddenly makes sense, and as I grow colder as the house temperature drops over night, I realize I can’t go to sleep. It’s now or never that I start the journey down the path of self-discovery through scribbling together the words that I hope will bring hope and inspiration to the reader. The clock hits 3am and sleepiness crawls into my eyes but my mind is racing to discover a good spot to begin the journey from.
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