Written in 2022.

Dear K,

I write to you because I chose my story a long time ago. Each day, I creep just a little bit closer to The End. But I’ve foreseen it. I created it. The end never comes, if I write enough. I write for girls who succumbed to their pain, their fear, their shame, and their drink. I write for you. Always. You.

I was born in Memphis. It’s a beautiful place to be if you love black people, good music, and better food. Not so beautiful if you can’t take the heat. I left for college when I was eighteen. I was the kind of kid who grew up idolizing College as the thing to do. I absorbed a lot of Gilmore Girls-esque feminism, and success meant small liberal arts college, Virginia Woolf novels, and radical feminism. I was obsessed with the institution of higher learning, even as it became clear that I was not made for it. Like most so-called gifted students, I hit a wall when I came to college. I was easily brilliant in my small pond, but in college, I wasn’t special for reading a lot and using pretty words in a row. And well, I don’t thrive in “the norm.” I didn’t graduate college. Mostly because I couldn’t afford it. Partly because I discovered weed and alcohol. My drinking progressed over the years. As it does. At 18, I drank to prove I could. I was a mess of a girl – braces, frizzy hair, and a desire to be accepted.

At 25, I drank to prove I could stop.

Why am I proving myself?

If it doesn’t come naturally to me, I drop it. Easily. No hesitation. No thought. It’s a reaction. I succeed until I don’t. After winning, failing becomes part of my story. That’s how it goes. Why fight? I try as hard as it takes. That’s all we should expect from anyone anywhere. We have an entitled mindset that other people need to work and suffer in order for life to have meaning. My relaxation is impactful. Call me crazy. 

My mom is white. I’m not. I feel the need to express this because I consider it my Great Shame. The thing that – if uttered correctly – stops me in my tracks. I think most people have a Great Shame, so I don’t consider myself unique in this regard. My shame just so happens to talk. A lot. I mention this to introduce my identity issues to you. I thought about writing about growing up in a racist family and how it drains the life out of me, a tired black woman, but that’s not the kind of writer I am. You get a blurb, and then it’s up to you to come to your own conclusions. It’s an exercise in imagination, so you’re welcome.

I’ve been told that I expect too much from other people. Too much from you. It’s not true, obviously. Most people expect too little from each other. I hold people to their word. I test them. I push them. And soon enough, poof – they disappear. And I know it doesn’t make sense to you. Not yet. But you’ll get it. If you’re lucky, you just might live to experience becoming a burden to those around you. I happen to experience it regularly. I’m sick, after all.

This isn’t a pity party. My words aren’t meant to be melancholic. I am mostly happy in my day to day life. I say this because I’ve been accused of being too dark, too hopeless.I thought I was dope and fun and insightful. But, you know how it goes. Misinformation is rampant.