Staying Woke…

I think, therefore I am.

Yesterday, I was in my room, eating store bought pop corn and sipping my gift of Baileys Irish Cream, straight out of the bottle.
Woo-hoo.
Happy holidays.
Bah humbug (just because I remember the Charles Dickens book with the ‘lovely’ Ebenezer Scrooge in it).

I’ve tried not to spend too much time with myself this season. I’m such a deep thinker, I cannot help but go off on one of my deep thought benders when I am by myself. And here, I don’t even know why I bother because after spending my day time with the triplets and other people and sufficiently making myself so tired that I can barely raise my eyelids, when I lie in bed at night hoping that I will fall like a log into an abyss of blissful sleep, the thoughts start to creep up on me and boom, I am awake till the infinity of dawn.

And I don’t hate it.

So yesterday, I stayed home. No adorable triplets. No others. Just me.
Because you see, I love to reason, to think.
This tête à tête type thing with myself, I glory in it. I am so grateful just to be able to find joy in myself, that myself is not repulsive to myself. That in some way, regardless of who I love or spend time with, I am first my own best friend. And it is bam.

But let’s “talk” about what I thought about yesterday.

Very recently, a person I hold dear told me that he has cancer.
He’s taken one tumour out and is scheduled to take two more out pretty soon. He’s a fighter, he says he’ll be okay. With his kind of positivity, it’s hard to be sad. But if I let myself think about it too much, I start to tear up. My God, I don’t want him to die. I need him to live. The world is a much nicer place with him in it. But what can I do?

Shit.
Cancer.
Shit.

And of course the very cliché questions about the concept of life and true living hit me all over again.
Have I really been living? I answer: yes.

Were I to die tomorrow, would I die satisfied? I answer: yes, well, er… No. No, I won’t be satisfied.

And why not? I answer: well, because I still hide some small parts of me. Some quirks. Because they won’t be understood by the people that I currently find around me and because I do not want to explain them to anyone.
And so the little quirks that make me me and that I try so hard to hide, am I really alive without them, then?
I mean, what gives?
What person is worth my shelfing these bits of me?
And if they take advantage of them bits of me and choose to try to hurt me (as I suspect they will), what about that part of me that believes strongly that if I don’t acknowledge that a thing happened, then it never happened? Ergo, though they might think that they will hurt or have hurt me, in my mind, in my reality, they never actually exist or existed. What about that, eh?

Hmm.

But here are some of the afore mentioned quirky bits, anyway. I’ll let slip some, yes?
So that you can have an idea what I mean, and you can feel free to share yours, if any.

1) I am not really as quick tempered as I let on sometimes.
Spot on. I just feel that I have to do a calculated show of temper sometimes to keep people in check because if I don’t, if they find out that I am unaffected, they’ll just take me and all that I represent for granted. So the show of temper is me pissing on my territory. Why I feel the need to, I don’t know. Maybe because of my work and the need to always have to prove to them that not all women are just along for the ride, no?

2) Forget that orchestrated frown, my impulse response to every situation is to smile. And no one knows this about me.
Angry? I smile.
Tired? I smile.
Constipated? I smile.
I had to really school myself to keep poker faces and frown when needed because I felt like such a court jester, like a circus fool, with the smiles that pop up when I don’t need them to.
I’ll be walking on the street and a stranger will look at me and I’ll be shy and instead of me to frown or turn away, I’ll start to smile. This is probably how people attract serial killers to themselves. Silly response to fickle behaviour.
Still, why I have I been stifling my spirit anyway?

3) I am such a believer in love.
Typically, I would swear on the grave of Snowhite and the seven dwarfs (they’re dead, right?) that love doesn’t exist. So that people don’t think that I have a heart. So that I come across as the gal who doesn’t need anyone to survive. So that I am safe and clear of heartbreaking situations. My sanity is dear, yer ken. If I lose my marbles, shit will hit the fan.

But what a lie.
I believe in love, my definition of it.
When I love, I love like a vampire, with gusto and passion, with mind and body and every other thing inbetween.
But this is Nigeria where most men eat people like me for dinner.
What’s a girl to do?
Gotta survive, gotta protect.

Boom.

And why did I even start this post?

All because a person I love has cancer.

But did I need something as dire as cancer to open my eyes to my semi unwoke existence?

So then, I hereby let go of my forced state of unbelief in mushiness and I embrace my unfettered mushy nature. To be fair, I already started on this these past few months leading to the end of this year. So no more hiding my bits. No more. No siree!
Hurrah. Hurrah. Hurrah.

And a prayer for the amazing soul that inspired this post:
Please God, don’t let him die.
Please don’t let him leave me.
Please don’t suffer the world to exist without his greatness.
Please God, let him live, let him be healthy again.
For me, for them, for us, but mostly for me.
Because he is my friend, because I don’t have another like him, because he deserves to live.

Amen.

Stay woke folks!

 

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