pictures don’t lie.

Sometimes, I have to listen to love songs and apply them to something else. Anything else. The only romantic love I’ve known was teenage love. Which is fair, I think. I’m young. And it was genuine… He has a kid now, so God blocked the hell out of that. Amen? Amen.

But, yeah. I listen to love songs and apply them to something else. Anything else. I broke up with my high school boyfriend because I thought I was 32 when I was 16.

“Yeah. I have a lot going on… at home, I mean. I’m all over the place, and I don’t want to drag you into it. You don’t need to be caught up in that. You need to focus on graduating.”

After that, we kept in touch. We went to rival high schools, but my best friend went to his school and could answer any questions I asked. I just didn’t ask… I didn’t want to worry about him, and I didn’t want him to worry about me. I never want anyone to worry about me. To care? Yes. But worry? God… please… stop… no… what are you doing? I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I am fine.

(I’m not). But I don’t want you to worry. I’ll be fine. You can check on me, though. Just not too much. Because then I’ll know that you’re worried. And I never want anyone to worry about me.

Teenage Love went to college. We met up during his school breaks. Then, I went to college. We still met up on breaks. And then I saw *her* on Instagram and didn’t want her to try to break my face because I had texted her boyfriend… only on breaks, though. I only texted him on breaks.

I still do a horrible job at letting people worry about me. Family. Friends. Mentors. Anyone. I’d rather check out and tiptoe into the background before you worry… and that’s ok. Until it’s not. Until your worry could have ended if I had just told you what was going on.


“No, if that’s your best friend, then you need to suck it up and allow your best friend to know you fully and give her the opportunity to support you in the way that best friends want to.”

But… but… no. One of my least favorite things in the world is seeing her cry. She was crying because she ripped her pretty yellow Easter dress, and I comforted her. I was about to tell her my name and that she looked really pretty. Then, she started crying. Her yellow Easter dress and white hair bows looked absolutely beautiful against her deep brown skin. Yellow would never look that good on me. Not a chance… I was about to tell her my name and that she looked really pretty. Then, she started crying. She was beautiful, she was sweet, and she was sad. So I comforted her. Then we became best friends. We were 5. I don’t want anyone crying over me. And she’s going to cry. *throws tantrum*

“Listen… you could have a best friend who really doesn’t care. I’ve had that. And that hurts and sucks and makes you want to stab people. She cares. Help her understand and help her learn how to better support you AND LET HER SUPPORT YOU.”

BUT… BUT… NO. I don’t want anyone crying over me. And she’s going to cry. *throws tantrum*


I don’t talk about my illness. I type about it in texts and DMs… or I talk around it. But I don’t talk about it with the people who see and know my face. With people who tag me in pictures and say “Throwback Thursday!”

No. And I can see the love in those throwback pictures. I can remember being comfortable and loved. Now, I can admit that I was unstable, but they comforted and loved me. So, why wouldn’t they do it when the instability has a name? Would they research it? Would they read? Would they ask questions? Or would they cry… and make assumptions… and go through all of those throwbacks and see someone who lied to them (by omission)? You asked how I was, and I said, “fine.” I wasn’t. I’m not. I am not. I’ll always be searching for “fine” or worried that I am fine, but won’t be fine tomorrow.

And I’m trying to live in today. But you keep posting throwbacks. No… I keep posting throwbacks. Because I love you. I love those pictures, and pictures don’t lie… even though I did.

Sometimes, I have to listen to love songs and apply them to something else. Anything else.

Now playing: “Pictures Don’t Lie” x Condola & The Stoop Kids

Listen to “Pictures Don’t Lie” on YouTube

“Some days, I feel… it’s nothing. Scars always heal… it’s nothing.”

“We’ve always had a similar mind- the kind that’s hard to understand. I’ll storytell ya back to the time where everything was in the palm of your hand.”

“This is what remains, and no one’s to blame for what we became.”

“Though they may try, pictures don’t lie.”




ayo, fuck socrates and the clique he claims.

A life without pain is a wolf in sheep’s clothes. ‘Cause if you listen to the lessons that it holds, you’ll find the gold.

The Socratic method is ass. I love it, and it works best for me, but it is complete ass.

“It is a form of inquiry and discussion between individuals, based on asking and answering questions to stimulate critical thinking and to illuminate ideas.”

I had a professor who constructed his class as a huge mindfuck. On purpose. It was like being in an academic labyrinth.

I dropped the fuck out of his class. Actually, the professor and one of my mentors called me into a meeting and “heavily recommended” that I withdraw from the class.
“At this point, the highest grade you can get is a ‘C’ and you’re better than that.”

Because you don’t purposefully fuck with someone’s mind if she’s Bipolar. Even if she doesn’t know it, yet. It’s a student-run course, so the professor usually isn’t there. The class has a government structure, and you put her in a leadership position when she just wanted to fly under the radar and learn from you… She heard you were the toughest professor in the building. She heard that one of her heroes took this class when she was a student here. And she wanted to fly under the radar. Because, during freshman week, her mentor pulled her in front of the department’s freshman class and said, “This is (The Golden Child). She’s been working in this field since she was 9? 8? 8. She knows what she’s doing. She knows what doesn’t fly.”

And she just wanted to fly under the radar. So, she took your class and was given a leadership role. She said, “No. Jesus. Please, not me. Don’t choose me.” She said it out-loud, but you were already staring at her. The youngest person in the room. Probably the smallest, too. And the craziest? Eh. That’s debatable.

“At this point, the highest grade you can get is a ‘C’ and you’re better than that.”

“I’m so disappointed in you. I can’t even look at you– I can’t even…”

“You KNEW better that this. We KNOW you know better. Why would you…?”

So, I dropped the fuck out of that class. I wouldn’t lose my scholarship. I would still be in the honors college. I could still graduate with some kind of cum laude.

And that class wouldn’t drive me crazy, anymore. Well… crazier. Because I deserve better than that. I don’t need a class to drive me crazy. I can do crazy by myself. So, I’ll finish this semester… and I’ll take a different class of yours next semester.

Because I need a gold medal in bodying the fuck out of your mindgames. Then, maybe I’ll know how to win my own.

And I love you for teaching me. Even if the Socratic method is ass. Even if the questions are uncomfortable. Even if it takes hours/days/months/years to find the answers. Because I’m GOING to get a gold medal in bodying the fuck out of your mindgames.

And mine.


it’s kind of a funny story

Except it’s not.

It’s a tragic story… but I can make it funny.

“Yo. I’ve NEVER laughed while talking about this, before. You make this funny. Did you know that? You’re funny.”

I don’t think I’m particularly funny. I’m honest. And honestly? Life laughs at me, sometimes. It laughs at you, too. So, when I’m telling a story, I try to consider life’s sense of humor. Because that bitch is hysterical.

It’s kind of a funny story. Except it’s not.

I don’t know where to begin. I’m extremely private, but recklessly candid when I’m comfortable. And I’m trying to be comfortable here. I’m trying really hard.

Maybe the story starts when I “started?” My mom says I was made during a blizzard, but there’s one happening outside right now, and all I can think of is how much I hate winter. Sometimes I love it. Those times are brief. But I was made during a blizzard and born in the fall. Fall. Autumn. September-November. Everything about the fall is perfect. The temperature, the fashion, the colors, the air, the nights, the sunsets. My birthday, football, crab legs, homecomings, volleyball, Thanksgiving, and what used to be the start of my school years. It’s everything, and it’s perfect.

It’s when I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.

And it’s imperfect, now. It’s stained, and what I loved so passionately is under there, somewhere. I want to love everything that made me love the fall. But I fell. Hard. And now fall isn’t autumn. It’s just September-November. The love is still there, but it’s faint. And I want to passionately love everything again.

a prologue of sorts

Written: September 9, 2015. 3:05am.


I have this horrible cycle… of crying. Or not crying, I should say.

I don’t know when it started.

That’s probably a lie.


I haven’t taken the care to identify when it started. I just know that it did. And I know that right now, there are tears lightly gliding down my cheeks, and I’m not confident that I could explain why. (My second grade teacher told me to never start a sentence with a conjunction, but this isn’t a graded assignment. Viva la vida.)


So, this cycle…

I can easily go weeks- even months- without shedding a single tear. It’s less of a “You didn’t cry this month? You are so strong, girl. Go buy yourself some chocolate.” And more of a “Girl, are you okay? You should probably sit with yourself tonight. Let yourself cry. Cleanse and refresh.”


**My only true weakness is when a close friend cries. Then, I’m helpless. I will sob over someone else’s troubles before mine.


But the point is the crying- I mean, the not crying.

MONTHS go by without a single, solitary tear, and I don’t find myself purposefully holding them back.


Oh, but then. THEN, I have nights like this. I’m typing this at 3 in the morning, and I’ve just finished my fourth calm, steady bout of tears for the night… morning?… night?


These nights don’t come often. They usually consist of a lot of list-making, ice cream, gospel music, and prayer. My prayers range between:

– a Sunday School-esque “in Jesus’ name, I pray”

– “Umm, Jesus? What the fuck is going on? This isn’t cute- at all. Your girl has to work 2 of her 4 jobs tomorrow, so… could we just… not?”


So, now I’m trying a blog for the nights like this.

And maybe the days in between.