Diary 002

I used to think that every apology I was owed would get paid to me. It’s a harsh and unkind truth, but you’d be fortunate to receive a fourth of the apologies you’re entitled to in this life. Half of those apologies will probably be insincere or insignificant in some other way.

A rage would consume in my early life when this lesson was sinking in through interactions and reflection. “What do you mean the jerk never tells me sorry? I was right and everyone knew it,” I thought.

It didn’t help that I had the misguided notion that God avenged every little thing done against his children. Therefore, through a miseducation of films features vigilantes hell bent on revenge (my family loved action films), I swore I would become one in my own right.

That did nothing but seal in years, possibly decades of self-sabotaging behavior.

So now, here I am. It’s the last day of 2025 and I feel like shit. Had another obligatory mental spiral about my social standing and how my friend list has seriously dwindled in record time. How my mother was probably right when she warned me not to invite myself places. How my father has been right in some things, but I’ll never admit it to him straight on. How I’m almost back to being a lonely 13-year-old, stuck in her head, crying every other day with no clue of what her future holds.

However I can say I am grateful for the following—my grandparents, my love, my nieces, God, and Zora Neale Hurston. I’ll throw in Rochelle Jordan because her latest album is currently bumping in my headphones.

Swimming in anxiety in this world and trying to stay positive and focused on living is hard. But we outchea.

Happy New Year’s Eve. Stay safe and stay mad ethnic 🫶🏾