Kings Bleed Too

A space dedicated to exploring and expressing the experiences of Black Men…#KINGSBLEEDTOO

I Compartmentalize

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I’m not sure if i’m battling my demons or sleeping with them. In a home filled with love i’m most at peace sleeping alone. I wish and wonder what life would be like if you never hit my phone. How does one get some caught up in the game, that they forget about home? I guess I never got those memos of you always putting on. But maybe this is all is just test for me? Especially since these days people want to check for me. It’s stressing me. I don’t go to bed until 3am, then wake up at 7 and give the world whatever is left of me.


I compartmentalize.


I think about this #MeToo situation and how it’s triggering. I wonder about a situation I was a part of, truthfully. I remember being in David’s place at Columbia University. He was in Seminary with my Mom. She introduced us. I was maybe 15/16? I say maybe because I don’t think about it, personally. I just remember him spooning me. I remember laying in the bed sleeping with my sweats suit on, and him coming to lay down behind me. It was uncomfortable. Not like he was invited. The choice was ever extended to me. I remember getting up and leaving to head to school in the morning. I remember my mother later saying that he came out of the closet, and THAT’S when it fell on me. What was he trying to do that night, i mean honestly? He was my mentor at the time, he had to be like 27, but was he also sexually fond of me? It bothers me. I remember trusting David and saying I could just share with with him. I passed out on his air mattress religiously. Esp when my mom was annoying me. It was a single sized one, so why the fuck did get out his bed and come laydown next to me? 


I compartmentalize.


I hate that I feel like I can’t tell you parts of my life’s story. I feel like you wouldn’t understand. Every time I’m vulnerable I feel like I get judged or hurt. I really like you, but that doesn’t mean that I always think this will work. You want me to call you when I get home every night, but the service in the train station is spotty. You wanted me to facetime you before bed, but the phone I have when you’re around, isn’t mine to begin with. You wonder about who I’m laying down next to at night. I’m trying to discern getting to the shelter before it closes. There’s layers in this. Layers that I never share because no one besides me really cares. My space, past present and future, is just that: mine. How could I tell you this? How could I explain this? You’re consumed with your own life, just take this good dick and think I got it like this. And do have it good in some ways, but that woman you swear I’m seeing isn’t even into guys. The phones I use aren’t even mine, That passcode you used, the phone you went thru, the messages you read, I’d be lying if I told you what most of them said, because they’re not for me… But you wouldn’t understand what this kinda life is like like. I write a lot. I don’t get paid much for it. And selling pills to people in dangerous, but it’s so rewarding. I do just enough to address my major bills. And when you have friends like I do, you get things take care of. But I still have pride. I don’t accept free rides. But since you want to know everything about my life, consider yourself inside.


I compartmentalize.


I remember moving out of Chicken’s house. People think I left because I found a great opportunity and a really good job, but I was emotionally depleted. The memories I have of my grandmother mostly positive ones, but when she began not know who I, or her husband of 75plus years was, I couldn’t deal with it. She’s alive till’ this day, technically speaking, but to me she might as well be gone. Her birthday is 3 days before mine. She didn’t even know it until she was reminded of it. She hasn’t called me in years to wish me happy birthday. She doesn’t even remember what she had for breakfast. I hate seeing her like this. I hate that i’m in the position to even feel compelled to write something like this. I remember when Brandon showed up at my Birthday celebration. He told me how she didn’t even know who he was. We shared a moment, and I confessed to him that in my head, Grandma is already gone. He looked me in my eyes and told me he understands how and why I feel this way. We have a big family. She has tons of support. My presence, or rather the lack of, won’t be missed by her. But I miss her, the strong, aware, and responsive women that I knew her to be. That’s not what she is anymore. And it’s really fucking bothering me. I pray for my Dad and Uncles and my Grandfather. My 7 siblings, whom I know love her dearly. I hope they can understand my actions. I just want to hold onto those good moments that I had of Chicken.


I compartmentalize.


I know this may come as a surprise to you. Put yourself in my shoes. Depression isn’t something that goes away. There are levels to depression. When you talk to me about your Mom, and you describe her pattern of behavior. How she’s always opting not to attend family events, or socialize, or  how she projects when communicating. She’s dealing with depression. And when you judge her, when you get upset with her, when you look at her with frustration and lack patience with your mother, do you think I don’t notice? You think I would be comfortable opening up to you about my battles with depression? You think your response to her would make me want to open up to you and talk to you about my shortcomings or my setbacks, or my demons, when at times you resent your mother for hers? You might be shocked, or rather Thrilled to know that there are way more than 7 reasons why I just won’t do that.


I compartmentalize.


These days you and I just don’t speak as much. I spent years getting to know you. Slept in the same bed as you, cooked for you. Did things for you that I dare not do for any woman. And I don’t know that i can even call you my friend. Sad shit. I tried texting you the other day, I still can’t imagine hitting send on this google doc that I wrote to you. Too much to say. Too much to feel. Sometimes I think about our conversations and interactions over the past 5 years and it all seems surreal. Like a bad movie. Like a terrible script. You were supposed to be my best friend. Now I feel like you ain’t shit.


I compartmentalize.


I remember moving to a new city thinking I would find love. All I found were some groupchats with some dummies who don’t get out enough. The kind of people that think living on their own and having a degree makes you poppin. I’ve been homeless, I lived in condos in other countries, and I do well for myself these days. I know enough to know that my income and my living situation isn’t a reflection of my happiness. Neither is it a reflection of my status. And if you think it make you look good, you may want to step outside the district of your mind, and experience something real. You’re not poppin because you’ve made a habit of paying bills.


I Compartmentalize.

Thanks for reading. Just some experiences I lived thru over the years. Promise I'll post more. For Now...

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