Jazz soothes my Soul...

The two bosses collaborate on one of my favourite pieces of all time...

Therapy...

To everyone who helped me keep my head up when I wanted to drag it on the floor, thanks and I luv yall to death. You truly don't know how much in your debt I am right now :)

Therapy...

This wasn’t planned, so it may sound poorly written and thought out. I made up my mind I wouldn’t write anything, until I had something new to say. And I don’t. I have absolutely nothing of note to put here. My situation hasn’t changed much. I’m just tired of wallowing in depression and negative feelings. So this is my outlet. I’m trying to purge myself. Writing always came easy to me. It felt natural, like breathing, or swimming (I learned to swim at such a young age, that I don’t even actually remember learning), or speaking. Except that now, it feels even more natural than speaking. Concepts, ideas and emotions that I struggle to articulate, just flow when I’m putting them down on paper. I don’t have to go back and repeat myself, or struggle to explain what I really mean or feel. It just flows. I’ve re-read all my posts countless times. It’s amazing to watch your writing develop, when you did not even realize that it was ever changing.

With that being said, I now realize that writing is therapeutic for me. I don’t clam up. I don’t freeze. Maybe it’s because I’m focused on avoiding spelling and grammatical errors. Maybe it’s because when I write, I lose myself in what I’m writing about. I don’t know what it is. But I know that starting this blog has done more for me, than the four $400 sessions at that therapist ever did. Every time I bare my soul in this space, and then hit that “post blog” button, I feel lighter and freer than I did before. So with that in mind, this is my therapy session for this week. I hope to remove the negativity from my soul and replace with something else.

I won’t re-hash my blogs of this week in length. The world has seen me writhe in agony and sink to some depths that I hoped I would never see again. I finally cried too. It wasn’t an ideal place or time to cry. I could have killed myself at the point in time. (N.B. breaking down into tears while you’re driving on a busy highway does not come recommended by the Minister of Health. Especially when you’re well renowned for speeding). But I couldn’t help it at the point in time. I reached that place. The exhaustion, the pain, the guilt, the regret, the longing, the wanting, the desperation, had all reached their peak. I was talking to her on the phone (earpiece enabled for all you safety-conscious folk), and I started apologizing for everything I had done in the past. And it snuck up on me.

I didn’t bawl. But they came slowly, and then steadily. And I couldn’t stop them. I was struggling. My voice hitched. I stammered. But I didn’t stop. I pushed through. At the end of it all, I did not get the responses I wanted. But I felt a little bit better (stress on little). I got into work tidied up a little and proceeded to sulk out the day. I sent out questionable e-mails. I had people look at me and ask which family member died. I was low. Then I left work, hit my favourite watering hole, and went on what I intended to be the mother of all benders, breathalyzer be damned. But a funny thing happened in the midst of all the drowning of my sorrows. I went to the bathroom to take a leak, and on the way out, I looked in the mirror. I was appalled by what I saw. To use my favourite saying, I looked like warmed over death. I looked pitiful. That wasn’t me looking back in that mirror. It couldn’t be. So I made up my mind. Past midnight, Friday night, I was not mourning anymore. I would turn my hurt into something positive. And I have been working at that since then.

I am still hurting, a lot. My change in attitude hasn’t changed that fact. I am going to try my best to show her that I am worthy of one more chance. That hasn’t changed. I don’t know what my odds are, but I am going to give my all. There are still things that I haven’t shared with her, but I have resolved to be open and share them. These are the things that I have scared to share with anyone. Even this blog. Will it help? I don’t know. Do I have a plan? No, I don’t. But I need to look forward and stay positive. Even if I don’t succeed. Because, to go back to how I used to be, would mean that all of the lessons that I claimed to learn from all of the pain I have suffered, would have truly been lost. This just became about more than just proving to her that I am worthy. It also became about proving to me that I am worthy of her, whether I end up back by her side or not. I think, no, I believe that I am. Now the time has come to back up those words, with ways.

Run To The Sun

N.E.R.D. Nobody Ever Really Dies. They are currently one of my favourite artists. I have all 3 of their albums released to date, and I love the eclectic blend of music that each one contains. I have killed the albums to the point where two close friends actually nicknamed me “nerd”. Well, they also sang the song that I’m using as the title for this post. I currently have this song on “repeat till annoying” status. It’s about a guy making one last plea to his girl who’s leaving him, because he was too wrapped up in his own woes and his own life, to pay any real attention to her. I can relate to that. Especially now.

I think you all remember this post from a couple of months ago. Well, the back story to that post is that I was pretty much involved with someone else at that point in time. She was for all intents and purposes my girlfriend. Just we were on an extended break. I spoke to her after I posted that particular entry and explained myself. She watched me dead in the eye, and told me that it was my blog and that I was entitled to write anything I want to. This space is my venting ground, and she preferred that I have a place where I could vent, rather than bottle everything up. I could have kissed her then. So what does a song call “Run To the Sun” have to do with that blog and this post? Well, it shows that I am my own worst enemy, and that once again, no-one can truly fuck me over quite like myself.

Let me start from the beginning. When I met the heroine of this current post, I was only two months out of a relationship with the heroine of the above-mentioned post. I was a hot mess because, as usual, I fucked that relationship up too. (It was a bit more complicated than that, but that is one of my lowest points, and I’m still trying to heal from it). A mutual friend introduced us at a cooler fete. (Feel free to laugh at that tidbit). What I didn’t laugh at, was how easily we clicked. Actually, it was more than just clicking, it was like melding. The only way I can explain it, is that we had 3 pieces of conversation that night: “Hi, nice to meet you,” and “You want anything from the cooler?” (x 2). Yet we walked out of that fete holding hands, like we had been together for months. Nothing much needed to be said. It just was. And there was my problem. How could I just get out of a relationship with someone who I gave my all to, and yet just connect with someone who I had just met? What was wrong with me? Was I turning into my dad? (See this week’s posts for reference)

I was confused. I still loved my previous girlfriend. But this new woman in my life, she was like a breath of fresh air. She was beautiful, humble, funny, talented, smart and refreshingly honest. We shared tons of shit in common. Our passion for music, art, reading, the list was endless. But I was not happy. Why? Because I was happy. Or at least I was on the road to being happy. (Let me put your reaction into words for you: Whaaaaaa?????????????) Let me explain. I am a master of guilting myself, and being guilted. And let’s just say the first time my previous girlfriend saw us out together, oooooh, she was not pleased. She took every potshot imaginable for awhile. And I took it. Why? Cuz I felt guilty that I found someone who willing to work with me, to help me heal, and she was probably still hurting. That was the other thing. I didn’t lie to my new girlfriend. I laid my cards out. I told her straight up that I was damaged goods. And she worked with me on it. She was more understanding than she needed to be. To the point where I started wondering when the other shoe would drop, and I would see the flip side, the inevitable psychosis that I invariably always seem to attract. Only thing is, it never did drop. It was who she was. And I slowly started falling in love all over again. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I sabotaged the shit out of the relationship.

Over the following year, we were constantly on and off. In my mind, I harped on the few weaknesses she did have, turning them into relationship-threatening crises. As soon as we would start getting comfortable, I would say I needed a break to sort myself out. It was the truth. I did need to sort myself out, but not in the way I said I needed to. I wasn’t sorting stuff out, as much as running away from the guilt I was feeling. And I never dealt with that guilt. And I kept running and coming back, running and coming back. And everytime, she would let me go, and then take me back. Every time I told her I was not sure when I would be sorted out, and if she met someone else, don’t look back. And everytime, she waited for me, worked with me, being understanding, being loving.

Things came to a head this year. I really started to doubt myself and what I was doing with this beautiful woman. I was toying with her, mercilessly. Not purposefully, mind you, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was toying with her none-the-less. The fact that I still shared all of my emotions and feelings with her didn’t mitigate the fact either. I was being cruel and selfish under the guise of protecting myself. So I basically called it off. Crudely too. Once again, it was not one of my better moments. I honestly wish I could take that moment back. (I’m also racking up way too many of these kinds of moments.) I gave her the same spiel, taking time, don’t wait for me, yadda, yadda, yadda. Difference was, I was serious this time. I took time. I dealt with a lot of my guilt. I even hung out with my ex. I realized that I still love her, but maybe, just maybe, sometimes 2 people aren’t meant to be together. And in figuring this out, I realized I had been an ass. More precisely, I had been a c*nt. (Don’t ask me why, but c*nt registers as a nastier word than fuck for me.) But more importantly, I realized I loved the one I had just left. Unconditionally and purely. I made up my mind. I knew who I wanted to spend my life with.

I decided I wanted to make right, and live out the fairytale ending. I had heard things, but figured nah, couldn’t be. So I called her, and told her I loved her and I missed her. I got silence in response. Ok, that could be expected. I had basically disappeared for about 3 months, with the exception of her birthday. “Why now?” came the question. I stammered and stuttered my reasons. Then came the hammer blow: “I appreciate it, but I’ve met someone else. And it’s going pretty good.” Now I was the one who went silent. (Guess I should’ve listened to what I had heard.) My mouth was dry, and I was literally speechless. I can’t even remember what I said. I vaguely remember promising her I would keep in touch and not disappear again, and that I hope he truly makes her happy. Then I lay there for 10 mins, before getting up to mix the harshest rum and orange juice you have ever tasted, and promptly killing a half pack of cigarettes. I then went to “sleep” at around 2 in the morning.

I have tried to analyze how I feel. I know I told her don’t wait for me if someone else came along, but for whatever dumb/asshole reason, it never crossed my mind that it would actually happen. As though I was the only one who saw her virtues. I am hurt. I’m disappointed. I’m mad. At myself. I have managed to do it again. I ruined something promising for myself. And that’s why I keep playing “Run to The Sun” over, and over, and over again. The chorus says:

“It goes while you’re here, I wanna tell you something,
It’s that I love you, girl, and
I wish we could run, to the sun,
And never come back”

I am tired. I would cry, but I emotionally don’t have the strength. I am mourning my loss, but don’t have the energy to express it openly. I’m hurting badly, yet strangely numb, at the same time. I honestly wish her the best. I hope it works out. She deserves nothing less, and vast amounts more. I hope this guy treats her like the queen and angel that she is. I have no dislike or malice for him. I got my due in spades. I just wish it would have been me treating her like that. I guess I will have to keep wishing for that run to sun.

My Father's Son... Pt. 3

The final installment...

Pt. III


2 years later, I was back home, for good this time. I had broken up with my girlfriend who I had lived with for the past year. I was in a funk. A deep one. I turned to one of the few people who I could trust to give me bullshit free advice about how to deal with my break-up. I turned to my ex who had gotten the “lock-off” that time some years back. Her advice? Talk to my mom. So I did, with her (my ex) there. And that’s where it all started coming out. My mom just let me talk for about 2 hours, and said absolutely nothing. When I was finished, she took a breath, and asked me if I had anything else to say. I told her no, I think that was about it. She then turned to my ex and told her, “Like I said, he’s his father’s child. Don’t rush them, they will eventually open up when they are ready. But when they are ready, be prepared to just listen.” I was dumbfounded. Not at the fact that my mom knew me. What mother doesn’t know their child? What took me aback, was the fact that my mother just told someone, that she was able to take the blueprint for my father, and apply it to me. And not only did it match, it matched perfectly. So I started asking questions. What else did my dad and I share in common? The basic answer, almost everything. Without spending anytime with me, my dad was basically able to transfer the very essence of his personality to me. He loved jazz and soul, I love jazz and soul. He was an engineer who liked architecture. Like I said, I like the visual arts. He was introspective to a fault, I am introspective to fault. Hell, I just found out last night he liked to just pick up and go for drives around the island. What do I do when I need to think? I will pick up, regardless of the hour, and go for a long drive. I’ve reached as far as Siparia at 1 in the morning. In a nutshell, I’m practically a carbon-copy.

So why does this scare me so much? Basically, I have spent 20 out of my 30 years of existence, trying not to be like my dad. To me, as much as I am grateful to him for my life, he was a philandering asshole, who had no interest in being involved in my life. That may sound petty and childish, but it’s honestly how I felt/feel. I love my step-mom and my sisters to death. They have accepted me when they did not have to, because my existence is proof of the fact that my dad could not find complete contentment within the confines of their family unit. My step-mom told me to my face after my dad died, that her greatest regret was that she could not get him to spend more time with me. My mom and step-mom were even able to become friends (not best friends by any means, but you catch the drift). By all accounts, he was a classy, stand up guy, whose only real fault was that he did not know how to deal with family life. My sisters lived with him, and even they admit he was never really open with his emotions (another trait we have in common). Basically, he was everything I am. And basically, I am that which scared me most. I am him.

Am I still scared? I don’t think so. I think I’m coming to accept the fact that somehow I genetically picked up his traits. I think that no matter how I fight it, we will share more in common than I may ever completely be comfortable with. But I also realize that the sins of the father do not necessarily have to become the sins of the son. I realize that as much as we may share in common, I am also my own person, with my own strengths and weaknesses. I think I am coming to realize, that I am both my father’s son, and my own man.

My Father's Son...Pt. 2

As promised...

Pt. II

So I spent most of my socially-formative years without any real male influence in my life. I had my liming pardners, Kory and my uncles. I finished Fatima, worked for a bit and then went to Morehouse. But I realized a funny thing growing up. A lot of my tastes just didn’t mesh with my peers. I would quicker read a book, than play sports. And all the men in my family are athletically inclined. I mean, I have some natural talent when it comes to sports, but they never really interested me beyond watching on TV. I would listen to dancehall and rap, but I loved jazz, soul and classical. And I didn’t get it from mom, cuz she would quicker listen to talk radio in the car, than music stations. And we didn’t have many old records lying about. I liked visual arts, both classical and modern. And this was in secondary school. In forms 2 and 3. Which frigging 13 year old did you know listened to Beethoven and Nina Simone? I could be both out-going and withdrawn, often in a matter of hours. Then it really started getting weird.

My first real girlfriend and my mom had a special friendship. She would run to my mom for advice before she went to her mom, or even her older sister. Even after we broke up and I moved to Atlanta, she would be at my house on weekends for hours, just talking to my mother. Anyway, I came back home one Christmas, and we got into a huge fight. And true to form, rather than deal with the issue to the end, I shut down and went into my infamous “lock-off” mode. And, true to form, she went running to my mother. So, I’m overhearing their conversation, and in the middle of it, I hear my mom say:

“Child, his father is the exact same way. He got it from him.”

Wha???? Excuse me????

(Let me explain my “lock-off” mode. Other people’s “lock-off” mode entails ignoring you so that you know you may or may not know you are being ignored. Not here. I’m special. I will talk to you and address you. But that’s it. And if I think you are pushing it, I will hit you a “you still talking, dread?” Yea, I’m special like that.)

Oh yea, and I will go into my own little world where no-one, especially you, exists. Think of it as a targeted media blackout. Only now, I was finding out that it wasn’t my little quirk. I had a predecessor. And that predecessor was the one person on planet Earth who I wanted to have nothing common with. Needless to say, I was pissed. After my girlfriend left, I blew my lid at my mother. I ranted and raved about her talking to my girlfriend behind my back. I continued for a good 10 mins, and then she got the lock-off for the rest of the week. I was livid. But I wasn’t mad her. I was mad/scared of the fact that I might share more in common with my dad than just looks, tone of voice, or a possible blood type. I mean was it true? Did I share more in common with my dad that just my “mother’s milk” cheeks? It’s not like he had been around, so that I picked up his traits. But, what if it was true?

My Father's Son... Pt. 1

This one is long. So I split it up into 3 parts to make for better/easier reading. I'll post Part 1 today, and Parts 2&3 tomorrow, and Wednesday. And don't worry, unlike my other multi-parters, this one is all finished already. :p

My Father's Son...

The title of this post feels strange to me. For quite awhile now I’ve wanted to write a post on the person who I have ever held dearest to me, the person who I strive most to be like, the model I try to follow so desperately. I always figured the first post I would ever write about either of my parents, would logically be about my mother. Yet, here I find myself addressing my father. Why is this strange? Well, the simple fact is that my father and I never had any kind of relationship past roughly my turning the age of 5 (or is it 6 or 7), years old. In my mind, he simply disappeared. I had my mother. My father figure(s), were my uncles, and my mother cousins. Yet I feel compelled to write this because the more I hear about my father from my aunts, and the more I learn about him from my step-mom and my sisters, I am realizing that I am just what the title of this post says. I am his son.




Let me give a little history. To use Trini vernacular, I am a horn-chile. My father has 2 daughters with his wife, and me. I am the youngest of his children. I have very vague memories of him coming over to see my mom and me when I was very little, and even vaguer memories of being packed into the car, and my mother and I driving over to his house. But we never went inside. We would stay outside, he would come to the car to talk to my mother, he would go back inside and we would leave. I saw what seemed to be the silhouette of two young girls inside his house, but never knew who they were. Then one day, he stopped showing up, and we stopped going over. At the age of 5 you have no idea what these things mean. Even now, I don’t know what happened for him to stop seeing us, and I have never asked. All I know is that the strange man who my mother said was my “father” and who I called “Daddy” had just disappeared.



And it didn’t bother me. I had my mom, Ena (my great-aunt), Steve (my uncle), and Fitzroy and Tony (my mom’s cousins). If this concept seems strange let me explain it like this: my very good friend’s wife has a son from a previous relationship. He was about 2 when my friend started dating his mom. His mom always insisted that he called my friend by his first name. Yet when you hear him running around yelling “Nigel”, you fully understand who he is referring to, and in what capacity. In his mind he doesn’t have a daddy; he has a “Nigel”. Personally, I do not see anything wrong with that. I actually wish there was a way for him to go through life just knowing his “Nigel”, not having to deal with the reality that Nigel is not his biological dad. But I know that day will come, and I pray for them that that situation will pass smoothly. But I digress.



Anyway, my father did stay in touch for awhile. But the calls started coming with longer and longer lapses in between. He would call; I would ask when he was coming over to see me. He would promise soon. And he would not show up. The final straw was my 12th birthday. He called me. He promised me we would spend time for my birthday. We would go, us alone, pick up my gift, and spend quality time like we had not done in years. I got excited, even got dressed up. And he never showed up. Didn’t even call back. And neither did I. I wrote him off. In my mind, I did not have a father. My mom was the Virgin Mary Redux, and I was the product of immaculate conception. The only evidence that I had a living, breathing, sperm-donor, was the fact that I had 2 sisters. Other than that, fuck him (and yes I was already cussing at age 12). He didn’t care about me, so I damn sure didn’t care about him. And I continued my life like that for 10 years.

Big Day on Friday...

Retake of my MM exam. Wish me luck.