How are you? Are you fine?
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Comment ça va? tu vas bien? Or do you also find it crazy how you can feel at your highest in one week, and still feel at your lowest in that same week? I do. Je vais bien, in a way, if not, I would not be writing to you. First, I want to apologise for the shabby film review I sent out last week. It was not shabby per se, but I was too busy, I didn’t review it, and I didn’t feel guilty. I just sent it out like that, and you guys are always supporting me, so I feel I should give you my best which, most times, is something intimate, or a piece intimately written.
This week or rather, last week — as this would be out on Sunday, and we don’t want to get into the argument of which day begins a new week, Sunday or Monday? — has seen me at both my highest and lowest. My friends and I, sponsored by one of my school’s programs, hosted a games night for Black students on Wednesday. It had genuinely started out as a joke, or something cute, but by Tuesday fifty people had registered to attend. I don’t know if fifty students attended as the game night was almost like a drop-in event, but I did see more than thirty black students. We were excited. I was excited. I even planned my outfit a week earlier and took nice pictures which I posted on Instagram and sent to my family group chat.
On Thursday, I stayed home to study, and gradually, in minute quantities, I began to lose my spirit. Most of what shakes me, if I am being honest, are financial thoughts; thoughts about not being able to afford the life I deserve or even completing my outrageous international student tuition, and the thing is when these thoughts work you up and break you down, other insecurities and their intrusive thoughts begin to bloom. Suddenly, I miss my family and I crave physical touch; I hate my degree and wish I was enrolled in media arts or creative writing or English language; I hate my body, the look of it, the shape of it. There’s suddenly room for mental rambling and by Friday, I have a messed up sleep schedule, I sleep with headaches at my pain threshold when I feel my head about to split open and I have suicidal thoughts, or at least I am making suicidal jokes.
Usually, I listen to gospel music to calm my mind from rambling. Even on days when I am not worrying or sad, the songs instil messages of faith, patience and thanksgiving, before I even get a chance to worry, but this time, I cut off from songs. I wanted full consciousness of my thoughts — not anymore, they hurt. And lastly, my hair is a mess. Apart from not knowing how to take care of my forever-stagnant-shrunken height kinky black-boy-with-no-hair-history hair, I pull out my hair with my fingers as a coping mechanism when I am worried or nervous. I have strands of my black hair on, in and around everything that belongs to me. I was able to stop in September 2020, I remember, but ever since I resumed this semester and faced difficulties in comprehending my advanced calculus and modern physics classes, I returned to old habits.
This evening, my sister texted me to ask what was wrong because my private stories were hinting something was wrong, and surprisingly, I was able to summarise it in five lines. She said some things, and I replied, but I understand that nothing might be changing for the better anytime soon and I may have to stress myself more in the coming weeks, but it felt nice to talk to someone. She told me two sad jokes. One was about my father having exams soon since the ASUU strike has been suspended, and the other I will not mention. I sent laughing emojis. They were not funny, the intention was.
I don’t know if I feel better now, but I am recuperating and writing because I believe this gift is some favourable therapy — the ability to speak and not suffer in silence. I spoke to God some minutes ago, had my bath at seven in the evening and ate. I am hoping tomorrow will be better for me, mentally, and for you reading this. But like I asked in the beginning, except in french, How are you? Are you fine? I am listening.
