Things Fall Apart

"Life is always on the edge of falling down again."
~The Noonday Demon*

the tipping point: [definition] The tipping point is the critical point in an evolving situation that leads to a new and irreversible development. By analogy, when a small amount of weight is added to a balanced object, it can cause it to suddenly and completely topple....

Wow. If anyone still reads this blog, please know that I'm here and have not fallen off the face of the earth. Not literally anyway, but I'll explain more later. I have 3,729 unread messages in my inbox. Have not checked, read, nor sent an email or read a blog in a little under four months. The reasons are complex and varied, but suffice it to say that I was already barely hanging on after lil' sis' murder trial. Had a lot to process. Then, some other stuff happened, then some other stuff. Then some more stuff...

And then came a day, a few months later, (August 2nd to be exact), when I got the news that my baby cousin, our Justin, our 25 year old Justin, handsome, compassionate, intelligent and about to obtain his mechanical engineering degree Justin - had been senselessly murdered in Atlanta (same place as lil' sis), and that I had another good-bye to attempt, another funeral to attend, another fresh deep jagged wound for my family to try to stumble through, and another new set of motives and circumstances and crime scene reconstructions, hitting walls over this backwards ass "NO SNITCHING" ghetto mentality. New detectives, preliminary reports, felony murder charges, trial dates, all the familiar horror...and something inside my core snapped. It was all just too much. Half a decade of continual loss and death and grief. All these attempts to hang on to this slipping down life, to collapse, to get up, only to be knocked down again. Again. And again and again. Yes, the world breaks everyone. And it finally broke me.

On that day I made two announcements. The first one, to be expected. The latter, scared the shit outta everyone. Including me.

Number #1: Fuck Atlanta. Fuck Georgia. Fuck the whole goddamn state and every other state that touches it's borders. Fuck anything associated with Georgia. I'm done. That place has snatched too much of my precious blood. I don't give a fuck how irrational it sounds. So just fuck it.

and,

Number #2: I give up.

Not even feeling as if I had anything left to prove, the kids and I flew back East to grief and family and funeral - then I simply came home, got in bed, and didn't get up for a month. A relative came to take care of me and the kids. I slept, drank Vodka, sobbed until I threw up, drank some more, refused to eat, and took too many but not enough pills. I just wanted to sleep. I sat up one hazy afternoon, amazed I was still alive. By then it was September.

Things had fallen apart; again. Gradually, then suddenly. And this year, even a trip to Jamaica hadn't saved me.

Hence, the disappearance.

Though I won't even say I'm back - just checking in. The lady who lets me be lost on her sofa every week (my therapist) suggests that I try to start writing again. This is the soft encouragement she gives after reminding me all of this is normal after suffering a "major grief-triggered depressive breakdown," with a fair amount of "post-traumatic stress" to go along with it. (All these fancy words and phrases for going crazy, nowadays.)

So I have graduated from just trying to get out of bed and brush my teeth, to taking regular showers, to coming out of my room, to speaking without crying or shouting uncontrollably. Not without the help of a whole lotta love, and whole lotta doctor's prescriptions. (the legal dope- pills.) All of it has been a humbling, frightening experience, my closest slip into pure madness. Because of it, I've alienated a bunch of folks this go around; I became impossible and simply dropped off the map with no indication of a return. A few great friendships have been tested and deeply frayed. Normal conversations still remain amazingly tedious. When I'm able, I'll communicate what I can to them..and just hope.

But you are never the same once you have acquired the knowledge that there is no part of your life that cannot crumble..you must let go and understand that the world will be re-created and may never again resemble what you knew previously...*

So, a painful progress had been sort of achieved now, I guess. Phone calls and voice and e-mails still give me an unnerving amount of anxiety. I can text, though. And eat salad. Get up. Walk the dog. That I can do.

Re: writing again: I tell my therapist: I'm sick of writing about pain. I don't wanna be that tragedy chick. You know, that person who seems to go through it..again..and again, and again and again; that person(s) you lightweight stay away from just in case their shit is contagious.

What do you want, then? she keeps asking me.

I don't know, I keep telling her. I liked it better when I didn't have to think or want. But I suppose now, since I'm up and wandering around - maybe it means I'm trying to find out. Maybe.

Until again,

Be well, Blogger Fam.

~Supa

Trial Diaries: Continued...

Day Three

I'm good. Much better today. Decided early on that I wouldn't get any trial updates until the days end, so I could insulate myself with good thoughts, good music, and the simple graciousness of being alive. It was a beautiful day. Had a cool day at the Lounge, scheduled a breakfast meeting to do some co-op advertising and promotion with a semi-big-willie in the Leimert Park merchant community, enjoyed my South Central neighborhod on a sunny day (Bone-Thugz and Harmony were shooting a video on my street - how crazy is that - didn't realize they were still a group...) Rolled around the streets with the sunroof and my thoughts wide open. Got some special love and support via text and email. (wink) Made an impromptu trip to a day spa I'd been hearing great things about down in Koreatown, spent the eve in pamper mode. A much needed mini-mental vacay. One day at a time.

Take care, Blogger Fam.



Day Two

Okay, so I wasn't ready for Day Two. Nope nope nope. Nope no fucking way. Was I supposed to be ready to hear never known before facts (evidence) about Dena's last conversation, or her last moments on earth and at what angle she got blasted, or how this bastard actually had a baby with another woman after he killed my sister and unborn neice? (what?what?)

See, here's the deal. While the cops and the army and the district attorney were building a case against this fool over the last few years, there were facts and "details" they simply would not share with us. Said it would jeopordize the case. Said it might inflame the family. No kidding. So there are things that even I didn't know which are coming out in trial and I won't get into details but it's fresh new heartbreak. Fresh and new, alongside the old scars. And here's the even trippier part. I had the urge to call Dena to tell her how the trial is going. I can't even get into the psychology behind that right now.

And driving home, I'm thinking: shit like this changes people's lives. Drastically. Permanently. This shit is so far reaching and I wonder if, just a very small poignant if, if a person who murders, who snatches a loved one out of the arms of folks who watched her grow and believed in her and loved her to pieces, if it's even comprehensible for that murderer to imagine the ripple effect that his senseless, cowardly act has on so many lives - friends, co-workers, cousins and nieces and nephews, neighbors, law enforcement, lawyers and reporters, how so many lives will change and intersect and collide but for no other reason than his own sorry ass actions. Lives shattered, even those of his own family. He has no idea what he's done.

I'm torn. I'm torn because of how I feel about trial watching from a distance, yet knowing that I just would not be able to sit there through all this evidence. I've got kids to take care of, a business to run, and a mind to keep stable...I'll be there soon enough, just not for this part. (But still...)My presence will not change the outcome which I've already determined will be just. The trial is moving along well, which means closing testimony might happen next week and that's what I'm waiting for. Miss me with the defense's case, just miss me with all that bullshit. We know what he did.

But Dena-D: Lil' sis, you're an angel and you've been sending me support and placing little signs in my path to let me know you got my back, and I appreciate it. I really do. I've been embraced in ways large and small, unexpected and completely appreciated. From everyone who's sent me a comment on the blog, to the thoughtful and supportive emails, phone calls, and texts, to my friends and fam bam who have kept me lovingly occupied with hugs, real talk, pretty new "keep ya head up, cheer me up" shoes (thanks, Pam!), hang out sessions at The Lounge, etc. Any and all of it. Ya'll are performing a delicate form of heart surgery, and I love you for it. And trust, I'll be okay. Just need a minute to absorb and reset, and I'll be good. And everything is gonna be alright.


Trial Diaries: Intro


So today, my life unfolded simultaneously on two realms: one in a Georgia courtroom, the other, over the span of a beautiful lazy Southern California day. I got up early, got the car washed, walked the dog. Basked in the near 80 degree weather, ate breakfast in the back yard, did some laundry, hula-hooped, read in the hammock, napped. Took it reeeaaal fuckin' slow. All while a jury heard the first day of testimony in the case of my lil' sis' murder trial.

Had already decided I could spend the whole day stressin', or go through it graciously with the knowledge that justice has already been done and this trial is merely the logistics to that pre-determined end. When I called in for the day's updates, I didn't ask about the jury demographics or what the accused was wearing; just wanted the information revealed by the first witnesses. I was told about the hunter's testimony, and the circumstances surrounding exactly how he found my sister's decomposed body and I said hold on because I thought I was going to throw up. But I didn't. That's a very good sign. Not getting sick so much anymore. All around, it was a good day, as good a day as any. I feel a strange calm. I think about everything that's happened over the last four years. It didn't kill me. That must mean I'm basically fucking invincible.

Ready for Day Two.

Jagged Little Journey...

jagged: ['ja-ged] having a harsh, rough, or irregular quality

journey [jur-nee] : a traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time

It's countdown time. My latest mantra: Stay busy, think positive, remain calm, breathe, focus, don't shut down or start cussin' folks out, everything is gonna be alright. Justice will be served. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

But shit dude, I can't sleep. Third night this week and I'm up past 2 a.m., hula-hooping on the cold kitchen tile (my latest exercise fad), Ipod headphones and 2pac on blast, doin' dainty Vodka shots wondering how the fuck am I gonna do this. Can't pretend like it 'aint happenin', time's up for alla that. With the media and the D.A. all up on the other end of my line, couldn't ignore it if I tried...

It's been four years a long time it's the day you've waited for all this time four years how do you feel will you be able to contain yourself it'll be the first time to confront your pregnant sister's murderer...

Shit, man. Like, what am I supposed to say...(do all you reporters ask the same dumb ass questions? how do you think I feel, genius? you want me to get all heated & gully so I can get lectured again by those nice Georgia detectives about the sentences and fines for making terrorist threats against the accused?) Nah. I don't even go there lately. All I do say is: I'll be there.

Can't really call the rest.

No one really knows what it does to you. It changes you; but in ways they don't readily see. After all, you do resume some semblance of "normal." Folks see you up and about, hair combed, speaking coherently, occasionally smiling, and they convince themselves you're beyond the worst of it. You'll live. They don't know..not really. Only you know the sleeplessness, the late night conversations with God and ghosts...the hole left in and around your life, that cold breezy place where it seems nothing good sticks. You wonder what your life would have looked like "if", what their life would have been like "if", and you lay deep in the night and see the sun rise before realizing it doesn't even matter. There is no "if". There is only now.

And so, lil' sis' murder trial is set to begin March 5th. Like, for real for real.

So I hula-hoop, listen to music, stay busy, think positive. Remain focused. Try not to cuss nobody out. Do dainty vodka shots, daydream, furiously rework my gratitude list, stay in the moment and write it all down. And pray.

That they keep him far enough away from me in court.

Real Talk

"everyone who loses somebody
wants revenge on someone..
on God if they can't find anyone else..."

I'm thankful school's done! (for now) So, now I can get back to things I've long neglected; like washing the car, catching up on laundry, re-embracing my & others blogs, watching the Ti-Voed episodes of 30 Rock and Nip/Tuck, ironing out the wrinkles in my social/romantic life. Catching a movie. Downloading some new music. Being able to chill, for a minute.

Reflect. Absorb.

But, yeah. It's also that time of year. The time of year that demands a certain amount of holiday cheer that I can't seem to muster. The same time I usually flee, unable to fake it, and take refuge on a Carribean island where I can wrap myself in warmth and thoughts and memories of years past.

For the last four years, since mommy died five days before Christmas (2002) and my little sis's murdered body was found in the woods (2003) - both on December 20th - I just haven't been able to deal with the holidays. The island of Jamaica has been my sanctuary. It's a tradition for which I've been graciously thankful; Christmas in the Carribean. Sadness, rum punch, and a tropical sunset seems so much easier to bear. But I won't have the luxury this year. Too many things going on. Good things, positive things...though for a variety of reasons, I'm forced to stay put. (much to the disappointment of a certain dreamy-eyed Jamaican cutie...hey George) *wink*

But on the real. School has kept me constructively distracted over the past few months. Distracted enough for me to not obsess over the fact that my sister's murder trial is set to start in a few weeks. Imagine that. I still come home and have to remind myself that I can't call her, to let her know I got an A on my anatomy exam. To ask her to help me take my braids down. To bitch at her about something or another. Big sister shit. Why hasn't she called? It's been three years and I still have these crazy lapses. Same thing with mom. Starting to wonder if it'll always be this way. Death and loss are such a mindfuck. Repeatedly trying to adjust to the new normal..

But, yo. Some strange shit has been running through my head lately. Like - am I really ready to face this muthafucker down in court? What would happen if I just didn't go to the trial? I'd swore I could never step foot in the state of Georgia, ever again. On the soil where my sister lost her life. And now I'm supposed to get on a plane and go there for a criminal trial? Could I do that? Or...could I live with myself if I didn't go? Fuck. Will I be able to conduct myself if I do?

I mean, I've worked real hard on cleansing myself of the anger, hatred, malicious revenge plots and hopes of a violent prison-style sodomy rape against this dude. Lately, I guess you could say I've slowly approached a feeling of wavering indifference. (on a good day) But I suspect it all might change if/when I'm in the same room with this fool. I mean, this fuck drove my lil' sis to her death. Plotted the whole thing. Escorted her out his car, then shot her in the back of the head with a 9 millimeter then rolled her down a ditch. Stripped her naked then covered her with leaves and left her to die. While she was six months pregnant with their child. Belly showin' and everything. A little niece I never got to see or hold. I'm still angry. Not as fucking angry as I use to be, but still pretty pissed enough. Still hurt, on a more than a few different levels. My soul is definitely lighter, but don't misunderstand. I'm still working on that "forgiveness" shit.

Am I ready to face all this? (the trial) Can I live with myself if I don't....I just don't know, ya'll. I've been in a real good space lately, and having to revisit all of this in a concrete way is giving me mixed feelings.

Life is a wonderful tragedy.