All the women in me are tired – Nayyirah

Damn.

She stood up again. Angry. She felt trapped, suffocated, pacing her room. There was an animal in her chest. She rushed to the window and opened it and was reminded how cold it was. She hadn’t been able to write in weeks. No…it was months now. She stuck her head out and clenched her fists till her knuckles hurt. This was too much. This was awful. Like she was ill.

She turned back to her desk and stared at the screen again. It was blank. Had been for the longest time. At first she had told herself that she was merely spent from her previous writing spells. She HADN’T BEEN WORRIED. Then the itch came. It was hard to describe. It was like… like a tickling in her chest. Like it wanted to feel air. Whatever it was , it was hungry sometimes. It happened haphazardly. That’s how she knew she wasn’t a writer. A real writer. Writers wrote with a commitment and consistency that she couldn’t muster. She lacked the discipline and the desire. Her writing was a desperate escape. It was better than wine sometimes… The Tickle came at very specific times. When her grandparents died within a year of each other. When her father almost went blind. When they stole the breath from another father on the sidewalk. When they took that other father’s life in front of his child. When her lover left her. When she nearly lost her brother…

She shut her eyes and shook her head. Maybe she needed a walk. Yes, didn’t they say inspiration came to those who walked? Or something else equally stupid. Just take a walk. That was the idea. With determination she grabbed her coat and pulled her cap on.

When the Tickling had gotten worse in her chest a few weeks ago she had sat down and nothing had come. Again she hadn’t worried. Not really worried. She had too much going on. Work was stressing her out. He had been fighting with her. Ignoring her calls. Pushing the knife into her side daily. It had been a bad time, that was all. She had pushed past it. She had gone out running in the mornings, stayed later at the office, filled her bed with pillows so she wouldn’t think about emptiness and told herself that as soon as the words were ready they would come out. They always did.

Now she was standing in the street. She was breathing too hard. She was trying to breathe around the ever-expanding lump in her chest. Walk, just walk. She turned left and walked; faster than the peaceful pace she had hoped she would achieve. She had not been peaceful in a while. She had feigned peace. She had forced it out when asked. She had ensured it was an impeccable façade. An award winning act her mother had taught her before she could tie her own shoes. No-one has a right to your tears, said maternal whispers. Some of her most brilliant performances of Peace made her cringe with how well she had done them. Her Act on Heartbreak had been her best work. Even when she literally felt physically ill from his absence, she had thrown parties, gone on dates and even taken on extra work. Is that not how one copes? She could not afford to cope in any other way. Could any black woman? Did they give out those permission slips to people who looked like her? Was there space for that? Can you imagine if all the black women were to unload? Where would it be held? The anger, the joy, the sadness, the weariness. What oceans would take it? Which shoulders would bear it? Her second best performance, Desperate, was marred by the occasional drunken slips she had made where she had been caught tearing at the seams. Otherwise, no one would have known how bad things were at home. How the family was barely speaking to each other. How they barely slept because they were so frightened of what was to happen next. The whole world was frightened. Nothing was really quite right, was it? Everything was burning. The world burnt.

“Watch where you’re going!”

She halted to a stop and a red faced man stared down at her, scowling at her. She apologized profusely and was met with a dirty look of disapproval as he angrily brushed by. Like she did not belong there. There was tons of space on the sidewalk. Yeah, she was preoccupied but he could have JUST moved. Why did she always have to accommodate? Why did she always have to move out of the way? Why was she the one who always always always had to give. Why was she so damned preoccupied!? She turned around and stomped home.

Back at the desk. This damn desk. The thing in her chest felt like it was actually moving. Like it was fighting to strangle her.  She hadn’t slept properly in weeks. She felt like she was on the edge of tears every time she took a breath. She missed home. She kept dreaming of it. She missed the feel of her mother’s hand on the back of her neck. The way her mother held her when combing her hair. How much light the living room had been filled with at dinner. The smell of her father’s favorite tea. The smell of the spring flowers in her bedroom. Her room. Her room here was too quiet! She stared at her screen and typed angrily. The keys loud with how furious she was:

‘WHY DO YOU DO THIS!????’

She stared at the screen, even angrier. She could feel the first hot tear on her cheek. Oh Christ. She typed furiously some more. Hyperventilating in desperation. Desperate and click and desperate and click and desperate.

 

Why do you keep doing this!

When your well is dry

When your mine has been looted

Your stolen lands laid barren

Your silver silos emptied

By the men you opened your doors to

By the world you thought to carry

 

‘UUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!’ she sucked in loudly and sat on the floor. Her hands were shaking slightly but she could feel something different. The animal in her chest at that moment wasn’t moving. IT WASN’T MOVING. Her breathing was still loud, her chest still heaving but for two seconds she could breathe around it. She shut her eyes tight. No, she would not. She could not. If that’s what it wanted she would not give it. The sacrifice was too high if that was the price to keep that beast asleep. She wasn’t committed enough. She wasn’t willing enough. To put on paper that… it was too much to ask.

She didn’t want to write about how tired she was. About how hurt she was. About the anxiety that slithered in her chest. About the weariness she felt in the world. About the lives that were being taken. About her own loneliness. Her homesickness. About how guilty she felt to feel what she felt when she did not live it. She shut her eyes tightly. She forced herself to try breathe. She stood up and leaned over the desk. She closed the screen with deliberateness; the most steady she had been all day. No, she would not. It stirred in her chest again. She wiped her face. A walk. She would go for another walk. Perhaps to the park this time. Maybe call someone for coffee. Talk about something… something that wasn’t the ache in her chest. She felt it scratch against her ribs, waking up almost. It was fine. Eventually she probably would not notice it…