Inspire & Empower #motivationalmonday

Wherever you are

Aspire to evolve and transform

swell in the resplendent beauty

that is your soul

Disparage thy weakness

Admonish thine past

Enlighten others in occasions

That breeds peace

Spiral with innovative spirit

Above all

Inspire and Empower.

Daily Addictions prompt is occassion. Fandango prompt is swollen Ragtag prompt is spiral. Word of the Day Challenge is resplendent.

 

 

What is Your Drug?

God did not create religion. He created man, he then commanded man to multiply and fill the earth. In that very instant, he gave man a  precious gift; love, because he said; Love me, then love your brother like you would yourself. Religion is a weed sowed into man’s heart by the ruler of the world. It is a drug to many.

Why do people experience thoughts that aren’t real?  Feelings that plagues and subdues them into believing there is no escape, no better life for them until their lives end. It assumes the role of a god, but it’s just one in a plethora of worldly spirits.  Not too long ago, I had such a demon. It filled me with feebleness, told me nobody loved me, I was nothing; but by what some might call a lucky streak I received the saving grace and clung to it, albeit it wasn’t luck because that grace is abundant and available for every single person, whether they have a worldly spirit or not. Just forsake that tormenting voice of hopelessness and destruction. Find that reinvigorating grace and let it become your new addiction.

What is your drug? Is it an abusive relationship, is it grieve over a decedent, or is the fear of letting go? What will you do when you have no more tears left?

I have never learned to say goodbye. After my Grandmum’s premature demise, my family hid it from it for as long as they could. It was easier too because I was in boarding school.  Then I found out, and I was insouciant. The origin of my alexithymia, and many lonesome nights. I avoided the funeral, matter of fact, I have no clue about her final resting place. Then one night I was having a  nightmare. Or a vision, not sure, but I saw her, she came to me. I wanted to know where she was, so I asked and she told me to come to her, with her and find out. I was going to, then I got a bad feeling on getting closer. That apparition wasn’t my Grandmum, I woke up. It took a while for me to process that dream, and I still haven’t completely but I do know why it happened. I had to face the fact that she would never come to visit again, bringing toys and food, that we couldn’t stay up late in the night practicing Yoruba anymore. I had to bury her.

So you see, alcohol and oxycodone are not our only drugs of choice. It takes a lot of self-reflection. One must be willing to tear themselves apart. What we discover could shake the foundation of our identity. It’s hard but then we discover whom/what the master is. We all have one or more, even the people who think they don’t (In that case it’s probably pride).

Religion is a contentious son-of-a-bitch, imagine a scenario where you’re free from your master, and you’re running into the world, there are too many belief systems out there, all assuring you that their’s is the truth. Now you’re caught in between a rock and a hard place.  Here is where that sweet-savory graceful salvation swoops into the scene. Irrespective of religion, I chose to serve the omnipotent God.  You may take me to the Sikh’s gurdwara and I will extol him there because he alone is the plug. He has no hidden agenda.

There is no value in religion, race or human wisdom. The only valuable commodity is love. Even if we chose not to believe in anything, let’s not dismiss people because they haven’t attained similar social status as us,  or because they are freaks who have been admitted into the psych ward, once too often. They’re family. We should have compassion nevertheless for that is God’s will for us, to be addicted to the love he so richly provides to us, his people. God bless us.

 

 

 

Metamorphosis

A blank slate.  I’ve hit a wall and I’m intently searching the recesses of my mind for anything worth writing, a scribble even. Really, it’s not that I’ve hit a wall. Quite the opposite actually, I am a dreamer, I hope my visions will never cease, but the block is irrefutable. Communication being a tool I am yet to master efficiently,  perhaps this block in itself is actually a call for notable change.

 

I admire bloggers that have mastered this skill I am reaching for. To turn a seemingly mundane story into something captivating. I need to be as good someday; hmm someday. A multitude of ideas is, in fact, vacant without the right prose, grammar; and that subtle finesse, the icing on the cake.

 

Looking at my week, It was chilled! felt chilled at least, but there is a turmoil. An elephant in the room of some sort. I am close to obtaining my degree and a prescient of transition tides  approaches;

what if these last steps are the hardest”

Sigh.

Nevertheless, even changes breed inspiration.  Here is a spontaneous piece;

 

 

A phantom in the room

An apparition of nightmares

I hear it wading

 

It follows me everywhere

from when I awake

in sweaty fits of night terrors

’till when my head drops

after inebriating on laudanum

 

An elusive illusion

remorseless as he is

Comes to steal

To destroy and kill.

 

Out of nowhere

A glint of light

Cherubic and luminous

Comforts me peacefully

Reminding me that this cul-de-sac

Will breed notability.

 

 

 

 

The Preacher’s Daughter

Matilda sat on the first row. Clasped hands to her midriff, the holy book at her heel, listening to congregate voices, bellowing a tone she’d known since was born with all their energy, they sounded like an approaching thunderstorm.  The man she called father sat on a pulpit, glaring earnestly at the crowd who sat with their heads bowed. Not a minute later, he erupts from his place, yelling at the rolling thunderstorm to cease, the heads dare not raise. He starts;

“You  depraved unruly wantons, surely not only four people have ten shillings for the offering basket, for it is not I, but he, who commands us to give in order to see his glory.”

In unison, the congregation lurched towards the basket, including the leper who could barely move unaided, for they yearned to be worthy.

Satisfied with his deed, the preacher wore a pleasing simper. The choir continues. Matilda was deep in thought, for the family did not give, they were only benefactors of the offering, as preaching was her father’s sole profession. The church dispersed, wearing a dolorous aura after the sermon, for father had told them that they were sacrilegious and the Lord died for the righteous, like him. He told them that they were fortunate, for he served as a light, leading sinners to righteousness.

Ma would do a big cook-out after church, every Sunday, usually Matilda would be delighted, but she was older now, she felt contrition, perhaps due to insomnia and night terrors she had each night, or perhaps she was befuddled by the travesty of her family’s faith.

In the following week, Matilda stirred a ruckus at home by refusing to go to church.  In her family, there was no bigger offense. Ma pleaded and cried. The preacher reiterated;

“Listen to your mother, foolish girl. This burst of rebellion is a ploy from Satan to destroy your righteous soul, if I do not see you in that front seat, then you might as well not be home when we return”. Satisfied that he has scared her straight, he yanked on his wife’s arm and they left, for where could she run to, she had no friends.

Matilda sought this golden moment, she slung a bag over her shoulder and set off to discover life without looking back.

Over the next months, Matilda lived in a shelter, she met with all categories of people, a disgraced former militant named Joel, and Katya, a trollop and mother of three were her best friends. They had such ample life experiences that it moved her to keep a journal. One day, she would publish their stories.

In the following year, Matilda moved in with her boyfriend, Harry. His affections for her were questionable, but she figured that inviting her to live in proved them. She relied on him and soon exhibited a proclivity for debauchery, like Harry. Over the next three years, a more brusque, sullen part of him began to unfurl. He’d criticize her for everything, including what she dared to think.  Consequently, the night terrors reappeared.  She had an epiphany of why she left her family, Harry was no different from the preacher.  By morning, she was gone.

Two years after rehab, she started working in a small scale company that rented qualified potential employees to big scale companies who need employees on a short-term contract. In rehab, she had learned to focus through meditation. She got to interact with people, channeling back her hobby, journaling.

Matilda made decent money with her job, she quite enjoyed it too. It was at work that she met Paul, who became her life partner. She was content, but one night, the night terrors resurfaced. Paul woke up to see her in frantic tears, he prompted her to talk about the most dreaded topic; her past, her parents. Paul intuitively discerned the source of her panic, that weekend, he took her to his fellowship. She worshipped with believers and for the first time, a glimmer of peace like no other intruded her heart.

Over the following weeks, she studied the holy book and to her amazement, she found a deeper understanding, in contrast to what her father taught. She realized she needed to forgive her Pa, so she prayed about it daily until she became whole.

She became an Associate Manager at her company. One tumultuous day, Judit, a colleague requested for her. Judit informed her of a man seeking a menial job to make ends meet. Matilda went out to see a gaunt version of her father. His eyes leered on her,  a deep cry fell out his mouth as he fell to his knees, disdain overtook him, but she looked at him with compassion and declared;

“I forgive you, but I am not God.”

 

 

This story delineates the hypocrisy of religion, as in Africa and most nations. Most times, budding believers lose their faith because of the scrutiny. The morality of our actions doesn’t inhibit Christianity from being an individual race; Moreover, we are not our parents.

 

 

 

 

 

The Girl Behind Alexander

Life is a journey and twenty-four years today, I started mine.

Coincidentally, Memoirs of Alexander began one year ago, today. What are the odds, right?

  Lol. I stun, I’m a stunner. But seriously, being twenty-three came with such unexpected growth and awareness, both personally and in social settings.

I was and perhaps am still the woman who wants things done her way, and being twenty-three taught me that it’s okay to not be perfect. It’s okay to show my vulnerability and it’s okay to let others pick me up.  Honestly, this one was a hard pill to swallow and it is gonna be a looooooong journey, which is why I am happy I began now.

 

Another thing about Idara-abasi which you may not have sensed is,  on a scale of one to ten, my confidence is perhaps a 3.5.  In my previous age, I discovered, with the aid of Memoirs of Alexander, that this possibly stemmed from being sexually assaulted at a young age, (I was a sweet, quiet kid, y’kno, exactly what the pedophiles like), and my inability to process and communicate it.  You can find the blog post here. Luckily, I found a medium to voice that, and now, I’m blossoming into the woman I was always meant to be.

I let my uniqueness, creativity, and wits speak for itself

 

I believe in a strong mind, and to achieve that I need a strong body.  Together, they’re okay— but not great, because there is an even bigger part of this equation that I struggled with my entire life.

Faith in the Lord Jesus. Phillippians 4:13. Restoring my faith is perhaps my biggest achievement being twenty-three.

There are constantly two forces fighting in each of us, the Holy Spirit and the spirit of the world. Galatians 5:17. I was always aware of that internal turmoil and like Jonah, I fled from God. I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want to be.

I am neither astral nor churchy, In fact, I am mostly a skeptical and pragmatic person, but I am slowly seeing the light and perhaps if I let it lead me instead of being such a dang control freak. Perhaps, I will be ready.

So here I am a blogger,  an epistemophile and soon to be MD, most of who I am today was not my plan, which again reminds me that God’s plan and time are not the same as mine.

I am grateful to the ever faithful, God. I am grateful to my family and friends who stuck around through my know it all and isolation-depressive phase.

I am grateful for the chance to connect with bloggers, readers, & supporters. You guys will continue to be a blessing to me.

So there you have it. A very long piece about myself, lol. If you made it this far, thanks for your audience. I would like to interact with you more, let me know what you think about this post.

Till next time,  remember, we are loved.

Understanding Psychosis

Shut the doors behind you

what I’m about to say,  no one else can hear.

These are not my memories, it is just my subconscious

showing me the deep and twisted projections

I fear, yet hold onto.

The farther it is in time, the less I seem to recall the darkness,

that all too familiar darkness.

However, that doesn’t affect me,

it is the drowning fear that creeps in with it that does.

 

 

I was suddenly in a place that smelled strange, a large hall with concrete walls and high ceiling, tho, I didn’t feel safe.

I could recall the girl’s face, Tina—that was her name.

We sprinted through the endless corridors, past the serpentine marble columns, 300m past the cooling room.I stopped! huffing hard with both hands on my knees.

Tina was breathing heavily too.I reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders.

” Where are the rooms?”

“You don’t know? silence,  “Alex, are you ok? 100m eastbound. ”

so we continued into the room. I locked the doors.

Tina spun around, “what are you doing?

“we need to be safe” I retorted

“From who?” no words.

She started for the door, “this isn’t my room”,  then paused

“Alex, I dunno what happened today”, fixing her gaze on mine, she continued, “are you ok?”

“what is it with you and that question?”

“I”m heading to my room” she grabbed the door handle

“Be safe,” I whispered

“This whole place is safe, just get some sleep,” the door slammed behind her.

********

 

For the first time since we got in, I carefully observed the room around me, the windows were slightly opened, a beaded curtain draped from above the windowpane, shimmering in the night light, a floor lamp divided the room into two halves but the most intriguing was a painting, it was a child’s face, eyes rotated upwards with parted lips, in the middle of his forehead, he had a unicorn’s horn and  bright rainbow illuminated around him. At the bottom right corner of the frame was inscribed: “fuck your psychedelic”, signed Alexander.

I stood there, mesmerized by the painting, having no recollection of when I made it. I didn’t hear the door close behind me

“What’s the problem, Alex?” I jumped when I heard the voice and turned swiftly

I jumped when I heard the voice and turned swiftly,”who are you?’

“Your roommate, Bianca”, she grinned.

I noticed she had green eyes which sent chills running down my spines

” who are you, really? ” I demanded again and I heard a loud thumping noise resonate through my ear canal

“you should go to sleep now”  was the last thing that echoed

*******

who am I? where am I? is this real?

A buzzing noise filled the air and I came to realize that I was sitting on a bench in the courtyard. Beside me was Christopher, my occasional buddy chattering away on a conversation I may or may not have instigated. My head was rocking side to side.The sun-dial was pointing south, which meant it was 4 pm.

I stopped moving when I heard a slow crackling sound.I  stood up, blinking severally, I began to walk, following the direction of the sound to a room known simply as ‘the ephylis”. A sphynx cat lay on its hind leg in the center of the room, it’s body stretched out across the room with its rump towards me. I tip-toed into the room, as slow as I could until it’s full body was within my field of vision. It had green eyes. Sweat was beading across my forehead and my breaths had become heavier and rapid.

“What are you doing?”

I lifted my head up to see Christopher standing at the doorway and when I returned my gaze to the center of the room, the sphynx cat was gone.

I sighed, ” somehow, I feel I may be drifting between reality and an alternative dream land”

“Can’t you tell what’s real and what’s not?”

“Can you?”

 

Thin Line

There’s a thin line between genius and depression…..

Many a night, my mind wanders to these thoughts while I toss and turn around the edge of my bed, fluffing and re-fluffing my pillow and tapping my device in every hour.

Perhaps, there is some sort of correlation between owning your truth and the lack of acceptance which is more than a coincidence. We, humans, hold our social ethics so dearly; it has everything to do with fitting it and concomitantly becomes the source to which most attach their happiness. To be an outsider would mean to reject these norms imposed on one. To be an outsider would mean suicide.

Sigmund Freud was the psychoanalyst who created a theory widely accepted recently in psychology. This theory states that human is composed of 3 components: ID, the most primitive, uncompromising and self-centered. The Super ego which deals with society’s norms and morals. Ego creates a balance between ID and ego. Freud went on to describe five phases humans must go through in life to achieve psychological maturity. Interestingly, neither Freud nor his theories were accepted at the time.He died by suicide after he was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor.

There’s a thin line between genius and suicide. We’ve all seen the movie, the enigma code, which was centered around the life of Alan Turing. By inventing the computer that deciphered the coded transmissions between the Germans, he contributed immensely in the victory against Hitler’s armies in world war II. Unfortunately, instead of being appraised by the Britains, he was rejected for his sexuality.

One lesson the Holocaust taught the world is that not all genius is good. In profound chatter, I dwelled a little on the evil genius that is Adolf Hitler, and Hitler was a man who faced loss and rejection in his early years; leaving him vulnerable to be molded by the people around him. I associate his disregard for human life to the death of his brother from measles. He grieved deeply and his outgoing personality was overshadowed by a detached and rebellious exterior. We know where the story continues from there, up until he poisoned himself with cyanide.

Creatives have also had their fair dose of lows. Virginia Woolfe a feminist and writer invented a theory that entailed the communication with oneself through inner conversations, an art I’m all too familiar with.She was also gravely plagued by depression. One day, she headed down a lake, her pockets filled with rocks and the brilliance that was Virginia Woolfe never walked out again. Her last note read: “I feel certain I am going mad again”.

This draft wouldn’t be complete without shading a light on the relationship between dark-skinned and depression. Like most illnesses, major depression isn’t easily diagnosed in black people because they see it as a plague for the feeble mind and. They focus on fine tuning strength. The story of Albert Alyer, a self-taught Jazz prodigy is indeed a sad one. Alyer was better than good at what he did, but in his time, being a person of color was a disadvantage. His jazz concerts didn’t receive any media coverage and when they did, it was never aired so his art did not get the recognition it deserved so depression took a toll on him, leading him to end it all when he plunged into New York east river.

So, having insight it seems torments even the best, and my mind cross-examines and debates it until I drift into slumber land.

Zenitude

That one over there,

She doesn’t really talk much you know; just sits there, scribbling into that ugly notebook pretending to read meaning into the life’s essence.

There has to be a reason; probably not a good one.

memiors 18

The sun rays splash across my face, beating me with heat as I lay in my hammock, a smile beaming across my face because my eyes are hidden behind these sunglasses, protected from all these shades.

Never been good at communicating; don’t know it, neither did I learn it. I know; I know, most people don’t learn it, they just inherently develop it innit?

It’s not “forming” as they call it, I am simply a student and  I prefer to observe and study life.If I seem alone and mysterious; It is because I silently reflect; so again I am not being evasive, but simply exploring behavior patterns.People have a fascinating hierarchy in life, however, I chose which subjects fascinates me enough to retain my presence and I simply do not care for others.

That I do not care for a subject is not a  reflection of their being and doesn’t mean a damn thing.It shouldn’t matter because a lot of others would prove to find value in them.

I have a knack for getting into my own head more often than most do.It’s more than a welcome visit; I live here now, my sanctum if you will, but like every other environment, It can get overwhelming.So I constructed these walls to keep the sun out and guard my skin, tending to my sanctum and nursing my sunburns. I reinforced these walls, shield myself from the dysfunctional world and by doing so, I fortify the side of me people simply believe to be, unaffectionate.

Turns out, I have mastered the act of zenitude, yielding from the tree of quiescence, finding an ally in it’s solitude and pure energy.If you’re wondering if it’s worth it, I’ll ask; does skin peel after a sunburn?

In the absolutely uninspired, biased lyrics of Nicki Minaj,”I give zero fucks; and I’ve got zero chill in me”.

Beneath Your Skin

Hi there,

I’ve thought about it

I’m interested in you

Not that you everyone sees with their eyes

Honestly, that’s boring

So what is it you think I’m interested in knowing?

memiors beneath your beautiful 3

First off, I want to know if you’re lactose intolerant or have got any malabsorption syndromes

I want to know your blood group.Your hematocrit.The antigens you’ve acquired, the antibodies  that flow through your vasculatures

I want to know if you are prone to bleeding or have clotting abnormalities

I want to know your response to stressful stimuli and how effective your stress coping mechanism is.

I want to know which infections you are most vulnerable to acquiring.If  you’ve got  sickle cell anemia or glucose 6 phosphate enzyme defect and will never experience what it feels to be infected with malaria

I want to know hepatic enzyme lab parameters. What group of alcohol metabolizing enzyme you’ve got. If you possess the trait of becoming an addict

I want to know your genetic profile. What tumors you are at risk of getting. If you are a carrier for autosomal recessive or x-linked disorders. What rare gene mutation runs in your family

I want to know about if you have mitochondrial dysfunctions.  If the enzymes of your citric acid cycle are functional and the ATP production through the respiratory chain is efficient.

How’s your heart? Were you born with any congenital heart or great vessels malformation, are you predisposed to secondary hypertension or cardiac rhythm disorders?

I want to know how your body processes adipose tissue and how that affects your overall physical attributes

memiors beaneath your skin 2
photo credit: body art exhibit

I want to know about your cognitive functions, concentration and memory ability.If you’ve got dyslexia or dyscalculia.

I want to know how effective your DNA repair system is in managing breakage

I want to know if you are in the less than 1% group of persons with a mutated gene that can never get HIV. I want to know your risk for dementias

I want to know how healthy your endocrine system is.If  you are genetically predisposed to developing diabetes mellitus

I want to know if you’ve got that rare abnormality that makes pain undetectable by the individuals it sounds almost like a super power except that it’s not.

I want to know which neurotransmitters dominate your  nervous system, If you have increased neuronal excitability predisposing to seizures

I want to know what psychological disorders you are at risk of, schizophrenia or bipolar..it’s all the same.

How your family lineage/tree influenced your life and what genes you will pass down to your kids and the pattern of inheritance.

memiors beneath your skin 4

I want to know how your ethnicity influences your susceptibility to these diseases

I want to integrate into your psychic, not your personality but how you reason and why you think in the way you do.

Moreover, I want to converse with the human beneath your skin, the one nobody bothers to see, after all, normal is so overdone.

If there are seven billion people in the world; I want to know where you fit in but mostly how you stand out.I want to know what impact you make on the world.

I want to understand what if feels like being you.

Sincerely,

Alexander.

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