Struggling With Faith

Worrying is a disease. Killing us all every second.

Over this past weekend, I was stressed out. Over nothing, of course. Just worrying about things in my life that I have no control over. And my mind was paying the price.

During church service, the sensation of wanting to cry stung my eyes. I found myself, sitting next to my boyfriend, silently suffocating as my worries saddled me. Sitting pretty in the pew, ugly thoughts infested my brain. I have never screamed the Lord's name so LOUD... I actually looked around to see if the lady sitting next to me could hear my thoughts.

The stench of all my fears was strong. Why was I so emotional? What was I so worried about? Why do I have so many complaints? So many feelings of discontent.

As the pastor hollered in his sermon, I zoned out. While singing the hymns, the voice of my boyfriend singing slowly faded away as I stood there next to him like a zombie, as my soul searched for Jesus in His own house.

...I was losing a grip on my faith.

Do you know what that feels like? Let me tell ya, it feels like your blood circulation grows cold. It feels like your heart slows down. And it feels like your brain freezes. It feels like you are "blocked."

When it was time for prayer, I closed my eyes and cried. Every muscle fiber in my petite frame flinched, preventing me from crying like a newborn in that sanctuary.

Later on that day at church, I was reintroduced to a small word: faith. One should not tell God about her problems. She should tell her problems about her God.

In the end, faith can buoy us up and bring us to something greater and better than we ever imagine. Faith without action is dead. Faith is maintaining focus on God's divine power so that we can succeed and flourish. And I will. My God says so.

Faith has brought me through a lot of sticky situations. Faith saved me from an unhealthy relationship with myself as I fought depression. Faith saved my boyfriend's life as he and God fought against cancer. Faith kept me on the path to my dreams of being a writer. Essentially, Faith has brought me closer to my precious God.

But I still struggle with these "blocks". Don't you?

Will You Forgive Me?

I need to learn how to forgive.

I thought I knew. But I don't.

Do you? If so, prove it.

It boggles my mind because I really thought I knew how to move on and forget. But forgiveness is nowhere near that.

Forgiveness is letting go. Not of what has happened. But the pain associated with the incident.

Over the course of the last few years, I have been hurt, physically and emotionally, was beaten, socked in the face by an ex-boyfriend...more than once, lied to, lied on, stolen from, betrayed, feces of lies thrown all over my name and the list goes on and on.

whew.

But I still put a smile on my face, disguising the pain that crawls all over my battered soul.
A smile of deceit. A smile of despair. A smile infested with decay of hatred.

Will I ever learn? I find it funny how God forgives me. But I can't forgive nobody fully. Not even my damn self.

Forgiveness is a sprinkle of honesty. A sprinkle of God's mercy. A sprinkle of the recognition that there are no excuses or justifications, but love.

The quip of it all is that we all say we forgive each other. But we don't. True forgiveness is a cool breeze of fresh air.

Can't wait to feel that.

One day...

happy. birthday.

My sophomore year of college, I was seriously fighting depression. There was no escape. My soul was trapped in the tunnel of turmoil. I heard screams all day and all night.

My heart was dead.

Now, looking back, I realized that I was in a place of not knowing who I am. But within the last year, I have re-discovered who I am.

I am a lady who is passionate of almost everything. I am an emotional being. I feel every type of emotion. It beats through my chest. It is a beautiful flaw.

My life flashed through my eyes the night I turned 24 years old. It is too late to care about the past. It is over and done with. I need to focus on what my present has for me.

I have so many amazing opportunities that are blooming like the tulips on a fresh Sunday morning. And I plan to not let anything stop me.

I promise.

The truth about Me.

My affliction gave me a pleasure unspoken of... a feeling that left me wanting more...

Why do so many women hate themselves? What a tragedy...

Sometimes, those vile nightmares still sneak into my bed, roll under my covers... in each breath, my dreams are paralyzed by the scent of hell. Point blank, I used to hate myself.

It was a wicked disease, crawling beneath my skin.

Musk of hurt, disappointment, shame and guilt transmitted from my brain into my soul. Detrimental.

I hated my dark skin. I hated my nappy hair. I hated my fragile body. I hated how I didn't accomplished anything great like my counterparts, and if I did, it was never ever good enough.

But nobody knew. Which made it worse.

Days of suckling on the Devil's venom of self-destruction were woven into my addiction.
In the past, I was a coward. Not to face the world. But to love myself.

...would you believe that I just started truly loving myself?

It's amazing how God loves us when we don't even love ourselves... Now ain't that the truth?

diary.

Sometimes I wonder where I would be if I didn't pray.

My relationship with God has grown immensely. So deep and rich... I get high off waking up with the thought of Jesus sticking to my mind.

I am a victim of a lot of things. However, I wish not to say of what... because I no longer claim those things.

It is so funny right now. Whenever I face the world, I have so much to think about. So much to want to write those thoughts out. Yet, once I sit in front of my tiny electronic notepad, I have absolutely nothing to write about. I find that odd. My thoughts run away. And I don't know why.

Perhaps, it's fear of writing down the Truth.

confessions.of.a.beauty.queen.

I hate my skin. It is so black.

I hate my hair. It is so thick and not "good hair."

I hate my body. It is so short and skinny, and of course, no boobs.

I hate my voice. It is too soft and weak.

I hate my smile. It is way too big.

So, I thought.


In silence, I wept bitterly because no one thought I was a precious pretty little girl (Again, so, I thought). My soul was slaughtered with self-hatred and persecutions of shame.

THEN IT HAPPENED.

I started to learn about myself. Then I started to like myself. Then I started to love myself and still, I am enriched in the epiphany of self-love.

I love my chocolate skin. It's rich, exotic, and too damn delicious to admire.

I love my hair. I had naturally long hair to short boy cut. Regardless on the style, interwoven with weave or not, my hair is flowing with health.

I love my body. It is petite and fun-sized. As for the boobs, one word. Push-up bra. God is a genius. hahaha.

I love my voice. It is soft, soothing, inviting and feminine.

As for my smile, it is still big and wide, but Bodacious!!


There are HUNDREDS crippled little girls who are defiled, hating themselves, thinking such foolish thoughts I once feast upon daily. I pray that one day, they look in the mirror and cherish their unfading God-given beauty...

...like I finally did.

all.men.are.dogs.

All men are dogs.

Well, at least the ones I've dated. Most of them.

Others were just mistakes.ugh.

But then I STOPPED serving KIBBLE AND BITS and starting cooking up Filet Mignon in red wine and balsamic vinegar.

....and Reginald D. Johnson, Sr. pulled up a seat.

I simply love my man. He is a warrior. Not because he is fighting a rare brain cancerous disease, but because he indulges in my tasty love everyday.

I am his Queen, with his pure love dripping all over every inch of my body. Who needs diamonds when you could have such a love so rich? So precious? So rare?

He fulfills me.

Mentally.

Physically.

Spiritually.

All through high school and college, I fell for the cuties who were delicious but were too tart to taste. To be real, they just treated me like shit.

But one night, an angel came down, wiped my tears and told me to STOP.

Like my girl Wilson says, every woman has a light bulb that will turn on when she is fed up. Until her light flashes on, she will continue to allow men... excuse me, dogs to treat her like a piece of savory bacon.

But I met him. Reggie. The man who truly covered my bruised heart with his blanket of solace. And healed it.

Countless nights of warm thoughts. Because the Prince of my dreams have arrived and stayed by my side, my everyday life is a fantasy. A real love story.

Finally, a man who is a man and who loves me. And not ashamed of being loved back by his beautiful Black Queen.