A Bubble of Time

I am tired. I am not a coward or selfish. I know that you don't live for yourself but for those around you—but I do not believe that my death will profoundly change those I leave behind. I have lived for fifty-one years, and the sum of those years has left me in debt, given me dysfunctional children, and made me primary caretaker to my mother. I have no love life because I have no time in my life to find someone to share it with. I am tired. I work a job that serves the sole purpose of paying my bills. I'm stressed when I'm there, and I bite my tongue when I should speak up. I'm in this trap where I have to continue so that I do not cause any of the cogs to jam. Nonstop I run like a mouse on a wheel too afraid to stop because to stop means that the whole house of cards will just come tumbling down. I am tired. My back hurts every single day of my life, as if a dull knife has been buried between my vertebrae, waiting for me to stand too long or to turn the wrong way so that it can wrench painfully as a reminder that it is in control and not me. When you are this tired you don't care about the unknown—you only hope for a way to cope. I don't like the word "suicide." I prefer to think of it as ending the pain. I woke up with a groan. In the middle of the night I had turned over and it felt as if someone had plunged a sharp spike into my lower spine. I lay there thinking that before long I would probably be crippled. When I was a kid I thought that fifty was old. But it's not supposed to be, and yet I feel like I'm about twenty years older than that. I prepared myself to get out of the bed by holding my breath and slowly swinging my legs to the edge. There was a soft throb as the taut muscles of my lower back pulled like an overstretched rubber band. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, and when I didn't feel another spike of pain I was finally able to release my breath. The next part was easy. I used my thighs to brace myself until I stood. Some people worked out—I just got out of bed each morning and that was the equivalent. My name is Kenya. That's because my mother considered herself to be a Black Nationalist. I have a sister named Nubia and a brother named Kush—which, unfortunately, is also the name of a very potent strain of cannabis. I know this because Kush became a user of this drug and many others. My mom didn't recognize the skunky smell that clung to his clothing, but I did. When he eventually became an addict, people thought Kush was just a nickname. When Kush got deep into that "Thug Life" it broke my mother's heart and she changed, the life went out of her. She had done her best with what she had, but she was a single mother and we struggled for every little thing. It wasn't an easy life, but I appreciate how hard my mom worked to make it livable. I had done the same for my two children. My son Julian had also gotten caught up in the lifestyle of fast money and hard drugs and was now following in the footsteps of his uncle. I should have seen it coming with Julian since I had lived it with Kush—but I hadn't. I had been too consumed with my love for him, my firstborn, my only son. Perhaps I wasn't meant to be a mother. I love my children with every ounce of my soul, but my daughter Rachel was not easier to parent even if she had no interest in drugs. She did, however, grow up with a penchant for dark things: blood and gore, shaving her head, wearing black makeup, and the drowning and torture of small insects. To the best of my knowledge, she no longer kills things, but I think she might have some problems that can only be solved by mental health professionals. Once when my back went out I called her to take me to emergency, and she didn't show up for over an hour. Once we were at the hospital she kept her laptop on her lap the entire time because she was playing a game where she was an avatar that lived in a fake computer world. She admitted that she could not stop playing until she had fed her avatar children and husband. Rachel doesn't have a real husband or kids, but those fake avatars are like real people to her. When we go out she keeps her cell phone in her hand. I thought she was texting with her friends, but she was playing with her fake family. It scares me. When I ask her to put down her phone so that we can eat a meal in peace she gets anxious and makes up an excuse to leave. My daughter needs people. Being solitary has turned my pretty little girl into an overweight recluse…who might potentially be harmful to small creatures. I got showered and dressed and prepared for work. My pressed hair sprung up and down in Shirley Temple curls, silky and smooth due to my weekly visit with the hairdresser. When I was a kid I always wanted silky hair like the cute girls at school. I was far from cute—and it's not because I was coal black or had two inches of broken "problem" hair or a face dotted with pimples or big thighs that rubbed together when I walked. It was all of those things that made me into a girl no boy would ever look at. This is probably why I took to Julian so fast. He was handsome, charismatic, and his cinnamon toast skin would give us beautiful children. Unfortunately I didn't realize he was an overbearing control freak who had a penchant for cheating. When I was in college I was no less shy than I had been in high school, and when Julian Brevard looked at me I felt proud that I could capture the attention of someone so handsome. I wish I had known what I know now, that he was the lucky one. He saw in me a beautiful ebony goddess. But he no doubt realized that my insecurities would allow him to groom me into a perfect submissive wife. When I finally kicked him to the curb it was because I had grown to learn my self-worth. But deep down I still feel like that shy, dark, fat girl no one ever paid attention to. Because of this, I never want to be that woman ever again. But it's so funny that I think this in my head but can't apply it to my life. I'm like that passive aggressive f*******: post where you argue with an unnamed foe on your timeline because you don't have the guts to do it to his or her face. Yep. I'm that woman.