To rise or drown: A Black woman's dilemma

If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive. -Audre Lorde

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It’s morning. I turn on the light and see that I am only a woman, but they see the extraordinary. An invisible mask covers the struggle written within the creases on my forehead. Each gray strand hides under the halo of dark coils surrounding my face, representing each challenge I’ve overcome. For some reason, those who see me are oblivious to the dark circles underneath my eyes—a clear sign of the insomnia of overthinking that consumes my nights.

I have reached my limits. But I am a Black woman, so they say boundaries have no home here.

I close my eyes and try to meditate. I was told to allow the thoughts to come and then pass. I think about my needs, desires, aspirations, and of course, my doubts. They pass. These thoughts are quickly replaced by recalling the countless requests from others.

Then come the fears about the family & friends that I love, followed by the worries about the practice I built to care for the patients I love. At this point in my “meditation,” I have become a distant memory. I make a false promise to myself that I’ll remember me tomorrow.

It’s a promise that I know I’ll break.

I finally sit up in bed, feet dangling inches off the floor. My body is betraying me today. She knows that I have so much life to live, not for myself but for so many others. So she tries to stop me and is successful, as the spasms painfully pulsate in my right shin. They are not welcome right now and I try to massage them out of existence. I know the spasms only come when I am experiencing stress- a powerful remnant of my first flare of multiple sclerosis five years ago.

I missed the days when I completely ignored my body. We had a solemn pact back then, I do it all, and she falls in line. It was harder back then but easier. At least until May 2019,  when she broke the contract. So now I try to appease my body, bargaining with her. I take deep breaths to calm her and construct a false illusion of peace. I tell her that I will follow her lead and there will be no agenda for the day, just a deep enjoyment of life.

I tell her all the lies that she wants to hear- that I will experience the present and be one with my body, 

The spasms die down, but she knows I’m lying. I can finally stand.

I find my phone and quickly begin to run down the list of messages and emails, a never-ending list of problems that I am tasked to solve. I adore these problems because they serve as a wonderful distraction from facing my own. 

This is who I am. Who would I be if I wasn't the hero? If I wasn't the eldest daughter of Nigerian immigrants? I cannot even imagine that person. I have succeeded in transforming into the overgiver I was raised to become. 

I am the answer to that immigrant question. Why would two young adults leave their home, their family, and everything that they knew for an intangible, uncertain outcome? “For my future”, I whisper to myself. A phrase that has been repeatedly echoed throughout my life.

There is a legacy of self-sacrifice that runs through my veins in my body; it is an exhausting debt that I feel compelled to repay. The debt is unspoken, but it is loud, ever-present and binding. It has already broken me and I am in a state of repair.

It is my daily work to fight against this urge that sits within my bones- to continually pour from emptiness. If I’m lucky, I might not just repair myself; maybe I can be reborn.

Grandma Alice gave it to her daughter, Abosede. Abosede gave it to her daughter, Omolara. However, Omolara will not give it to Idara. All of us eldest daughters. It will end here. I refuse to break my daughter in the name of tradition. 

Sometimes, my mind wanders from the “do” list to the “dream” list. These momentary, fleeting thoughts forcefully push their way into my psyche. They are flashes—still pictures—of what life would look like if I stopped doing so much. Honestly, I get annoyed by these delusions of peace because they slow me down. 

I have children to over-parent, parents to over-protect, a business to overwork, a body to over-exercise, a mind to over-stimulate and given all the demands, a soul that is under-loved. Sometimes, I linger at that revelation. It stops me in my tracks- noticing everything I need to change but have ignored.

I use the work to distract from those moments of self-advocacy. If not, I would have to grieve, and then I would have to change. 

That won’t happen, though. There's always one more errand to run, one more meal to cook, one more question to answer, one more call to make, one more friend to comfort and one more meeting to plan.

But there isn't one more of this life to live. 

“There's only this one”, I remind myself. 

And despite everything, I must find myself.

I see her. She's there treading water. At times, she goes under the waves and I worry if she will rise up for air. 

She keeps looking around, waiting for someone to save her. Then she looks down, realizing that her feet can reach the floor. 

She realizes there is no one else necessary. She actually can stand, if she can just take a few moments to focus on herself. There is no lifeguard necessary, just courage to live her life

The one she was called to live, not the one she was coerced to live. 

She screams at the top of her lungs in silence. Slowly, she rises to her feet, realizing the waves are man-made.  

She doesn't have to succumb. 

She only has to speak up…for herself, for her body, for her mind, and for her future. 

A history of self-sacrifice replaced by a legacy of self-preservation. 

She smiles and lies back down. 

She will not be attacked but highly praised by her descendants for this action. It was their gift.

She will be known as the first in her line to finally teach them the lesson - it is the un-doing that gives us life.

Rest well, Black woman. 

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