Those who know me well, know that I make art as a coping mechanism. I always have. These last few days/months/years have been traumatic for Black Americans, to say the very least, and even more so for Black women. Many of us suffer from deep depression, anger, and often, overwhelming feelings hopelessness. These feelings and their violent effects on our bodies block creativity, hinder productivity, and crush any will to get up in the morning (let alone make any renewed attempts to live). Can we just live?
As I’m tasked with completing a dissertation, an extremely isolating pursuit, lack of motivation and fear of failure plague me everyday regardless of what is going on out in the world or in the media. But it is these recent events’ particularly uncanny ability to debilitate and silence even some of our most vocal, our most brilliant, and our most passionate minds is what haunts me most. We are so tired. Before I too am completely silenced (spent), before I can no longer get up each morning to put fingers to keyboard, I try to create something out of this weight on my chest. So I can breathe. Art is the best medicine. So while I did not complete my current chapter draft last week, I did do this: I woke up. I got out of bed. Sometimes, I need to let that be enough.
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