Float On

“This is the peace that you cannot buy

Send me a love that you cannot mix

One is the joy that you cannot waste

And the other one price that you cannot fix…”

Free Mind ~ Tems

So how y’all doing? Last weeks post was a bit deep I know, but better out than in! It’s all part and parcel of this thing called life, forever flowing with twists and turns. Shit can get deep, and usually we sink or swim; but right about now ya girl’s on a floating tip!

I know my present state has some confused and questioning, and I promise the podcasts are coming to explain all, but I feel the need to put folks minds at ease that this isn’t some form of mid life crisis!😅

If you’re a regular reader you will know that I done been through some fuckery and then some, and as my byline states I’ve given you straight up real talk! It’s highly evident there’s been a whole range of negative emotions on display over the years. So if I can tell all to you on those things, why is it so hard to believe it when I say I’m truly happy? Like, would I lie?🤷🏾‍♀️

There are varying levels of happiness and I’m talking about the most important one – the internal. I’ve had my support network with me throughout have no doubt, but the hard work – the real HEART-work as a good friend used to call it, well that’s a solo affair.

I made a checklist of the negatives and I have nothing left I feel the need to address. Should incidents arise, like the one with daddy dearest, I can handle them because I’d already done the work. I’d already felt all the things and been through the motions and as I explained in Reality Check… I found the missing piece of my puzzle. The operative word being ‘my’. 

My happiness might not look like yours, so you can be forgiven for thinking I must be lying because I don’t have x, y, z, or it doesn’t look like I’ve addressed 1, 2, 3 – but I’m here to tell you loud and clear my heart has accepted my picture as being complete. It reverberates around the body and shines through, and that’s what you’re witnessing. Peace.

It can’t be bought but it can be found, and I’ve found mine. I know all too well that that’s a blow for some folk. For whatever reason they love a drama and are only too happy when you’re drowning. Well my internal buoyancy device is on full power and keeping me afloat so I’ll be riding this wave for the foreseeable. Soz!😂 (Not!)

R.I.P to all those who have lost their lives this week.

Float On, Stay Blessed & #CelebrateLife

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Forget Me Not

A couple of weeks ago I got a message from my aunt asking me to give her a call when I was free. She’s my dads sister, and the only one of his siblings that I really know or who has bothered to get to know myself and my twin.

I’ve spoken a bit about my dad but not much. That’s purely because there’s not much to tell past the tale of your stereotypical Black male, gathering no moss as he rolled on through woman after woman. I don’t know if there are any more siblings past 1974 but I wouldn’t be surprised if some surfaced at some point. There were 8 of us, but one brother passed away some years ago. Of his 7 remaining children I know of only one he has any time for.

I jokingly call her ‘The Chosen One’ as whenever I was over in Antigua where she resides, she’d always tell me that she’d just spoken to him or he’d sent her this and that. I sincerely felt no way about it. As far as I was concerned grab what you can considering he’d gone years without contributing towards the rest of us when we needed it, making it up to one was better than none – or was it?

Call me cynical, but I looked a little deeper and I saw retirement plan in the making.

I’ve physically met him 3 times in my life. The first time I was 16. He paid for us to go see him in AmeriKKKa. I’d love to say it was a Kodak moment but there was no feeling of love, more curiosity, and we obviously wasn’t what he wanted as there was no attempt to keep contact once we returned home.

I swallowed that and kept it moving until over 20 years later when he entered my life once more via his granddaughters. My mum had kept in contact with him on and off and one day my girls were staying with her when he called and Isis answered the phone. 

I’ve never hidden the state of my relationship with my dad from my girls. I’ve never cussed him out to them, just told them the truth and that I had no interest in talking to him but they could if they wanted to. On a real, he’s a man of few words anyway so I couldn’t see him telling them anything more than a couple grunts or anything untoward, and if he did I’d be there to put him in check!

Then 2014 hit. The catalyst for so many of my tales, and with it the chance to speak to my dad once more as mum had been diagnosed with dementia and couldn’t really hold a decent conversation anymore. I kept him informed of everything that was happening with her, showing sympathy as I knew they had been speaking more regularly, so did as I thought mum would want.

He flew over to see her a couple of years later for a couple of weeks, the second time I’d met him in person, and he’d yet to master the art of conversation and dare I say gratitude. I remember on a couple of occasions he made it clear he was expecting more of a welcome than the one he got, when in reality he should have appreciated the fact that I had heart enough to contact him at all.

In 2017 I got married in Antigua and due to mum being the way she was she couldn’t attend. I had invited my aunt and sisters and knew that he was also in the country so thought I’d be generous and invite him too – the third and final time I saw him. Now I know there’s more to being a parent than financial support, but he was lacking on both sides. Throughout the years he’d send us some dollars, but all combined I say it amounted to around £1,000, being generous – and that’s divided by two.

He never offered to contribute to the wedding and I’d certainly never ask. He came, saw, ate and left, without so much as a card to say congratulations. But it was all good. When you expect nothing you’re not left disappointed when that’s what you get. 

Despite that, I still kept in contact to inform him of mums health and circumstances. I’d been gifted an Ancestry DNA kit and through that connected with family members on my dads side. In a quest to find out more I contacted him to see what further information he could offer. When I spoke to him he said that he couldn’t remember things off the top of his head and was busy but would call me back.

I waited a few weeks and heard nothing back. A little while later a cousin posted a whole heap of information about family connections on the Facebook family page, and upon asking her where she found out all of the information she told us that she’d had a lovely chat with Uncle Raphael and he’d filled her in.

Would you like to hazard a guess as to who Uncle Raphael is?…

There’s always one straw that’ll break the camels back and that was mine. I had every reason in life to not show this man anything but contempt, but chose to be civil and give him more time than he’d ever afforded me from conception to big 40 something years old. I’d never asked him for shit previously, and the one time I do he bypasses me to give it to someone else. Upon analysis of who he gave the info to I again deduced that it was all part of the RRF – Raphael Retirement Foundation.

Understanding and articulating my feelings and emotions has rarely been an issue, and I know that they’re a me problem, but I knew the root cause of this one lay in my relationship with him, so I called him and didn’t scream and shout, but spilled my soul on all of the hurt of the past to the present day, and as much as I’d like to deny it hurt, it bloody did.

I asked him why he was the way he was and why he left before we’d even left the womb and he dropped a bomb on me and left me to deal with the fallout. I’m not sure if that particular tale will ever be told, but it put a lot of things into perspective for me; the main one being he actually actively didn’t give a fuck. 

For the sake of my soul and sanity I decided that would be the last time I spoke to him and released myself of his energy and fuckery. 

Fast forward to the text message from my aunt and I was fully expecting it to be the death knell, but he was still alive. I’ll spare his blushes and not divulge the full details, but it amounted to him now having Alzheimer’s and his one repeated request is to go see his kids in England…

Can you imagine!!!??!? 

My aunt knew better than to expect anything more than the response that she got from all of us over here, but she had to ask the question as it was coming on behalf of my uncle, but it made me question why he’d think it would be a viable option?

We weren’t registered as part of the RRF. He didn’t invest in our assets or show an ounce of love during his good years and now he’s in decline y’all want to come knocking. Well I’m checking receipts and it appears time’s lapsed and he ain’t eligible for a refund.

I informed other members of my family, and as ever my nephew came with the probing questions, which culminated in a release of tears I didn’t know I had stored up. He asked if I would go and see him and I in turn asked for whose benefit? It wouldn’t be mine. I explained it like this; for the most part I’ve handled all of the bullshit in my life with dignity and grace – hormones permitting! – and I realise that life isn’t fair and nobody’s perfect, so have given opportunity after opportunity for certain people to come correct. But when they still continue to show you what you mean to them it becomes draining and soul destroying.

I’ve done more than my fair share of allowing and accepting. I poured my heart out to my dad when he was FULLY lucid. I wasn’t rude or disrespectful, just honest, and he showed me what it meant to him by not one attempt of contact since that day – until now.

I don’t need to, want to and won’t show face in his degrading state. I know it would only cause me distress in the long run and I’ve had too many years of it. I’m tired. I deserve a soft life, real love and peace, so I’m choosing me and what makes me happy.

He chose himself for the longest while and lived a carefree life with no responsibilities or consideration of his children – bar one. I won’t be made to feel guilty about the situation he now finds himself in, and people can think of me what they will.

I’m protecting my energy and right now that’s my main priority. Before things turned left for him he realised the package he was paying into for his retirement wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned so he was scrabbling around trying to find somewhere else to lay his hat.

Turns out it was a cap and it fits him perfectly!*

We all deserved to be first choices, not last options, and yes, you can deliver equal love to all of your children albeit on different levels. It’s not hard but it takes the ability to think of more than just I and I!

This happened with my dad, but I’m aware there are mothers out there who are just as uncaring yet expectant that their offspring will be there for them in later life. Let my tale stand as a warning to all that you could find yourself in your own version of where my dad finds himself. I keep telling folk what you sow you reap. Things will always find their way back to you somehow so do good and your expectations will become reality. 

R.I.P to all those who have lost their lives this week.

Congratulations Susan and Byron on tying the knot! Sending much love and wishing you both many happy and blessed years ahead.

Congratulations Lydia and Carlos on your engagement! Sending love to another long and strong Black couple sealing the deal!

*He’s back in Antigua on the original plan he, in the end, didn’t want, possibly staring at the basket he put all his eggs in and full of regrets; but that’s not my business.☕️🐸

Forget Me Not And You’ll Have A Shot, Stay Blessed & #CelebrateLife

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Queen Salute

I am currently sat outside in the sunshine, topping up the melanin and recharging before the daily grind.

I kid you not, the past 2 weeks have been different on so many levels. I’ve encountered Karens and Karenjits – yes, they’re a thing! Once again I’ve been frustrated, disheartened and disappointed, but not surprised by some. I’ve dealt with absent fathers with absent minds. I’ve had my firstborn return home, only to prepare for her to leave again, and I saw and felt the heavens open leading me to being crowned Ms Wet Maxi Dress 2023.

It’s been a trip y’all!😂 

Each one of those tales will be broken down in time, but there is a common theme between all of them, and that’s women.

I’ve dealt with a varying array and unfortunately the majority of my negative experiences have a colour label attached, which is a damn shame.

No matter what shade you are, women have always held the rough end of the stick throughout time. You’d like to think that that would be enough to unify us, but despite there being many things we share in common with other females, a Black woman’s journey tends to be a little rockier; and that isn’t me talking chips on shoulders with extra salt for taste; it’s coming from the perspective of a real talking, grown ass woman with nearly half a century’s personal life experience. 

I don’t think I’ll ever fully comprehend the minds of those who choose to hate over nothing more than what shade of skin you’re born with. Well, that’s to say that’s what it appears to be on the surface, but if you dig a little deeper I think it boils down to something a little more basic – good old fashioned jealousy.

We have things thrown at us from left, right, centre, back, sides, top and bottom, and yet we manage to hold on to our crowns, rising and shining through. We truly have endured the most and are phenomenal, and thankfully more of us are now recognising that despite having the strength to do it all, we deserve to have that soft life others have been afforded. To put it bluntly, we deserve a fucking break!

Our ancestors are too great to let that internal fire die so we need to allow ourselves some slack. They’ve got us! And in turn we need to have us – all of us!

I love seeing the bonds and unity the younger ones are displaying. The pride in being who they are, fully comfortable in their skin, hits my heart differently. I pray it continues to flourish, but they also need to be mindful that some of our crowns may have slipped, or were always positioned a lil’ wonky from the beginning, but that doesn’t make us any less of a Queen. There’s strength in numbers, even the small ones. A little gesture can go a long way to make someone’s day.

With that in mind I’m shouting out and sending love to the Queens who have seen me through this past fortnight;

Tashi  Brown – for being my firstborns ‘Work Mum’ I will be forever grateful, Aunt Janet, Debbie Charles, Nasheta Daniel, Alvina Connor, Charlotte Weston, Natasha (Tashi) Williams, Monique Norris and last, but most definitely not least, Dolly Katherine Fernella Bridges – Mumsy and my ancestors, who gave me life and have seen me through and continue to guide me.🙏🏾

I’m fortunate to have some real gems who help see me through in many ways, and I’d like to think they know I’ve got them too. It’s not always easy, and it can take some sifting through, but there’s nothing like real ones.

R.I.P to all those who have lost their lives recently.

Mahoosive thankhs to all those who came out and braved the storm to bid Isis farewell! Safe travels for Saturday firstborn. Ancestors I’m trusting you to do the ting!

Good luck Josh Parker and the Antigua Football Team!🇦🇬

NuDawn Love Collective! ~ Crown Fixers, Stay Blessed & #CelebrateLife

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Reality Cheque 2! (Part 2…ish)

I know for some this has been a short week, but for many of us we don’t get to laze on a bank holiday and remain committed to our jobs. I’m not complaining as it’s my choice and I love what I do, but I admit this week in particular has felt long and I’m utterly cream crackered.

On account of the encounters I’ve had I was initially going to call this blog ‘Don’t Be A Dick’ and leave it at that. No further words just the title, because people can be real dicks, and I really don’t have the energy. But I decided to explain a little and repost the blog below I wrote in 2019 as it explains what I mean, and as with most messages in my blogs the sentiments remain the same and will continue.

We all have off days, but if you’re in a job or environment where you have to deal with other people on those particular days you should fix your face, put on your professional hat and do the job you’re paid to do. If you can’t manage to maintain your composure take a break or furthermore, if you can afford to, take a sick day and sort your energy out before you try to transfer it. 

If I’m paying for a service especially, I beg you please don’t come with attitude. If you hate your job change it. The menace-no-pause is still working her magic and on top of that sleep is sporadic, sweaty and shit. Yet despite this I manage not to take my irritability out on others – and I’m working with someone who has dementia which can be a rollercoaster ride on any given day! 

I always attempt to be respectful and considerate of the fact that I don’t know what kind of a day they’re having, and that goes for everyone in general. More folk need to work on this!

Now You See Me (Part 7)

Before I get into the nitty gritty of what has been happening in my life over the last few years, let me address something else.

I’ve touched upon humanity previously, and you’d have to be blind not to notice that there is something seriously lacking with a lot of people around the world – way too many. I could run down a whole list but I actually don’t have the energy for it, I’m sure you’ve come across enough yourself to get the gist.

One thing that goes hand in hand with humanity is care. We all need it or have needed it. At the very least someone got you from a dependent baby to fending for yourself, no matter what age the care stopped. Be it a parent, family member, foster carer or wolves (I’m beginning to think it’s a possibility), someone raised you.

I believe without doubt that both nature and nurture have an impact on the person you are, but as an adult there are some choices you have to make regardless of what you’ve gone through, like how do I pay my bills? How can I make my moolah?

If you’re lucky enough to have a job you love, way to go! Right now I’m in the process of trying to do so…kinda. To be honest I need a little breathing space first, but naturally I’m thinking about which way to go next.

I’m creating my NuDawn Bible and it has its dating system. BC – Before Cancer, and AD – After Damage.

The BC me was a full time working mum, fit and so I thought, relatively healthy. I loved to shake a leg and could be on my feet all night with hardly any griping. I loved MONDAY’S (Tanya Brooks-Carty’s workout regime), and I could wear heels and run around to my hearts content should I feel the need. My mum had had a heart attack some years before and since then I’d taken care of her and her needs too. Life could always be better, but overall I was good.

The AD me had to face the fact that times had changed. Naturally I’d prefer it if my feet didn’t hurt all the time and I didn’t need to use a stick to help me, but at least I still have the ability to walk. I’ll take that and own it! “I’m an African warrior, rolling with my stick in my hand!” The alternative would be me bussin’ my ass on the floor when I lose balance so I’d rather not if you please.

AD me means that the running and jumping around I used to do without thinking twice is no longer a joy and in fact a pain in the ass, but I’ve learnt and I’m still learning how to deal with it. I’ve said it before but you really don’t realise how often you’re on your feet until it’s sending you constant reminders with and without every step.

But I suck it up because it is what it is and where would bitching get me?, which in turn causes certain people to watch you with side eye and wonder if it’s really as bad as it seems. ‘People’ will always be questioning, but that’s not for me to worry about. I have jack shit to prove to anyone. #WhoFeelsItKnowsIt

So I now find myself wondering what sort of job the ‘nu’ me should do considering my limitations. I swore to myself when I went back to work it would be doing something I enjoyed, and to not dread waking each morning already counting the hours until I was back at home. Unfortunately that’s easier said than done, especially when bills have to be paid!

I know a few people, but not enough, who actually love their job. I can’t say the same for any job I’ve had to date, not wholeheartedly anyway, apart from my “job” as a mother and my last one – which I wouldn’t necessarily call a ‘job’ as such. That’s not to say it was an easy experience, as anyone who has worked as a carer can testify to, but the person in question was my mum, so it was undoubtedly a bit easier for me as there was that love and personal attachment.

I’ve been told by several people that I should consider becoming a carer as I am so good with taking care of my mum. I get where they’re coming from. I’ve made a few friends at the home my mum is now staying in. It wasn’t hard to be fair. I’m there near enough every day and I’m quite comfortable chatting to the Golden Oldies, which is all they want really. In turn I’ve met some right characters! I swear they give me the most jokes.

That’s the easy upside, but then you’ve got the other side too. Literally the shitty side. I don’t have an issue dealing with my mums personal care and toilet issues because she’s my mum, but I’m honest enough with myself to be unsure about if I’d be able to handle anybody else’s. I think it’s essential to give a job like that serious thought.

I’ll never forget my time spent in hospital when I was ill, but one (of many!) incident in particular really got to me and is a good example of what I mean. My haters and those of you who think a lot of shit comes out of my mouth will appreciate this!

Two days after my op I was still as rough as arseholes. I was attached to a monitor and drip whilst being weaned off of morphine. I was still nil by mouth and in pain after having a third of my bowel removed and my stomach held closed with staples. I recall feeling really nauseous, then before I knew it I was throwing up. It didn’t take long for me to notice there was something not right with this picture.

Due to the op, my waste product had only one way of vacating my body. I was literally throwing shit up. You can only imagine my distress! The situation and pain was already bad enough and this was the cherry on the cake…or so I thought then. With every heave my stomach was on fire and as it took me by surprise there was no vessel for me to throw up in. I couldn’t stop, and in no time at all I was covered in putrid puke. #TheStruggleWasReal

The curtain was around my bed so I couldn’t be seen by anyone and could not call out. I managed to grab the call button to try and get someone to help me. It seemed like an age had gone by but in reality I’m sure it was only a minute or so that had passed before Nurse Fucking Ratched pulled back the curtain. She stood there, exhaled deeply and rolled her eyes with a look of disgust and disdain that I’ll never forget.

By this point the heaving had receded and she came over and told me to take my gown off. Because of the way I had been hooked up to the machinery it was a task I couldn’t do by myself which I pointed out, so she huffed and donned on gloves to scornfully help me out of my filthy gown and bed and onto a chair. She then disappeared and returned with a bowl of water and fresh gown and told me to clean myself off whilst she stripped the bed.

She was the most stone cold, heartless bitch I’d ever come across. Not once did she give an ounce of sympathy and had zero fucks to give about how I felt. All she knew was that she had to deal with clearing shit up.

Now up until this point I was on full on Warrior Woman mode. I had fought to get to a point where I was taken seriously, and I knew I had some hard work ahead to do, but I was due the results of my biopsy that day and had already known it was more than likely cancer. I was just happy to know that at last I had some kind of answer after months of fuckery and pain.

Then along comes nursey with her own special kinda medicine – a truth serum of sorts, and throws my issues clean in my face, quietly but oh-so-loudly pointing out that I am, in fact, no warrior. I can’t even manage to take off my gown, I’m weak, pissing in a bag and throwing up shit.

I admit to feeling a tad sorry for myself. I had a huge lump in my throat and could feel the tears coming but still managed to hold it down.

I climbed back into bed and she hooked me back up and left. A couple of minutes later the surgeon, his companions and Nurse Ratched came over to discuss what was happening. Apparently it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence under these circumstances and they would be putting a tube in to help clear out my stomach as it was more than likely that I would start throwing up again soon. All I heard was tube and stomach!

I’m one of those people who have a bad gag reflex. I can do my thang, but I ain’t no Dawnie Deepthroat! (sorry to burst your bubble!). Seriously though, it’s on if the toothbrush goes too far back let alone owt else!, so hearing talk about them feeding a tube through my nostril down the back of my throat and into my stomach filled me with complete and utter dread – then I clocked Ratched and had a vision of her doing the job and the dam burst.

Thankfully she was called away but by this time I was a hot mess. They said they would give me some time to calm down but we’d have to get it done soon. A little while later another nurse came along for attempts one and two. It was horrendous. I’ll allow you the finer details but it involved a whole load of retching, snot and tears. Then along came my angel in disguise.

For the life of me I can’t remember his name, but he was from the Philippines and one of the most caring souls you could ever hope to meet. He was the one who was with me when the surgeons told me what they’d discovered when I came round from my op, and he was amazed at how well I had received the news. I think he now recognised a woman at breaking point!

He knew it would be a 2 man task and enlisted the help of his colleague, who he assured me was a pro at doing this procedure, and it would be over in no time if I listened to what they asked me to do. He said he’d be right next to me holding my hand and giving me sips of water to help with the job.

They worked as a double act, cracking jokes to calm me down and then talked and walked me through it; me swallowing the sips of water to help ease the tube down with each gulp once it had reached the back of my throat, and then it was over, with only one heave in between.

They praised me on a job well done, which sounds really stupid, but they realised what a scary time it was for me and did their utmost to make sure I was comfortable.

I only wish others would take the time out and consider if the job they are doing is the right one for them. Despite me not finding my dream job yet, I made sure that the jobs that I did do were done to the best of my ability.

When you decide to do a job that involves taking care of a person it usually means that they are vulnerable and not in a position to help themselves, so you should at the very least try to be empathetic to whatever their plight may be especially as it’s something you chose to do.

I’ve experienced the good and bad side of the caring coin. I know the job is hard and a mostly unrewarding one, but you should really have some level of compassion and caring when you’re dealing with people at their weakest or lowest in particular. I said in particular because really it’s something that we should all have a touch of regardless.

I know that since my trip around the Topics of Cancer I have a lot more empathy for others plights. I can relate on a level that I truly understand folk can go through shit you can’t even relate to, but we can all relate to being treated respectfully.

R.I.P Josie Heywood. Your family did you proud and my heart continues to go out to you all.

Happy 50th Earthday/Birthday Lydia Shekiluwa. Looking nowhere near that figure! I pray you had a blessed day and many more to come Queen!

Handle With Care, Stay Blessed & #CelebrateLife

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