Dear Diary: Sinking

Woes of a Black Woman Who Feels Like She Will Never Float

I’ve been feeling like I’m sinking and I wonder if anyone notices. How would anyone notice — America causes so much grief that it’s easy to be consumed in your own.

I’ve been sinking for a long time now and it’s to a point that I don’t know what to do with it. I often tell my therapist that I feel just below the ocean’s surface. When I open my eyes beneath the water I can see the distorted sky, clouds, birds and sun. Sometimes I can even feel the warmth on my skin but most of the time, I feel like I’m drowning. I feel like I can’t quite catch my breath — like the moment I try to float, I fall below the surface and it’s quiet.

It’s lonely.

I am brave, a lot. I’m not afraid to talk truth to power but I am afraid to talk. I look around in most of the community spaces I’m in and I’m usually silent or scrambling to figure out what to say. I don’t usually know what to say or how to be “normal”. People see my bravery, people see how much I care about Black and marginalized communities but I don’t know if they realize that my bravery extends from never wanting anyone to know what this feels like. The feeling of isolation, the constant feeling of being an outsider, the feeling of loneliness that runs so deep it rewires your brain, the feeling of never truly believing that you’re enough or capable.

I stand unapologetically for everyone else because I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people and feel like no one really understands. I know what it’s like for folks to trust you with their vulnerability but not feel safe enough to be vulnerable yourself.

I am attempting to be open in a way that not many people know. This is scary as hell but my hope is that this will be a step forward.

Parents

I didn’t conceptualize how hard and neglectful my childhood was until I started to work through it in therapy. I’ve mentioned it before but I don’t know who my father is — not a name, face, that side of the family or anything. My mom grew up in a place and time where she was not emotionally safe in her family. In turn she has internalized trauma that’s been projected onto her children. I didn’t grow up with a mom that nurtured me or poured into me. I didn't hear, “I love you” from my mom until I was 20 years old. She simply wasn’t emotionally available, loving or protecting in the ways a child would need from their parent.

She’s alive and we’ve had many hard conversations where I tried to be truthful about my experiences growing up. Today our relationship is significantly better but the damage from the past and her inability to take full accountability has put a limit on my openness. She’s part of that generation that, “did the best they could” and avoids the harm they’ve caused by centering themselves. While it’s understandable our parents were also neglected and didn’t receive the support they needed, it’s still hurtful.

I have a REALLY small family that is riddled with drama. I literally have ONE cousin and I have about 11 family members in total. That’s it.

Siblings

I have 3 siblings. My oldest brother Stinson Erick McClendon was murdered when I was four. I only had the opportunity to meet him one time and he was killed shortly after. The one memory I have is him being the nurturing adult I was looking for and right after, he was gone. He let me play the video game instead of watching his show and he looked out for me while we were visiting. That meant everything to me. He was a Scorpio like me — his birthday was November 12th and mine is November 10th. I have a feeling that if he was still alive, we’d be close.

I have another older brother who carries his own emotional damage from my mom and his dad so my relationship with him has been fractured my entire life. He popped in and out for the majority of my life but when I got older, I looked for him and found him. Let’s just say the relationship didn’t pan out the way that I was hoping. It was a let down to find him, thinking he was ready and wanting a relationship with me too, only to find out that his pain was still in the way.

I grew up in the same household with my older sister. Although, she didn’t like me much. We’re seven years apart and when I was born, she saw me as the one taking her shine. She was seven so how much blame can you put on her? Especially when she didn’t have the support to help her navigate those feelings. Unfortunately those feelings held up though, all the way until I graduated college. It obviously put a strain on the relationship and now we’re in a place that I’m unsure how to define.

I love all my siblings and I desperately yearn for those close sibling relationships I see my friends have but they hurt me, deeply.

Childhood - Trigger warning: SA

I was introduced to trauma at a very young age. At the age of six my mom, sister and I lived in an apartment building called, Rolling Hills. It was about 6, two-story buildings in the complex. Each floor had, I think, eight units — four on one side, four across the hall. If you were facing the entrance, we lived in the first unit on the right hand side. He lived in the the same building, on the same floor, in the last unit on the right hand side. His name was Emmanuel. He attended the same church we did, Corpus Christi Catholic Church. Yes, I grew up catholic. That was an experience all on its own. He was supposed to be my God Father. He assaulted me most Sunday’s after church.

His ploy was to be the “good guy”. He would position it as giving my mom a break by taking me with him after church on Sunday’s. He would offer to get me things like uniform clothes or buy my dinner Sunday evenings. To a mom struggling to make ends meet, that was a dream. However for me, I was living a nightmare. I can’t remember everything he did to me but I remember the day I learned it wasn’t supposed to be happening.

It was years later, years of being molested by him. By this time we moved and he moved out of Rolling Hills. He went back to Nigeria for some time, got married and came back with a wife. One day I was at his house. He had me standing in front of him, between his legs as he was touching me. His wife came home and closed the car door. That alerted both of us. I remember feeling him jolt. He was obviously caught off guard that she was back home. He picked me up and threw me on the couch that was semi-adjacent to where he was just sitting. He scurried to the back of the house, with this look on his face unlike I’d ever seen before. I was probably around 10 years old and shook that he had just tossed me like a doll across the room. Landing on that couch and witnessing the fear he was experiencing from almost being caught, was the moment that confirmed to me that I was being assaulted.

After that, I use to cry and beg my mom to not make me go over there. It didn’t completely stop by then but I went over there less. The harassment continued until I was 16 years-old. By the time I turned 16 he had a young child with his wife. She was now pregnant with their second child. She ended up needing to stay in the hospital on bed rest so Emmanuel called my mom to asked if I could babysit their daughter while he went to work. Once again, I begged my mom not to make me do it but he was paying and we were poor so I had to. This was during summertime. The routine would work by getting dropped off by my mom in the early mornings, take care of his kid then when he came home, he would drop me back at my house.

I was always uncomfortable. I was always waiting on edge anticipating for something to happen. Most days it was just looks or him getting a little too close, sometimes a quick unnecessary touch here and there. I don’t remember how long the babysitting lasted — if it was weeks or months. One day, my mom dropped me off and I went inside to make a palate on the living room floor like I always did. I got there early in the mornings and in an attempt to curve interactions with him, I would quickly make a palate on the floor. I would try to pretend I was asleep while he was getting dressed so he wouldn’t talk to me — I never fell asleep while he was there. I arrived one day, thinking it would be the same, this day I walked in and it was different. He closed the door behind me but he wasn’t dressed for work, he was still in his pajamas. I felt confused as nervousness coursed through my body. He told me that his daughter was sick and he was staying home from work to tend to her. I told him I would leave since he’d be home that day but he insisted I stay for awhile and he would take me home later since my mom already pulled off.

I remember feeling timid, terrified and uncomfortable. After awhile he sat next to me on the couch, he put his hand on my knee and I believe he asked if I wanted something to eat. I hopped up at his touch and thought of the quickest excuse that I could. I told him that I had basketball practice and since he was home I wanted to go to practice. I didn’t wait for a response. I gathered my things and walked over to the door, he was already grabbing the door handle to open it. I felt a ting of relief because I saw outside right beyond the screen door. I just had to get past him. He was partially blocking the door so I paused waiting for him to move to the side so I could get out. He gave me that look and then tried to kiss me, I ducked the kiss and ran out the door. He didn’t live far so I walked home trying to think of an excuse to tell my mom on why I was home and never wanted to comeback.

Thankfully that was the last time I stepped foot in that house. To this day I remember the feeling of his warm breath on my neck and ears over the years.

He still called the house every now and again to talk to my mom but I didn’t see him much after that.

In summer of 2024, I randomly searched his name and found out he died the year before. I felt relief for a second but soon I was consumed with wonder more than anything. I wondered if he even remember what he did to me. I wondered if he did that to any other kids. I wondered if he ever felt bad or regretted what he did. I wondered who his children and wife thought he was when he passed away. For a long time, I didn’t process this part of my life. I actually thought it didn’t have an impact on me. I had compartmentalized it as something that shape my protection of others in this world but didn’t traumatize me. It wasn’t until I started therapy in late 2024 that this even came up and I realized it caused me and younger me immense harm all along.

Adulthood

Because of Emmanuel I grew up afraid of adults. Hell, I was afraid of everyone. Nobody really felt safe. Coupled with that, I was the kid who didn’t have much so I was picked on a lot. It drew me further and further into seclusion. Humans felt less and less safe. In high school I came out as bi (now I’m a raging queer), which caused a whole other level of rumors and taunting. Let’s just say in my formative years through young adulthood, I just didn’t have a great relationship with people. I was unable to build stable trust with most people in my life.

I was a hurt young person and I projected it everywhere. I wanted so badly for someone, anyone to come see me and all of my pain. I discovered in therapy that I’ve been yearning for validation in my experiences. Little me became big me, and we both have been wanting someone to come in and save us. The hard part was realizing the only savior for me could be me, but how could I do that when adult me didn’t even see me.

I’ve been through a lot in my life and unfortunately I haven’t had a lot of support in it. I have struggled with who I am in this world for most of my life. In 2014 when Mike Brown Jr was killed, that was the first time I felt a connection to passion. The first time I felt like I was meant to be alive. I was 24 years old and I mustard all the grief, hurt and pain that I didn’t even know was there and put it into fighting for him. But police murders didn’t stop at him, so I found myself meticulously fighting for Black lives, queer lives, trans lives over and over because I knew what it felt like to be invisible. I knew what it meant for people to not see your humanity or needs. I found a voice and I channeled it into protecting others because I know what it’s like to feel unprotected. I stumbled into advocacy in a way I was not expecting.

More Recent Days

For awhile I really felt like I was floating above the surface. I thought I figured it all out. My activism caused me to go beyond all the things that made me feel afraid. I was stepping outside of my comfort zone, creating organizations, speaking up, leading, advocating and using my voice in a way I felt really good about. Until it was no longer enough to keep me above surface. I slowly started sinking. I didn’t know that in centering others, no matter how soul gratifying it felt, was still a part of neglecting myself and the inner child that needed me. Welp, that shattered my reality and I spend a lot of time trying to put back the pieces. Most days I’m okay but many days I’m stuck in this cycle of wondering if healing will ever be a real possibility. Days are hard enough, the world has so many atrocities — it’s so easy to sink even further below the surface. Then to add to it, I’m an outspoken Black, queer, woman in America, that comes with it’s own levels of trauma.

Sometimes my grief, pain and trauma feels so uniquely ambiguous that I’m sure nobody will ever understand. Sometimes I feel like it’s too late to try and explain how my brain operates to my friends. Sometimes I feel like if people knew, it would push them away because it’s too much to handle. Sometimes I feel like I’d let my community down if they really knew how much I mentally suffer. I also struggle with knowing what my friends are carrying, so in an attempt to protect them, I hold mine all to myself. It’s getting really heavy to carry and I’m getting tired. I’m exhausted with having to justify to myself that my childhood pain is valid and it’s understandable how I got to where I am today. I’ve tried to fix as much as I could for everyone else and even when that’s been rewarding, I still not enough for me to subsequently fix myself.

Trigger Warning: Suicide

Recently someone I have immense respect and love for died by suicide. His funeral was yesterday. I am not suicidal however, part of me is writing this for him. To let the pain out, to put it in existence. We hold so much inside of us and I know I’m not the only one who does. Sharing my story out loud has always been on my heart but the vulnerability and whatever is on the other side of send is frightening. But, what is more frightening is holding it all in, in hopes that one day it will fade away.

The Other Side of Send

It’s the first day of Black History Month and usually I would be DEEP in my Black and proudness. Today I didn’t. I woke up feeling extremely heavy. I felt the weight of everything happening locally, nationally, internationally — both inside and outside of government. Then I felt the weight of my isolation and loneliness. Which was followed by the desire to journal — then write. I guess I have picked up some healthy habits. Recently, I’ve been trying to trust what I feel and what came up for me is that it’s time for vulnerability. Now is the time for sharing, if sharing will free you. I don’t know what will be on the other side when I press send, but I hope it’s a step towards my own liberation.

Tai Davis forever. ♾️