“What you mean?”
“I mean just that: why are you here Rahshad?”
I shrug. “I said it on the form. I be having stress seizures, and my friends think–”
“What do you think?”
I take a moment, and then shrug. “I don’t think I need to be here. I don’t need a shrink.”
She folds her hands in her lap, and for some reason, the words just come out.
“I don’t need a fucking shrink. I’ve always had my bad days. Days I ain’t wanna do shit. Days at a time where I’d cry, and sleep, and stay home from daycare or school, but I ain’t need a shrink. I just got big feelings. I don’t get why that’s so bad, you know? My OG told me everyone has those days, I just feel them more than other people. So I stay busy. I was always programming, or working out, or making beats. If I did something from sun up to sun down, I ain’t have to think about why I was so sad and angry all the time.
“Then, when bad shit started happening, I’d just stay busy to not focus on that. Okay, Granddad died. I take a couple days, be sad as fuck, then work on some beats or a new program. Work on a special project or some shit. Then okay, OG got a new nigga, she disappear. No problem. Be sad a couple days, but I’m cool. Even if it’s once a week. Make myself get back up. I can do it. Or shit, if you can’t shake it, just hide it. It’ll go away eventually.
“Even when my OG washed her hands of me. I was down for a while. Three, four weeks. But I got back up. I always do that. Granny get cancer–fasho. My b-best friend getting shot right in front of me. I got it. I eat that. I got to. I take it all to the chin. I can do it.” My voice cracks as my nose starts running, but I wipe it off and keep going because I can’t stop. Not now.
“I gotta hold it all in. Because that’s what I been doing. I work out until I pass out. I make as many programs, take on as many projects, make five, six beats a night if I need to, to not think about how everyone is dropping like fucking flies around me. Even when my pops is killed. Sure, we on bad terms when he passes. He a fuck nigga, that should trump the years I spent thinking he was Superman. I can’t show that even though he turned out the way he did, he was still my pops, and I miss him. My middle name is his first name. Kaleel. It means friendin Arabic. Shaddy is everyone’s friend. Shaddy can’t possibly be drowning, because everyone else is too, and Shaddy grew up with a loving OG, even though she signed away her rights to me at sixteen over one mistake. Shaddy grew up with a granddad and a grandma. Shaddy grew up in a cool sized house with his own room.” I feel my voice rising, but I can’t lower my tone. I can’t stop. I don’t even know if I want to.
“Shaddy didn’t go to bed hungry, and went to computer camp, so Shaddy can’tpossiblyknow what real pain is, real struggle. Noooo, Shaddy had it good, better than most of his friends. So I eat every L. I take everything to the chin, and I don’t mourn my pops. I don’t do SHIT!
“Besides, I’m building a name for myself right? A Shotta beat is an automatic gold record. Never mind that this was mybest friend’sdream with me. Never mind he’s the one who even got me on that, and I had to watch the light fade from his eyes when someone rolled up and shot him in the head in front of his crib. Let’s not forget my pops is responsible. So again, why the fuck would I mourn him?
“But you asked why I’m here, doc. Because as much as that is, that’s not why I’m here. No, I’m here because my OG, who for some reason, started hating me overnight, wouldn’t accept no money from me, started letting her punk ass nigga abuse my baby sister, his own seed. She asked me to keep her, so she could get away from him. So I took her, but I filed for emergency custody and won. Then being the nice person I am, let my OG have supervised visits with her. Those went well, so they became unsupervised. You know what happened, the first one? HUH?!”
The shrink flinches only slightly as she flutters her lashes.
“Raya dies of a fucking asthma attack,” I whisper, letting tears flow freely down my face. “Her dad beat her so bad it triggered one, and no one had her inhaler, so she died. Don’t worry, he got hit in county waiting for arraignment. Niggas take child abuseseriously. My OG though, she didn’t takehisdeath well. Couldn’t care less about her daughter, her p-p-perfect, little girl. Nah, she fucked up over the nigga that killed her… She… left a message on my phone, telling me I deserved to be alone, before she hung herself, leaving me to find her.”
I wipe my face and glare at the shrink. “I have seizures because through it all, through everything she’s said and did to me, to Raya, I still m-m-miss her… so no, doc, I don’t need a shrink. I need a whole fucking factory reset.”
We sit there for minutes, hours, I don’t know… me glaring, her peering. Soon, my chest stops heaving. Tiredness settles in again. And my mind calms to a simmer.
The therapist folds her lips into her mouth before taking her notepad and scribbling on it. She tears the piece of paper and places it on the coffee table in front of me. “This is the number to an in-patient facility where I hold group therapy. I want you to think about how you feel after letting all of that go, since we’re out of time, and if you feel even a fraction better, I want you to call that number. The program is rigorous, and at least ninety days, but it’ll give you real tools and language to manage your triggers and your depression, Rahshad.”
I wipe my face again and stick the piece of paper in my pocket, because even in the midst of a psychotic break I have to people please. Shit, I’m just glad she didn't put me in a psych hold.
“Even if you don’t call, I’ll see you next week.”
I lift my chin and breeze out, holding in the rest of my tears until I’m safely behind the tinted windows of my car.
Macy
NutandDalhavebeen on their honeymoon for four days now. Denver and Anaïs are with Anaïs’s grandparents. The house is so empty, but I need that. That way, I can play Shaddy’s cover over and over again and cry my eyes out.
Oh, City Girls, I’ve failed you.
That nigga really stood there and broke up with me. Is that what it is? That’s what it feels like.
Shit, I don’t know. I’m usually the one that does the dumping.
When I get tired of crying, I put on Trina’s Single Again and belt out the lyrics. Yeah, this fasho feels like a break up.
Besides the Triplets’ daily check in, I haven’t been taking any calls and ignoring the group chat. I need to recalibrate. My baby should be coming any day now, and once she’s here, I can’t worry about no nappy headed fuck nigga who fed me the “I’m not good enough for you” line.
Figures that “I’m fighting demons” shtick was real.
Another cramp makes me wince as I lay with my head at the foot of the bed. To be honest, I’ve been cramping like this allday, but I read that Braxton Hicks are common, so I don’t think nothing of it.
