Author: Maureen Joseph

Pillow-Screaming

I did not want to hop on that gravy train.

I did not.

There is no gravy, yet we have a train.

A grave train…

See what I did there?

Screaming into a pillow for almost two weeks does that to a person. People dying left and right. Friends, distant relatives in other countries, patients, customers; have your pick.

Silent screams into my pillow. It is amazing how one can master the art of silent screams and sobs.

Sobs are inaudible spasmic contractions in one’s throat. You feel that tightening in your chest, the back of your throat constricted to a point where you cannot breathe. You cannot strangle yourself with your own bare hands to death; there is a part of your brain that won’t allow you to do that, therefore you involuntarily release your hands. Please don’t try this anywhere.

Studies claim screaming into a pillow alleviates stress and reduces negative feelings. Obviously, these studies have not taken white linen pillows that smell like bleach into consideration. Quite intoxicating I say. Yeah, I use a bit too much bleach after dying my hair indigo black. Alas, sue me! I bet I will have a few dry cleaning experts in my comments or inbox. Everyone is an expert online.

Don’t believe me?

I bet you my left enlarged thyroid and right imaginary nutsack that everyone on the internet is a doctor, nurse, lawyer, vet, military expert, arms expert, chef, construction worker, engineer, banker and is a PhD candidate writing a dissertation about Mahler’s Symphony no.5. Everyone is an expert. Everyone is an expert on mental health. Ah, you didn’t know? Check your Instagram for all the “Life Coaches”, “Wellness Experts” and “Mental Health Awareness Gurus” online. They follow thousands of people in troves just to unfollow. No matter how much you interact with these people. They will unfollow. I’ll tell you. They don’t care about anyone. Mental health has become the money-making Hallmark Card of people’s well-being. That is dangerous; no different than taking meds or eating something you shouldn’t.

No, this is not a rant. Just an observation.

Whoever is reading this blog, if someone’s social media has been inactive for a few weeks, reach out to that person. It is remarkably simple. No need to be a “Mental Health Specialist” or a rocket scientist to give it a second thought. I am not referring to emotional vampires, abusive people and fair-weathered friends. This is my second PSA in this article. Welcome to 2020.

I want to know where these internet experts get their fast-tracked degrees. I feel like a complete dunce most of the time. Here I am sticking to things that I know. I get it. I am too comfortable admitting that I don’t know enough about something to form an opinion. Might as well take me to that back and shoot me. I, for one, have fallen victim to acquaintances who suffer from The Dunning-Kruger Effect.

Nevertheless, the best experts out there are people without children. Have I mentioned that everyone is a great parent with a fluorescent halo before having kids? Those are my favorite type. Unsolicited advice about wiping a child’s snot to a kid throwing a tantrum in a video. All those diagnoses from different types of internet medical experts. Try doing tequila shots while going through comments. Each new diagnosis, you take a shot. One would be drunk by the fourth commentator.

As I finish writing this, I will go back to screaming into my pillow or maybe have my neighbors listen to the new My Dying Bride album with me. I have yet to listen to it and form an opinion. Maybe I’ll go online later and argue with a few experts like myself. Didn’t you know? I have a degree in Mosh Pitting and Head Banging. Take that, Pillow-Screaming!

My Cross, Your Burden

It was a normal day when I decided to upload a picture with an excerpt from my book on one of my social media platforms. It pertained to my protagonist’s footwear and an excerpt from one of Twice The Demise’s chapters. I quoted the following: “What I considered a career, you considered a fault.” This statement was uttered by Polly, the protagonist, to a former beau. They ran into each other (like we all do with our exes) and, terse but not unkind, words were exchanged. He could not accept the fact that she was working with the dead. The unconventional job of an undertaker was one of the major reasons for their fall-out.

Not giving it a second thought, I posted and went on my merry way. The post received likes and maybe a comment. Lo and behold, my inbox had over twenty messages. Followers, from readers to friends, were in my DMs telling me stories relating to this statement. I wondered, if one related so much to this, why not comment publicly? It was a fair question. I was no relationship expert. The common answer they all had was -they didn’t want to openly share their experiences on Instagram. Most of these people had public accounts with their exes always lurking with a ‘finsta’. I learned that a Finsta is a fake Instagram account mostly used by people who no longer are in your life but still want to know what is going on with you…. complicated much? Followers did not want these people to know how much it still hurt. Social mores kind of dictates that with airing out one’s dirty laundry. I get it.

You may love the idea of dating a doctor, but can you handle their hours? How about a ballroom dancer who has to be in close proximity to the opposite sex all the time? How about an artist who paints naked portraits? An undertaker who reeks of death? I gave a few extreme examples due to their social allure. These career paths exude some type of charm and whimsicalness but become repulsive to our significant other. The realization of the work and dedication these careers entail may be a rude wakening. The significant other begins to view our lifestyle as a burden to their insecurities. Alas, the curse of romanticizing everything!

This is no different than wanting a wedding but not a marriage. Wanting to beat Joey Chestnut without a commitment to gastritis. Wanting to bear children but not parent them. Wanting to have a house but not being able to keep up with the mortgage. The list is endless. In a nutshell, we want what we can’t have and sometimes have what we can’t handle; or what we thought we could handle.

To all the exes….

No, my career is not your cross to bear.

Don’t go laying your insecurities on my cross.

We’re Full of It!

There are very few things that bring me pleasure in life. Sometimes pleasures and priorities go hand in hand. As many of my readers know, I’m on a journey to grow my black lipstick collection. If you didn’t know, please check out my August article from my blog for context. It’s up there on my list of priorities along with finishing the second installment of Twice The Demise. The pleasure of wearing a dark shade of lipstick with minimal to no transfer is next to none. However, one of my latest meetings was anything but pleasurable. An acquaintance had asked me about the brand of lipstick I was wearing. Once I divulged the brand name, this lady went on a rant dressing me down. My colleagues were very confused about this exchange. It was obvious that the lady had a moral superiority complex. She started pulling articles and deviating everyone’s attention to her performative activism. I kept a straight face as there were witnesses.

I redirected the meeting to what was on the roster. I didn’t want to engage with her because it would have been futile. She was disrespectful and I knew better. Individuals who mistreat you are unlikely to change their behavior for the better even if you put in the effort. We continued on with the meeting and I made believe she didn’t exist. I received an insincere apology email a week later. I didn’t respond. Why engage with someone whose platform relies heavily on performative allyship. I say this because I know who she is in real life. She called me once after that to meet up for coffee to apologize. The head of our project dropped her, and she lost a business contract. The damage was done. She dug her own hole without me uttering a single word in retaliation. My disdainful silence was the answer.

How far have we gone as a society?

How are we supposed to survive as a

collective when everything is a performance? Have we reached a point where we cannot be ourselves? Have we confused candor with inappropriateness? Why have we become so comfortable with telling people what to do? Last time I checked we weren’t a monolith. Performative actions are shoved in our faces every day like bad body odor. For the love of God, please use some aluminum! Your armpits could produce yeast for gluten-free baking for the next decade. Not to forget that the internet has made people so much bolder. You don’t agree with a person? Let’s dox them! For the nincompoops out there: Doxing could contribute to another criminal offense like harassment, stalking, intimidation, identity theft, or incitement to violence. Think about it the next time you want to share unconcealed screenshots whilst on your rage train online. You’re only building a case against yourselves. Believe me, I see it all the time. I just sit back and sip my coffee when people get served. What keeps most people being decent is accountability, which many people think they won’t face at some point.

Social media really exposes how terrible some people’s mindsets can be. Again, who are we performing for? How much validation does one need to feed their superiority complex? Performative relationships are at an all-time high. One partner cannot stay faithful for five minutes leaving the other partner to use their social media as a Pinterest board. There are so many forms of these performative “arts” like performative parenting and cleaning. Your kids aren’t accessories for income, and no one’s home looks that sterile. Can we please go back to having some form of etiquette? All that rage and anger just makes people look ugly. Let’s leave the excremental behavior for the restroom.

Stop Pluralizing with Apostrophes

I had a whole article written out for this month’s blog. I had taken my time to write a rough draft only to be sidetracked by my own sense of urgency. Call me an elitist, grammar Nazi or whatever term the internet world has bestowed upon us lately. I am not even going to touch on the subject of dyslexia nor the topic of colloquialism. I won’t even get into the boring details of how a language is a form of orderliness in a system used by humans as a means of communication-based on speech, writing, signs, and gestures. I will also not get into how languages have evolved, nor will I get into the anthropological themes of civilizations and cultures. All the aforementioned are not my premise. I will, however, mention that the orderliness of language is its grammar and its free components being vocabulary.

Now let’s divert back to the grammar part and how it creates a structure for a language. Why has it become socially acceptable to use improper basic grammar? I say ‘basic’ for there are certain things that should come naturally to us after middle school. I am not talking about using commas in long sentences, homonym confusion, ending sentences with prepositions, or linking ideas with conjunctions. There are so many rules in grammar. This is where professional editors come in to take over the show. See? I am even getting sidetracked whilst writing this. The soliloquy of my being, to be or not to be. To pluralize with an apostrophe or not to pluralize with an apostrophe?

In a world where people’s mother tongue is English, some can’t seem to grasp the difference between your and you’re. The first is a possessive adjective and the latter is

a contraction of ‘you are’. It always helps by eliminating the contraction of the latter just to get a hang of things. For example, you want to tell someone that they aren’t the sharpest and you want to convey that via text. You don’t know whether to use your or you’re. Just ask yourself, does this person have dumb or is dumb? This person is dumb, right?

Your dumb means they have dumb

I have divagated yet again.  My issue of the moment is apostrophes being used to pluralize everything and anything. The plural of Karen is Karens, not Karen’s. When you apostrophize Karen that way, you’re forming a possessive of the name, i.e., Karen’s dog. The plural of idiot is idiots, not idiot’s. Apostrophes are not to be used to pluralize nouns of any kind. What I would like to know is who came up with this and why is everyone emulating this behavior? Is it considered elitist to not want to see the pluralization of nouns with apostrophes? Who came up with the idea that only elitists use proper grammar? Have these people even met elitists? Or have we resolved to the fact that utilizing terminologies that exude aristocratic undertones will mask our shortcomings as a collective? A resolve to absolve, dare I ask?  Look at me, I sound like those elitists that everyone’s been talking about.

Do I Owe You An Explanation?

The dissolution of friendships isn’t discussed enough. Wherever you go, people always talk about the malaise that their significant others inflict on them. Go online and it’s one video after the other on any chosen platform. Thousands of hours of deeply rooted pain are illustrated by wounded lovers who have been wronged. Then you’re met with videos of therapists and relationship experts. I mean, you have to give the people what they want. Do you know what I rarely find? Videos of people talking about friends who have wronged them. Even when I found those, it was always about a friend who wore white to a wedding or brought an uninvited guest. Moving on…

I have friends from all different parts of the world. I have experienced many types of friendships from First Friends to Fickle Friends. Some of these friendships have sparred over two decades and we just understand things. No time nor space ever affects us. Those are called Low Maintenance Friends. They understand you and you understand them to a T. You grew up and made mistakes together. I look back on these friendships that I still have and feel very lucky. I also look back on the friendships that ended and still feel lucky. They were mistakes but they were the right mistakes. Those friendships were necessary for me to learn lessons. The universe will always make sure to teach you a lesson, even if it’s more than once. It’s the type of lesson when you give the uncouth too much leeway. I’m very much guilty of that. I’m from Brooklyn and this little story may ruin my street cred.

I had this one friend who let’s call her Sidney. Sidney was a very high-maintenance friend that was allegedly diagnosed with a form of intrusive thinking. My heart ached for her every time she had a mental relapse. I had no problem whatsoever listening to her issues. It’s what friends do. Sidney and I had many similar worldly views. We also disagreed on many other things, but it was cordial. It had to be on my part because debating with an autocratic personality is quite laborious. I had other things to do like grow my black lipstick collection. I’d attributed her meltdowns and occasional indifferences to mental health disorders. She wasn’t the first nor the last friend who had something going on. Absolutely nothing wrong with that. I was wrong. Let me preface that I either chatted or spoke to her almost every single day. One day she told me that she needed to be around friends and family that were “reachable”. Excuse me? How reachable did she want me to be? I was on a 10-hour ride two weeks prior and listened to her for 45 minutes because she was upset over a friend’s passing. Very understandable. I had told her before going on my trip to call me because I wanted to be there for her. Unconsciously, she was slowly becoming the emotional vampire that was gradually sucking what was left of my will to live out of me. She started ignoring me out of nowhere. Long story short, I took matters into my own hands. I searched the five boroughs for fucks to give and found none. I fizzled out that friendship because I knew the universe was trying to teach me a lesson that I had refused to learn in the past. When I gave her a taste of her own medicine, she didn’t like it. When she called, all she wanted to do was talk over me. She loved the sound of her voice, and who could blame her? She did have a nice speaking voice. Lady, you called me and demanded an explanation. Then, you talked over me. I finally told her that not everything was about her in life. I meant it. I had other things going on that required my immediate attention.

I wasn’t going to give her my time any longer. I didn’t owe her an explanation after she demanded one. I no longer wanted to wonder what version of this person I was going to encounter that day. I truly loved and cared for her, but this was the end of my candle wick. The unreasonable expectations, lack of empathy towards other people, and the constant need for praise and admiration were akin to someone sticking a straw in my medial cubital vein and just sucking all the blood out of me. I felt bad for her partner. I grew indifferent to the whole fallout. I had no qualms. I didn’t even think about her the next day. Not a single thought. Nothing. Death can be beautiful sometimes.

I didn’t go through the stages of grief after that because I had already experienced them during the last two weeks of our friendship. I wished her well in my heart and that was it. I did my due diligence as a friend and my conscience was clear. I didn’t badmouth her. I didn’t say anything. If someone asked me, I would just say that we’re no longer friends. I would leave it at that. I don’t go around badmouthing former friends, let alone spill their secrets. It’s uncouth.

Almost six months had passed, and I had not thought of her once. I had just wrapped up a casual business meeting at a café and saw a message pop up. It was Sidney. She had previously blocked me on all platforms. I had only blocked her on a messaging app. As I was reading through the apology, not even halfway through it, she mentioned the expansion of her business. I re-read the apology and it became apparent that she most probably contacted me for that. There was no mention of hashing things out. In a nutshell, I told her I wished her the best and that I would always be supportive of her endeavors. She is good at what she does. I was being sincere. I left it at that. I had an interview for a writing gig that day and couldn’t let anything get in my head. I came back home that evening and she had re-added me on all social media platforms as if nothing happened. She expected to pick up where we left off. I wasn’t having it. I made the mistake of doing that once with a friend when I was younger and naïve. It didn’t end well because there were so many things left unsaid. Why would this be any different?

She sent me another message the next day about how confused she was at my initial reply. She didn’t give me time to even process anything. Moreover, I was dealing with work. She’s always expected people to do things asap. She was treating this like a work deadline when in fact I had a real work deadline. She then retrieved and blocked me again on all social media platforms. I felt relieved. I no longer wanted to be a real friend and tell her exactly why she had so many failed friendships. I would be doing her a favor. I no longer did favors. I no longer equated her bad behavior to her mental disorder. I needed to recognize that some people are just that- they exist in their own realm where time and space are made up of their own molecular structure. In the end, the only person I owed an explanation to is myself and my uncompleted black lipstick collection.