MID/LATE FEBRUARY, 2015
• M A L I K •
"MAAALIIIIIIIIK!" I laughed as I heard the familiar voice followed by running down the hallway.
"Wassu—Ky-Kyleah," I chuckled feeling her jump in my back. I wrapped my arms around her legs and stabled myself as I continued walking down the hallway.
"Why you leavin' me?" I heard her pouting.
I just shook my head. "I'm sorry, Kyleah,"
Kyleah is a woman I met about a month ago.
She's from Indiana, so just a state away.
Apparently, she has bipolar disorder, and she had a psychotic break, so her family admitted her here.
We met when they made us do a social group activity, kind of like AA for alcoholics.
I just sat there looking at everyone.
I felt so out fucking of place. This 5'10, slightly buff, two hundred pound, nigga with dreadlocks and two full sleeve tattooed arms, sitting around a bunch of fucked up white girls whose parents could afford to buy the whole facility if they wanted.
I got stared at a lot—hit on even more by them freshly eighteen or nineteen-year-old, freaky-ass lil girls who wanna try black dick for the first time.
Then you have the occasional black person like Kyleah—who's actually mixed. She's half Vietnamese, half black.
She was the first to volunteer her story after one of the social workers here asked us to share a part of our stories.
None of us wanted to go. Especially me.
I just sat there with my arms crossed, two five-foot girls on either side of me. One of them staring a hole into the side of my face.
The other asked me if she could touch my arms...
Like girl ain't we all crazy, why you tryna fuck on me?
Anyway, Kyleah told her story and after the group session, I told her that I liked her confidence, and we've been cool ever since.
"You ain't sorry, nigga. You still leavin'," I could hear her pouting.
I got a little sad thinking about how it reminded me of my Ladybug.
I miss her the most.
When I got that letter from my baby telling me how she felt, about her mom, the fact that she knows what happened to her, it fucking breaks my heart.
I wanted to leave right then. I even pulled out my suitcase as I was full-on crying. I didn't even read Tre's part until I was on the floor, in tears with my shit all over the room ready to leave, but then, I looked at the letter again.
I finished it. I received my baby's words of encouragement, and I thought about what I've been learning. What they have been teaching me.
I sat and really, really thought about it and I realized even if I came home, how could I help her when I couldn't even help myself?
So I stayed—and I'm glad I did because...I feel...happy.
Just a little bit.
Maybe it's my new medication.
They diagnosed me with ADHD. They said it caused my depression. They also diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder...I still don't exactly know what it means.
