Category Archives: #ICan’tBreathe

“I learn love from her everyday.” Jacqueline Cioffa

“All she wants is to be close, eat, cars rides and chase things. I learn love from her everyday.”#Lupita ❤

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My life is a barrage of pills, moods, malaise, emptiness, haze, mania, depression that stagnates my spirit, anxiety ping-ponging against my brain fighting an illness I cannot see. The willful fighter, deep-thinking me and misfiring neurons I cannot comprehend. There is no recovery from a serious mental illness, there is only finding ways to cope, reasons to get-up to battle and exist one more day.

I can’t just ‘pull it together,’ no matter how deep the desire or the will.

It’s generational. The genetic jackpot I won, but did not enter.

I. was. born. this. way.

I. was. born. this. way.

I won’t win, there is no winning, no contests, no rules. There is only luck and time before I am gone away.

I am not misguided, I understand exactly what I am up against. Well, sorta. I understand each day gets a little harder, the thoughts a little louder, the light a little dimmer and the physical discomforts heavier.

My words, while I can still see them and get them out are not to be misunderstood or misconstrued. This life, my life has been beautiful in more ways than I can write.

The memories help me stay.

The spirit animal kissing away my tears, snuggling so close I feel her beating heart against my skin is never too far away. She keeps me present and accountable.

Smiling from the heart is the rarity, and this dog makes me smile. Multiple times a day. She understands my crazy, the sorrow and spectacular. She loves me anyway.

No matter the color or mood.

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CRAZY, Now Get Out of my Head

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No matter how many times this morning I repeated I am in fact NOT full of hate, bitter, ugly, paralyzed with fear or consumed by the crazy, I could not reason my way out. I’m a rapid cycler, I’ve been hypo-manic for weeks and yes headed towards the inevitable come down, the hideous depression and the dark. Black nothingness is something I understand, the concept I accept and am accustomed to. It’s always there, lurking, stalking, circling a part of my DNA. No, I cannot wish it away or yank it out like an abcessed, putrid smelling decayed tooth. The crash and burn snatches the pretty pieces of me, my self-worth, joy, hope, strength, wonder. Yes, I’m constantly skipping ahead to the future, not in a happy-go-lucky way but trying to map the least destructive, less painful route. I don’t even understand what’s happening to me, which thoughts to trust or block so how could you?

My worst fear, the one that buries me like a sinkhole is that I end up alone with my crazy. On the streets or even worse, like my father who had no idea who I was in the end. His crazy consumed him over an agonizing amount of days and years. It is slowly and excruciatingly doing the same to me. Silently, while I am screaming inside. I realize I am not going to win this war, I understand that. So why bother writing books no one will read? Painting rooms in a house I will surely have to leave. Why bother? When everything and everyone I love will die and be taken away. Why bother when I will be left insane, why the fuck should I care? About anything. God doesn’t. I’m not sure how much pain one body can endure, I’ve had more than one soul can carry. Today, I do feel sorry. I am allowed. But wallowing is dangerous, heartbroken tears make my eyes puffy, my heart heavy and the guilt of hurting those I love too heavy to bare.

I didn’t start the day with bad intentions. Most days I pretend happy, hoping it will rub off. For you and for me. For my benefit that I am indeed strong enough to cope with this bullshit brain that never stops the whirring, annoying chatter. If I do end up in the streets, so be it. I’d best plan now, pick a pretty, warm corner where the sun shines with a soothing view. The bastard disease has not yet ripped away my imagination. No, not yet that’s all mine.

My BFF talked me off the ledge, the pity party granted until noon and that’s all. The number of hours wasted, screamed, cried and hurled accusations at my mother is more shame than I care to remember. I insisted to my friend (when my head controls the dialogue I CANNOT think, to say I become irrational is being charitable) that I was ‘happy’ once, a ‘free-spirit’ which she quickly shot down. “Who is this person you’re talking about, that wasn’t you.”

I’ve been pretending so long since before I can remember, I don’t even know me. The lines dangerously crossed in my mind.

I’m not going to write books, do anything anymore. Why the fuck should I?

I quit. Why fight when there’s no winning? I can’t battle an invisible disease. Well, you have two choices and one is true midnight black nothingness. The other, keep breathing.

Do not feel sorry for me. Do not dare feel sorry for me. I do not want, need or ask for your pity. I’m sharing this because these words, my most hurtful truths, this unbearable pain, the incomprehensible fear someone else out there in a parallel world might be feeling them too.

Don’t judge my crazy or put a label on it for your comfort.

I did not ask for this mind, it’s what I got.

Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll feel better. I probably won’t given the logic and the statistics, but tomorrow will come with or without me.

Fear has never been a friend of mine. Fuck it. Onward.

CRAZY, NOW GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

I am writing.

truth always wins.

GEORGIA PINE

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#ICan’tBreathe. Apologies. Opinion. From A Cop’s Daughter.

I am not going to talk politics, racism, society or even equality.

One, because I do not hold a master’s in Political Science, History or Criminal Justice.

I’m not even going to presume I know how to ‘fix’ this country or how far we have gone off track.

I’m going to stick with emotion, respect, courtesy, honor and humility.

The morally conscience way in which I was brought up.

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My father was a detective. He was the kindest, coolest, non-judgmental, honorable man I knew.

I loved running down the halls of the police station, the way it smelled, the dirty desks, the smiling faces dressed in blue who would greet me. I loved how safe, alive and happy I felt.

The sense of pride a five-year old has for her own personal superhero was overwhelming.

Black was not black in his eyes.

Any kid could get in trouble, petty stuff nothing major.

My father would not arrest him, beat him down, he would speak calmly to him with respect.

He had a likable way about him.

My dad would then go out and hit up the local merchants and raise money to send that troubled boy to basketball camp.

Yes, basketball camp and we were not rich, barely middle class.

How can I ever hate the cops when I have such a compassionate, shining example of him, seeing the human being first. The unfortunate youth who perhaps did not have guidance in his own home.

There would not be one kid he’d help, there would be hundreds who’s lives he would change.

Grown men, black, latino, white would turn up at my mother’s door teary eyed, “your husband gave me a shot, he saved my life.”

Respect. It’s so simple and sorely missing.

I’d grow up and move away from the shelter of a small town and the safety of my father the cop’s strong, compassionate, gentle ways.

When I moved to Harlem I honored the lessons and tried to be colorblind like he taught me.

The night Obama won the election I sobbed in the streets of 125, my heart bursting with pride.

I dragged my brother out catching him brush a tear away. I danced and watched a glorious, wise, well-lived grandmother cry with a child cradled in her arms.

Yes, she was African-American. I tried to comprehend how this stunning, victorious moment felt for her. I’m sure I couldn’t even come close to understanding the depths of emotion.

I looked in that beautiful woman’s chestnut eyes and for one glorious second we were connected.

It was a moment I might not have known without my father’s clear, honorable intentions.

There is no justice in a mother’s child being shot 9 times, or a father and husband of six children dying from a choke hold.

There is no sense, no Master’s Degree that can explain away the horrors.

Those police are certainly not the ones I know, I do not see my father’s reassuring manner in them.

No, no, no.

What is happening? What is happening to morals, values? How did things go so inexplicably wrong?

I partially blame the media, the goddamn violent video games and the ugly, greedy fast times we live in.

I loved a cop, I’m not apologizing.

He taught me right from wrong.

I’m apologizing to the families of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.

My father the colorblind gentleman, well-loved and respected cop would be deeply sorry.

He’d try to fix it.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Dr. Martin Luther King

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