I can’t explain how I feel,

but these daydreams seem so real.

With a passing thought you’re in my head,

but it feels like we’re there instead.

I come out of my happy dream quickly,

and you’re still out of reach for me.

It’s 4 am. The sinews

in my legs are on fire and

my chest feels like it’s caving

in,

Like I’m being

pressed

to

Death.

Like I’m being interrogated

as a witch, when I know full well

that the witchcraft

doing this to me is coming

from somewhere buried deep within

and I don’t want to afflict

anyone else

with It.

It.

It.

It.

Why does It even begin?

The walls twist and spin, my heart races,

and my mind is the only thing

that outpaces it.

And   I.   Can’t.   Seem.   To.   Fucking.   Breathe.

My sick, slobbering, staccato mind wrings the muscles

in my abdomen, in my thorax,

in my gastrocnemii, (to put it medically)

while my vision wavers

and blurs.

I force myself to move, to stretch, to push

out anything deeper than the shallow breath held

in my lungs with each passing second.

I scroll through my instagram feed

searching for an escape.

Pretty landscapes, Pretty people,

Pretty.

Something prettier than this,

prettier than me.

Something whole or

Something that at least has the visage

of wholeness,

of put-togetherness,

because right now I feel

Broken.

This is new.

This poem is about my experiences dealing with Anxiety and Panic Attacks. They’re very new to me. Up until last semester, I had never had a panic attack, never felt what it was like to have crippling doubt about if I was normal, if this was normal, if I could control something like this. With the help of my friends, family, and the love of my life—my sweet and supportive girlfriend—I’ve been able to keep myself in a good place. Some days, it still hits me for no discernible reason. Some nights I wake up with cramps and attacks out of nowhere, like I described in this poem. I hope that by sharing my story, other people dealing with anxiety, especially those who are just finding out what it entails, can find comfort in knowing that someone else knows what they are going through. Anxiety doesn’t define you. There is always a way to combat your anxiety and you should never stop searching for what it is that makes you feel grounded and safe!

Thank you so much to Emily Covais, Dana Sauro, and Kyle Marchuk for your efforts in partnership with Active Minds Loyola, Maryland Chapter.

I hear their voices.

Voices of the people who want the world to stay as it is—the people who have too much to lose

if things change.

They say to stay quiet.

They say to keep my mouth shut.

They say to silence my voice.

They say to push down my emotions so I can stay level-headed.

They say not to rock the boat.

They say not to say anything that will cause disagreement.

They want me to conform.

They want us to conform.

I hear other voices.

Voices of the people who are losing their lives.

They say they are terrified to make one wrong movement.

They say that “freedom” doesn’t feel so free.

They say they are trapped in a system that isn’t fair.

They say they just want equality.

They say they want the same opportunities I have.

They say people are scared of them.

They say they are misunderstood.

They say they are tired of people walking on the other side of the street at night because of their

skin color.

They say they are tired of not getting a fair trial in court.

They say they are tired of dying.

They say they are tired of crying themselves to sleep at night when they mourn for their brothers

and sisters.

They say they are tired of being punished for doing the only thing they know how to do in order

to put food on the table for their family.

They say they can’t help it.

So they say they want me to help.

They want us to help.

I hear another voice.

It’s the voice coming from deep within my soul.

He says to love people.

He says to care about other people before I care about myself.

He says to encourage my black brothers and sisters.

He says I should make sure they know I love them.

He says I should do what I can to help.

He says I should mourn with them.

He says I should comfort them.

He says I should listen to them.

He says I should pray for them.

He says I should pray with them.

He says I have a lot to learn from them.

He says to see the world in through their eyes before making any judgments.

He says to make friends with people who have different situations than I do.

He says that I should do more than rock the boat—he says I should sink it.

He wants me to move. He wants us to move.

There’s one voice I haven’t heard, though.

It’s my voice.

I haven’t said anything at all.

But that changes today.

In the past, I didn’t understand all the hype around the Black Lives Matter movement. So, I chose to stay silent on it. I would think things like: Yes, I want everyone to be equal, but we have equality already. They need to realize that none of these things would be happening if they would just obey the laws (the list could go on and on).

As I became friends with some incredible people who are affected daily by fear, hatred, and stereotyping, however, my eyes were opened to the inequality we are still battling today.

These people led me to understand that things are not equal just because we supposedly play by the same rules.

They led me to believe that something has to be changed so people don’t have to break the law just to get by.

One time, I was driving through Atlanta with my friend a few weeks back. We were on the way to our church to play basketball. My friend has a heart of gold, but he is a teenaged, black male with an athletic build. The clothes he wears represent the culture he grew up in. Honestly, people look at his neighborhood—which he didn’t get to choose to live in—he doesn’t get a chance to show his heart before he is judged.

Anyways, he told me that he had recently spent a night in jail because he was having an altercation with his brother outside of their house. I listened to him tell me about this altercation and I couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t sound any different than fights I had with my brother when I was in high school. Nevertheless, somebody driving by saw the brotherly wrestling match taking place and called the police. When the police arrived, my friend and his brother were done fighting.

Now, I don’t want to say that the police had ill-intentions or are intentionally racist.

I don’t think there any many officers who do have ill-intentions. This is not an attack on them. However, there is a deeper problem in our society: We have a scale that measures how violent, harmful, or dangerous someone is…and we use skin color as the main variable. So, they assumed that my friend was dangerous. When they approached him to talk about the altercation, he tried to explain the story and say that it was resolved. But, the police took his explanation as some sort of resistance. They then violently threw him on the ground as they arrested him. He was arrested on the charges of domestic violence and resisting arrest.

Then, he had to get bail bonds to be able to get out of jail. Basically, he was thrown, arrested, charged, and forced into debt for something I would have got a slap on the wrist for. That dude looked at me that day with tears in his eyes and said, “Man, I swear it felt like they were trying to bring back slavery or something.” At that moment I realized that I couldn’t possibly understand what that was like. If I had a tussle with my brother like that, my parents would have handled the situation after things died down. I speak up now. Something has to change.

I work with a black girl who has become one of the most influential voices in my life lately. In a few short months, she has taught me more about loving people and praying for them than I could have ever known. As we were sitting in the office last week, she read an article about the KKK being allowed to adopt a highway in south Georgia. The article goes on to talk about the organization’s plans to make a comeback after 150 years from the time it was founded.

When I read that, I get angry.

I want to know what in the world those people are thinking; and then I put it down and don’t think about it anymore. That is not the case for people who are directly affected by that, though. I will never be able to forget the moment when my heart fell to the floor as I watched my friend cry.

I will never be able to forget the loss of words I had as I attempted to pray over her. I will never be able to forget the realization I had in that moment—the realization that I would never be able to understand the pain and the heartache that the inequality we still have today brings into the lives of my black brothers and sisters.

So I speak up now: something has to change.

I could provide story after story and example after example. I could tell you about the kids I work with who are absolutely incredible, but will never have the same experience and opportunities as white kids unless something changes. I could tell you about the high school students I work with who are affected every single day by all of the stuff going on.

They feel like they are trying to be seen, but are invisible because people who don’t understand are too busy looking at themselves.

They feel like they are trying to be heard, but their voices are being dismissed because of the very thing they are speaking up against. People tell them that their opinions are irrelevant. It’s like a soccer player who knows nothing about baseball trying to tell a baseball player that his opinions about the unfair umpire are irrelevant or stupid—it just doesn’t make sense.

So I speak up now: something has to change.

If you have ever played monopoly, you know that it can be fun for some people. For others, monopoly

can be one of the longest and most frustrating games ever. One time, I decided to join my

friends in a monopoly game they had already started. Places were already bought and occupied,

and there was only a little bit of money the bank could afford to dish out to me. So, I started playing

without much of a chance. I could basically land on someone else’s spot and have to pay or

the “Go to Jail” spot. Now, nobody would say that I ever had a fair shot.

I think our environment is a lot like that.

White people, like myself, have been playing the game since the late 1700’s.

We played the game for over 150 years, then, people wanted to join. So, after

we tried to be the playground bully who won’t let anyone else into his clique, we reluctantly

allowed black people to play. We told them that they have the same rules as us and are allowed

to do the same things we are allowed to do and we called that equality. Unfortunately, the only

places they had left to land on were places where they had to pay, take the back seat, or go to

jail. That doesn’t sound very equal to me.

If you want another illustration as you wrestle through what it may feel like for someone else,

Here is a video that illustrates this point in a slightly different way. It is incredible.

So What Can I Do?

Listen. Learn. Love.  No matter what you do in life, if you can do these three things before anything

else, you are much more likely to understand, make rational judgement, and make a difference

with what you say.

Speak up.  If you are a silent supporter, know that we need your voice. We need the voice of people

who are not personally affected by these things. For example, I could physically go on living

comfortably no matter what happens with this issue in our world, but I speak up because I am

willing to give up my privilege if that is what it takes. I realize that there are people who wouldn’t

claim to be followers of Jesus reading this article, but I do want to point out that Jesus told us that

life is found when we consider others more highly than ourselves. So let’s do that! Instead of

fighting for what we personally want, let’s be willing to fight for the things others need—even if it

means we have something to lose.

Be willing to lose something for the sake of other people having the opportunity to be valued as they should be.

Speak up. The world needs to hear that you

care for justice and mercy. The people who are being hurt need to hear that you are with them

and see that you are willing to stand with them no matter what other people think.

Speak Up!

I would like to say that I would have spoken up in the 1800’s when slavery was being abolished.

I would like to say that I would have stood with my black brothers and sisters in the 1950’s during

the Civil Rights Movement.

I fail to realize that it wasn’t the popular thing to do as a white person.

People who had something to lose would have called me crazy for doing those things in that

time.

Nothing has changed.

History is being written as we speak, and I refuse to look back in 50

years and tell my children that I didn’t do something to help move the world forward.

I refuse to have to tell my children that I was silent while my friends were living in fear, grief, and pain. So I

speak up—and you should too.

Tell people who they are.

This one may seem a little weird, but people tend to become who they

hear they are. If someone hears constantly that they were born to lead, they will be leaders. If

someone is told they were a mistake, they will most likely live like they are a mistake.

Peoples’ identity often get bound up in the things others say to them or about them. Let’s stop telling people

that they are uneducated and ignorant so we can start telling people that they are smart,

loved, wonderful, beautiful, and Children of the Creator of the Universe.

Bring Peace.

All the people who have helped move our world forward have done something that

disrupts the status quo. All the people we celebrate as heroes today, were revolutionaries yesterday.

Think about it.

MLK was shot.

Lincoln was assassinated.

Jesus Christ was hung on

a roman death trap.

Each of these people were considered revolutionaries back then, but are heroes

today. So, let’s rebel. Let’s rebel peacefully and joyfully. Let’s speak up for justice, mercy,

equality, and love. Then, lets commit to loving the haters so much that they can hardly disagree

with us any longer.

Let’s commit to going out of our way to help the haters so they can’t bring any

real evidence against our case for justice, mercy, equality, and love.

So let’s rebel. Let’s speak up.

Let’s stand up. But, let’s remember why we are fighting and rebelling in the first place:

Love for

others.

Make one difference.  Just bring joy into someone’s life by investing in them and helping them out

of a possible situation. It is not our job to change it all, but it is our job to change what we can

and inspire others to do the same thing.

I hear their voices.

They say not to speak up.

It’s not that they are bad people.

They just don’t want life to change for them.

Change is scary.

So, they don’t try to understand.

They say to keep quiet.

I hear their voices.

They are longing for justice, equality, peace, and love.

They can’t help their situation.

They say they don’t have it like I have it.

They say that nobody understands.

They say to speak up

I hear the voice in my soul.

He is hurting for others.

He is causing me to weep when I watch a video of a real, human life being taken.

He is telling me to be willing to give up some of my privileges so that other people can have

them.

He is telling me that the only real love in the world happens when we are willing to lay down

our lives for our brothers and sisters.

And now…now I can finally hear my own voice.

I am shouting to the world that I am not going to be silent any more.

I am shouting to my black brothers and sisters that I am with them!

I am shouting that they are worth dying for.

I am shouting that I love them—that I am willing to lay down my pride, the opinions of my

friends and family, and even my life if it will make their lives better.

I am Silent No More.

My Recommended Resource:

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption

Just Mercy all at once is a riveting personal narrative gifted young lawyer brimming with idealism, places you directly in the shoes of his defendants, and is an inspirational perspective on the fight and the pursuit of, not “justice”, but true justice

As a young lawyer, Bryan Stevenson founded the Equal Justice Initiative, which placed defending those most desperate in need its utmost priority, from the poor to the wrongly condemned.

It unfortunately shows how our current system ends up leading towards the impoverished people receiving the majority of punishment in our country, which passionately supports the argument on the need for change in our criminal justice system.

An argument so very fitting in our current societal state of affairs

One day I looked in the mirror
To see if what I held most dear
Was clear, or if it was fear
That held me in its snare.
Perhaps I just didn’t care
It didn’t seem fair
I wasn’t aware
Now it seems so clear
As long as the Lord is near
There is no room for fear.

There is only one way
And though you may say nay
There will come a day
We walk together, that lonely pathway

The Battle, Upon Losing

the

hurricane

of

havingherheart

t-o-r-n
f
r
o
m

h
e
r

BREAST

her grief
threatening
to drown
the
mosh pit dancer
of a ballerina

in a river
of
her

own tears

as all await

that

first

sal. t. y.

d. r. o. p.

to. s. l. i. d. e.

d
o
w
n

her

high

rosy
cheekbones

an

e t e r n i t y

passespassespasesspassesby

for she willNOT
bend
nor
give THEM
thesatisfaction

of finding even a pin tuck
out of place
in the

pink tutu
that is her
unassuming armor.

heartwrench
beitasitasandwillbe

she will stand

she will plea-eh?

and she WILL
do battle
just
as

hertwinsouldid

gloves high
toes en point

lithe legs
covered
in pale
pink tights
pink tutu of armor
guarding her

and
HIS
GLOVES

laced up tight

GIGANTIC
atop seeming f r a i l t eeeeeeee

there will be no vanquishing
becauseofthis

heartbreak

THIS MAGNIFICENT LOVE
may
perhaps
be
gone
from this tangible plane

but
these sweet memories

will only serve

to strengthen
her resolve

to be

the

second

greatest

fighter

in

herstory

and so

a
pirouette

Grand Jetè

and with the grace of Giselle

she

is

once again

at ready

lithe legged
chignoned

pale pink tights

pink tutu

Cassius Clay’s
worn black
gloves

laced up

t.i.g.h.t.

and thus armored

with
one heroes

gloves

and one heroes
gentle arm

u
o n
r d
a

her shoulder

a quiet whisper in her soft ear

“you’re my girl”

off she dives once more

chignon first

into the mosh pit
I

Looking at myself in the mirror, I focus on the gentle bulges across my hips and thighs. I see the new found curve along my waist. I see me, not just the shadow of myself I saw a few years ago.

I’m a recovering anorexic. For me, anorexia is like alcoholism in the way that you are never fully ‘cured’. Relapses happen and it takes persistence and constant self-love to stay healthy.

I’m at the heaviest weight of my life and I’ve been told I have never looked healthier. To me, that is one of the best compliments I can receive. I had always been persistently underweight for my 5’9 frame since I was 15. Spiraling downwards into diet-restricting and over-exercising, I was a mess mentally and physically before I sought out help my sophomore year of college.

But I’m not here to explicitly tell about my battle with anorexia. I’m here to talk about recovery.

About the twinges of doubt and sadness that come with compliments saying that you look well.

About how old habits are hard to fend off when you’re old jeans fit too snugly.

About how when I stand in the mirror I see a woman. Not just a wisp of one.

I see a woman. A woman with a little extra padding to cushion her mind and her heart. A woman who tries on new clothes and makes an effort to never be discouraged by the size tag. A woman who speaks out about body positivity and lifts others up on her journey to wellness.

But the journey to wellness isn’t always easy.

Wellness isn’t just about the number on a scale or a healthy BMI, it’s about how you think and feel about yourself. It’s about how easily you can accept and be kind to yourself. Wellness is something we all struggle with.

I may be at a healthy weight, but when I see myself in the mirror I sometimes find myself cursing each new curve.

But when I take the time to stop and think about where I got those, I find myself smiling. Each curve came from living life. From eating cake with a close friend in England to grabbing a pint of cider in Germany. When I was at my worst, my world revolved around food and what I didn’t eat. Now food revolves around the new life I have built for myself and the new woman I am today.

A woman one who knows she should probably get back into shape, but slightly fears how it could control her life again. A woman who realizes that the best thing that ever happened to her was studying abroad. How it helped her break her routine and simply focus on living her life again. Meaningful experiences became more important than image.

It is with that thought that I wish to stay in the travel frame of mind. To focus on living my best life and, honestly, just try to stay happy.

My sophomore year, when I first started reaching out to receive help, I wrote a poem to share in my creative writing class. It was one of my fist times sharing such a personal part of myself. Soon, I found that being vocal about negative body image was key to helping you change the way you think.

The poem read as follows:

When I Look Into the Mirror

I notice the asymmetrical curve of my hips,

The slight left slant of my nose,

Off-centering my face.

I focus on every pore of my skin,

Scarred like the surface of the moon

From only nineteen short years of life.

I fold into myself,

Shying away from the newfound weight held around my waist;

An unwanted sign of recovery.

I feel the wetness as my eyes gloss,

Reaching for the white-capped pill bottle,

The one that ebbs these thoughts that haunt my mind.

I take a step back.

I see sunlight reflect the gleam in my eyes

Conveying warmth and summer’s sweet melody,

Crinkled up at the corners when I laugh.

I see my mother’s nose,

My father’s chicken legs,

Stretched for miles and built for speed.

I see long, slender fingers,

Of which my Dad relates to E.T.,

Perfect for reaching under the couch for refugee change.

I see a lopsided smile,

One that finds solace in a slice of chocolate silk pie

Or changes from raspberry to coral with a swipe of lipstick.

I am only but a body,

Focused by a lens,

Transformed through the brain,

Yet,

When I look into the mirror,

I see it all.

It has been just over a year since I wrote that poem.

Since I finally came to terms with my struggle, I couldn’t be prouder of how far I’ve come. And you know what? I’m delighted to share that. Whether or not it is seen as boasting is not my business. To me, there is no wrong in being proud of what you’ve worked hard to accomplish.

Earlier this week, I went in to the doctor. In the back of my mind, I was slightly terrified. It was the first time I was going to be weighed in a year; ever since I sought help back at university. Back then, I was getting weighed blind and felt entirely helpless to the fact that I wasn’t allowed to know my own body. It was a year ago that I walked out of that doctors office and decided that the number on a scale would no longer define me. And it was a year of bliss not knowing. But it was time.

I got on that scale and was weighed by a nurse who did not know what that moment meant to me. And that was exactly how I wanted it.

To be perfectly honest, it was fine. Maybe even better than I thought. My overactive imagination had conjured up some insane number in my head, so it was reassuring to see that wasn’t the case. I’m exactly where I need to be.

The journey to wellness is life-long. But it doesn’t have to be a battle. It’s important to bend with it like a palm in the breeze. If you stay too rigid, you might just snap. Life is ever-fluctuating. It curves left and right like a country road. Ebbs and flows like the oceans’ tides. It’s your job to learn to flow with it.

I don’t think I will ever buy a scale. I can finally say that I know myself and know that it can be all too easy for thoughts to become obsessive. But, to me, I now know that what really matters is how I feel. Healthy.

Mentally, physically, and spiritually. And honestly, I simply cannot wait to continue riding the curve on my journey to wellness.

You will never be special to them.

Not unless you have the assets that he ultimately requires.

They want you to be “bad”

Bad as in you smoke marijuana, get drunk, and party all night.

They expect you to be beautiful in the face, thick in the waist

And a ten in the behind.

They observe your teeth, and your style of dress.

Judging you by every step.

Your face has to be acne free.

Completely washed away from natural given beauty.

Your face simply caked up to the maximum

It’s the only thing attracting them.

They want your shoe game “on point”

When you’re over to their house instead of ”hello beautiful” its “ayo baddie pass me that joint”.

What is the TRUE definition of special?

You hardly know it at all.

But again what does “bad” mean?

I found out in the urban dictionary it means “really cute, hot, very fine or good looking”

Superficial definitions, for superficial words.

He will never think your special

By: Dasia Jackson

It’s been four years.

Four years with almost no word from you.

Four years of working on fixing what you broke.

Four years of pushing every boy away that tried to get to close.

Four years of trying to remember what it’s like to love someone as much as I loved you.

The story of us ended so long ago it seems as if it didn’t really happen.

When I think back on our memories, I feel as if I’m almost fabricating the good times to overcompensate the bad ones.

It’s not that I even miss you anymore. I don’t miss our memories. I don’t miss talking to you.

I have moved on from you.

What I do miss is me. My self-confidence. My ability to trust.

You not only took three vital years of my life, but with that, you took my ability to feel.

The scars you left me with were so deep, I had no choice but to shut off all emotions.

I never wanted to risk feeling that extent of hurt and self-hatred again.

For four years, I have been empty.

For four years, I have never been able to take a compliment.

For four years, I have never trusted a boy that tells me he “likes me.”

How could they like someone who is so damaged?

You knew me so well, and you consistently pointed out all that was wrong with me.

If the person I was so madly in love with could see how awful I was, it was only a matter of time before those boys would find out too.

These letters usually include a “thank you” to the boy that broke them.

I do not thank you. I am not thankful you were in my life.

I have held back from so many experiences, and for that, I hate you.

I hate you for making me hate myself.

I hate you for walking away from this relationship without any understanding of how deeply you traumatized me.

I hate you for providing me with the idea that being in love was accompanied with abuse.

I hate that I ever made excuses for your behavior.

I am writing this now because this is the first time in four years I am willing to feel something besides hate.

I am ready to let someone tell me they like me, and believe it.

It is not easy, and it absolutely terrifies me, but I am ready to trust again.

I am ready to believe that there is something about me worth liking.

I am ready to let myself be as happy as the day I first met you.

I try over and over, and I tire with every effort put forth.

I want to combat this.

I want to be better, but somehow the things that make me better can sometimes make me worse.

It is hard to explain to people who haven’t been here, walked under this cloud that fogs my visibility and speaks uneasiness into every step.

They don’t know what it is like to pray with each new step that it might be your last because the pain is becoming unbearable.

They don’t know how it can convince you that you and it are one. It is part of you, in you, and it is your fault.

You want it to be there because it is your only friend, the only constant.

I walk around living in the reality that the cloud is not only over me, but has rooted itself so deep within me that it can control me like a twisted puppeteer.

I have found that there is one thing that always helps for a while.

When a friend steps out of their sunlight and sits down on my bench, under my cloud and rainstorm, it wakes something new in me.

Every time, it catches me off guard because the puppeteer tells me that there isn’t anyone in the world who would want to risk their happiness to love me.

“Why are you here?” I say as my words catch in my throat.

“Because, I love you, and you don’t have to feel this,” they respond unknowingly.

They then slowly walk me out from under my cloud unaware that I carry it inside myself.

It is always so nice to feel that sunlight for a little while, but then the cloud speaks up again urging me to run from this love.

“It is unpredictable. They will get tired of you. You are a burden that no one wants to take care of,” it whispers into my ear.

“But they said they loved me. Were they lying?” I respond in anguish.

“No one could ever want you,” it replies, “You are not even worth my breath.”

And the cloud falls silent as I roll into a ball shaking unable to make any sound at all.

My mind whirls and searches for the moments that I felt loved that I knew it was real, but somehow they all seem artificial and insincere.

“Did they mean it when they said to call them when things got bad? They are busy. They couldn’t possibly want to come sit on my bench.”

For a couple of days she couldn’t feel the trouble.

She couldn’t sense the issue.

She just knew that he was quieter.

And that he was more neutral; more resigned.

At first the front of her mind felt that everything must be alright; that perhaps there wouldn’t be a fight after all.

That maybe he wanted to meet her father and move forward, even if ever so slowly.

But her monkey belly was contorting…feeling that it was much worse…that it would much prefer some anger or frustration from him.

She heard the knock, but of course by then she was already at the door, the Chihuahuas having been going much earlier than the knock.

Not more than 10 minutes later he was gone again.

She looked out the window at the sun through teary eyes.

It takes 8 minutes for the sun’s rays to hit our eyes on earth.

If it dies one day and decides to stop burning, we’ll be sun-tanning, golfing, farming away like fools for another 8 minutes.

“I’ll be there soon” he sent 8 minutes before he showed up at her door, without his usual gym bag for overnight stay, without a bottle of wine, without a smile.