suicide

Resilience

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Mortal Man

Resilience

By: Diecer Delfin

My family and I are originally from the Philippines. Growing up I dealt with domestic violence and my father use to do shaboo, (Filipino term for meth) and crack. His drug habit would make him paranoid and when that happened we all knew it, especially if he wasn’t home by a certain time of night. We knew that he would come home drunk or high and start wailing away on my mother. My two sisters and I couldn’t do anything to help her: we were too small. I remember my oldest sister hiding us to protect us from my father. There was one instance when my oldest sister confessed to us that my father and his friend were doing drugs at our house one day and his friend tried to rape her. So I wasn’t the only one that was traumatized in our house - it was my sisters as well (especially my oldest sister because her memories are more vivid.)

Going back to my childhood I realize that I learned what depression was at an early age. I can recall wanting to die so that I wouldn’t have to suffer through day to day life. This is at five or six years old. I can’t even imagine a child feeling that way. For me no day was safe. Not birthdays, not holidays - there were no safe days in my childhood. Something always happened. That’s affected me as a husband. I find myself expecting the worst. My wife always has my back and reminds me that I’m not my father.

As I look back at my adolescence I realize that I didn’t really have a mother or father figure. It was just me and my sisters. My sisters and I talk about our childhood a lot and how messed up it was.

When we were still living in the Philippines I remember my dad coming home with the intention of chopping my mother up with a machete. My mother grabbed my sisters and I and hid us in the bushes. She left us there and told us she was going to call for help. Later my aunt “my dad’s sister” came and got us. At this point we had no idea where our mother was. We didn’t now if she was still living or not. That day lives in the back of my mind.

I can vividly remember my father often waking me up early in the morning. High on drugs and coupled with his OCD kicking in. He gave me the choice of mopping the floor or being beaten. We lived in a rural area and he would tell us that he was going into the city to look for a job. Twenty-four hours would go by and the neighbors would notice that he was gone so they would call me in and tell me to eat with them. There would be days when my father would send me to the public market to beg for food. “Who does that as a father?” So yeah, I can’t help but be angry.

Our family immigrated to Chicago just before the attacks on September 11th with hopes of living a better life. My parents sold their land so we could have money to survive on when we got here. When we got to Chicago we thought that we turned a new page and that things would get better but as the years went by things continued to happen that would tear our family apart. Though my sisters and I remain close we are currently all living in different parts of the country. Even in Chicago my father continued to do drugs. The beatings didn't stop.

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My mother was the provider of our family but provided very little “if any” emotional support. She handled her “responsibilities” as a mother but she was never present as the “nurturing” mother. As I grew up I started questioning things. A lot of doubt crept into my mind on top of all of the anxiety that I experienced every night. The nights continue to be hard for me. When 9:00pm hits I always feel like something is gonna pop off.

I go through depression to the point that I’m seeing somebody to help me deal with it but you can only talk so much. I to try to make sense of things. The physical effects are always there no matter how much I try to alleviate it. I use medication and photography to help me cope but the things that I have experienced will never leave my body and I have come to terms with the fact that there’s no escaping that. I have to find a way to make peace with things.

I’ve had some really bad lows in my life and I have thought about suicide a lot. Just being so fed up - replaying the same thing every day; even when I don’t want to - it just invades my mind. Some days I don’t even want to go outside and deal with people because I feel like they can sense everything that I’ve been through.

I know one day I’m going to have a child of my own and they are going to want to know about my childhood; “what am I going to say?”

To this very day I try to make sense of the things my dad did. The way my mother would talk down to me out of anger. She would call me worthless. That’s part of the reason that I enlisted in the army. She was at the table eating dinner and I came home and laid the contract on the table. I told her “I’m gonna be out of here.” The army was my way out. Living in Chicago and looking back everyone is still doing the same things now that they were doing at an early age. I knew that I had to get out of Chicago in order to establish myself.

I can’t help but get angry when I think about my past. I do know that I need to talk about it because if I don’t it builds up. With that all being said and despite the unfortunate things that I had to see and experience I learned at a young age what not to do. I learned resilience early in life.

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My father never asked for help, I wish that he knew he needed it. To this day it’s hard for him to take accountability for his actions. When I talk to him now I don’t see him as my father. He helped give me life but that’s it. I completely shut myself off from him. I’ve already discussed with my wife and sisters that I don’t think I will want him around my kids once my wife and I decide to have them. We’ve given him so many chances and things always end the same.

My dad is manipulative. I can remember him giving me a camera and I loved it! I told him he was the best dad ever. Then we got into a disagreement and he took it away. That was his thing - he’d buy us things only to use them against us and eventually take them away. That messes with you.

He would take me on “joy rides” around the city. He’d come to a sudden stop and tell me to wait in the car. I would see a woman open the door. At that age I was so naive that I didn’t realize what was going on. Now looking back I’m able to put the pieces together and I’m like man. Me and my sisters are ashamed and embarrassed that we are linked to him because we are nothing like him. I guess I still need to learn what “real” forgiveness is.

 
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Resilience

By: Diecer Delfin

Husband + Friend + Photographer + Storyteller

instagram: @_diecer

Acceptance

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Mortal Man

Acceptance

by: Randle B. Moore III

The stigma surrounding being a black, gay, male in America has changed drastically over the last ten years, yet we still have a very long way to go. Unfortunately in 2017 young, black, gay men are STILL faced with stigma from their families, friends, church members, co-workers and others (society in general) that they interact with on a daily basis.

People who identify as LBGT+ are commonly disowned by family members and friends, treated as outcasts or black sheep which can lead to depression and a sense of "mental" solitary confinement, both of which contributes to a higher suicide rate in the LGBT+ community.

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Individuals who are NOT among the LGBTQ+ community often ostracize, demean, condemn and criticize individuals just for wanting to be comfortable in their own skin. I wanted to engage in this photo essay to let more people know how stigma contributes to death. Death of a whole community of people who want nothing more than any other human, which is to just want to be happy... "like all of you!" 

 

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If there are any questions on how SPECIFICALLY stigma and silence on this particular matter equals DEATH for our marginalized  community, please feel free to reach me at: randlemoore@equitashealth.com 

 

 
 
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Randle B. Moore III

Acceptance

I’ll be happy to share more personal and intimate situations and circumstances that have a negative impact on society at large!

Thanks for allowing me the opportunity to be a voice on behalf of a whole community of people who are still afraid to even exit the closet because they don’t want your SHIT!

facebook: Randle B Moore III

email: randlemoore@equitashealth.com

I Had a Life Taken Away From Me

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Mortal Man

I had a life taken away from me

By Leroy Bean

 

“Looking at my phone with a blank stare

as it mirrors my sentiments 

With a blank note pad

Cursor 

Just blinking at me

Waiting for the right words to be thought

To be said

To be written down

But the music it plays

Drowned out in the background 

Echoing almost

Like my thoughts 

Not quite able to make them out

But I feel them

An idea

Growing outside the boundaries of my mind

Controlling me 

Forcing ocean storms from my eyes

Stone petrified for long moments at a time

But the scary thing is 

You can't hear someone else's thoughts

And society doesn't value expression enough

And the idea

Of suicide 

is solitary confinement 

Surrounded by walls of your demons

thoughts of escaping suffering 

An idea that can barely be expressed

Just a feeling

And we underestimate feeling too much 

With the strength it can give you

And the weakness it can infect you with

But with enough

Love 

And 

Compassion

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It can become the cure to someone's day 

Or lifetime

Their breath 

and existence 

We miss yours already

I remember your smile 

Your goofy laugh

Your innocence when we played as kids 

I wish 

my reach extended past the limits of time

To reclaim the memories 

To experience the feeling again

I just seen you

I had faith

Between our eye contact 

That space

There was a connection 

Your face 

It told me something 

I felt something

A glimpse of those memories again

The world of oblivion we lived in

Ignorant to the demons that could tear us down 

They were just monsters under the bed

Under our consciousness

 

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Some of us become aware the hard way

We get scared

Cornered by our fears

Distracted from people who love us 

Standing in the peripheral 

We are here for you

Speak to me 

It's okay 

Express yourself

Cry and flood away your trauma

Please continue to check in on the people you say you love and care for

Dive deep into introspective conversation 

Don't be afraid of the darkness in the abyss when you get there

You are life

And light

You are love 

And Mark 

I hope you still feel

That we love you.”

 

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system.

I’ve always been the type of person to think a lot; always confined to my own mind. Being a male, I locked my emotions and fears and feelings and unhappiness all up there with me. It drove me crazy. At the age of 22, for the FIRST time in my life I had somewhat of a “heart to heart” with my dad about how our disfunctional relationship has been affecting my life and the life of his other two sons. The conversation wasn’t really equally open on both ends. I realized I couldn’t force my Dad to change his mindset, but I could fix mine. It’s been over a year since I started chipping away at this wall of masculinity. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to struggled with in my life so far. To realize that I had an unhealthy relationship with MYSELF and I had to start over. To realize that I had been living in a prison this entire time, but only I could let myself out. To realize that I had been crippling myself rather than making myself stronger. I was suffering...

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system. He was a childhood friend of mine. Our Mom’s were friends, so we were really close. We had lost touch over the last few years; felt like forever. One random day a few months ago, I stopped in Third Perk Coffeehouse and I happened to see his dad across the street. He comes to talk, tells me how he has been, and that is son is on his way over. I was excited, I hadn’t seen him in years! When I saw him I was happy. I couldn’t wait to link back up when we had more time, to talk to him - and share what I’ve learned - and hear what he’s learned - and discuss music - and share my poetry with him - and find out what new talents he has developed! 

So many more things I wanted our friendship to experience, but I guess there was only time for that one. 

I gave him my number because my phone was dead at the time. I heard he had been through some things, so I really wanted him to hit me up. I’m big on sharing wisdom and communicating. Maybe some of my experiences could help him.

About a month goes by, I wake up to a phone call from my mom, telling me that he had committed suicide the night before. The disbelief that fell over me was overwhelming. All I could do was cry...and wonder why. 

Why couldn’t he express what he was going through to get help? What was holding him back?

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After hours of asking myself unhealthy questions, I decided to write this poem about how I genuinely felt. I had a week before the funeral to find a way to process these new emotions I now have the ability to, sadly, only recognize. I found that it was easy to distract myself and have fun and feel better. But there were these moments... between breaths, where the world seemed to slow down and the background noise was low and distorted... I would drift off into a montage of thought about him and memories that we shared, hopeing he really found something more peaceful, his family and realizing that, per usual, I can’t open my mouth and say any of this. Just stuck in my mind. The farthest I got was, “...I had a friend commit suicide.”

 Then remained silent long enough for the recipient of my awkward sorrow to feel uncomfortable and say “I’m sorry to hear that.” because I didn’t give them enough communication to adequately give me the response I needed. 

The day of the funeral arrived. I’m happy with the connections and impact he made while here in our reality. Stuck in my mind, not really able to speak much. His mother asked me to do a poem, luckily I had started writing this poem before she had even asked. I thought I would let that speak for itself and for me. Still, I was incomplete. Until the end of the funeral when I released everything haunting my body thru tears, in my mother’s arms, and comforted by my women. An intimate embrace that felt so healing. Something a lot of men have never experienced, including myself until now. Vulnerability seems to be more haunting than the thing that makes you feel vulnerable in the first place. 

It wasn’t until a few days after the funeral where I sat down with my woman and fully expressed myself and talked about the descriptions of my emotions and thoughts 

with another human being. It felt freeing! After 23 years, it only took me a week and some change to express some serious mental trauma. I’m doing better but the effects of masculinity still has its holds on me. But we must acknowledge our fears and trauma and demons, in order to get passed them.

 
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Leroy Bean

I Had a Life Taken From Me

Leroy is a author, spoken word artist and member of Underdog Academy.

Author of The Love and Theory of Womanology, "book and CD available on amazon."

host of Underdog Academy's Broken English 101 podcast available at: soundcloud.com/be101ua

instagram: @hxc24_ & @underdogacademy

twitter: @HXC24

facebook: Leroy Da'Vaughn Bean & Underdog Academy

snapchat: @xCaptainPlanet

tumblr: hyerpoetry.tumblr.com

and also at uapoetry.com

Survivor's Guilt

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Mortal Man

Survivor's Guilt

Dan Tres Omi

Maybe cause I’m dreamer and sleep is the cousin of death Really stuck in the scheme of, wondering when I’mma rest.
— Kendrick Lamar on "Sing About Me" on his "Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City" album

We called him “Conejo” which means “rabbit” in Spanish. He was dark skinned and lean. His muscles only came out when he sprung into action. He was fast and could jump high. I recall watching him touch the top of the rim at the basketball courts at P.S. 100 in the Soundview section of the Bronx. He was nice with the hands. Conejo was way better at everything than we all were. He could run fast, play football, baseball, swim fast, outbox anyone, and slick talk his way out of everything.

If one of us got into a fight, he would coach us through it and we would win. Today, when I watch a youtube video of how to do a particular acrobatic move for Capoeira or Breakdancing, I imagine Conejo doing this in 2017. Back in the late eighties, he was that guy. If you needed tips on how to jump higher or lift more weights, you went to Conejo. He was very encouraging. You wanted Conejo in your corner when you were down. He had the right words to tell you. When I would strike out at baseball, he would not berate me. Conejo would tell me what I needed to work on and even offered to help me out.

When I learned of his suicide my entire world was shaken. It took me several weeks to get over the shock. Each morning I woke up, I expected to see him doing calisthenics outside like he did every morning. How could a brother who we all looked up to take his own life? At thirteen - it was the first time I came to grips with my mortality. He was too young to have children or to have a bigger impact on our community. I felt that it was all a waste. So after the shock, I felt betrayed. It was selfish but I was just a teenager and I still had much to learn.

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Fast forward to my enlistment in the U.S. Navy. I came home on liberty one weekend and ran into a long time homie, Running Man Johnny. "He was always running to and from somewhere, hence the name." That day was no exception. When I jumped out of the gypsy cab with my sea bag and a hug box of presents Running Man Johnny offered to help out. I did not want to waste his time because I knew that if he helped me up my mother would have forced him to stay and eat. I hugged him and thanked him. I told him we could link up the next day and catch up. He agreed and ran off. I never saw him again. He was murdered a few hours later. As my brother and I dj'ed the night away in his bedroom Running Man Johnny was shot several floors below our window. We heard the gunshots. Running Man Johnny was killed by someone who he fought and beat the night before. While his name was given to him for always running to his destinations, he never ran from a fight. He was survived by a daughter who never got to know his long hugs. When I was a fresh faced teenager who wanted to just get his dance on and meet girls in other projects Running Man Johnny was my wing man who made sure none of the hardrocks jumped me. He saved my life in so many ways. All of my memories of him were good ones. Oftentimes when I pour libations, his name passes through my lips.

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I wonder if at times, I am a pretender when so many who were stronger than me in so many ways are no longer here.

This year an elder I knew was murdered. At 44, I never imagined that I would still lose loved ones to gun violence. I thought that once we pushed through the pain of the Crack Cocaine era in NYC that we would not lose loved ones to gun beefs or drive bys gone bad. TC Islam lived in my building when we lived in the projects in the Bronx. He was lively and always dropping jewels on us. If there was anyone that was about peace and embodied the principles of the mighty Universal Zulu Nation (UZN), it was TC Islam. He was the last person I thought would be murdered. I thought that at a certain age we old heads would grow up to brag about our children and wait for the arrival of our grandchildren. I assumed that many of us would make it to elderhood and be called OG's by the youngbloods.

When I hear a young person call me OG it stings on so many levels. I think that I don't deserve these stripes. Clearly, Conejo, Running Man Johnny, and TC Islam would be OG's. We learned so much from them. I would be a liar if I didn't say that their lessons helped shaped me. The jewels they dropped helped me navigate through life as I got older. My life would have been vastly different if I never met them. I will go so far as to say I might not have survived to be this old if it wasn't for them and others like them who are no longer here.

I cry so much. I don't think I have the strength to cry anymore for losing so many loved ones in such a senseless manner. I wonder if at times, I am a pretender when so many who were stronger than me in so many ways are no longer here. So when I hear the term “OG,” it stings.

This is Part One of Dan Tres Omi’s story. Click the links below to read the others.
 
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Dan Tres Omi

Survivor's Guilt

Son, Husband, Father, Teacher, Afro Latino B-Boy, Author, Capoeirista, T-shirt Model, Pro-Feminist, Hip Hop Diplomat

 

Keep up with Danny on social media...

instagram: @brothereromi

twitter: @DanTresOmi

podcast: Where My Killa Tape At soundcloud.com/dantresomi

medium: @DanTresOmi

 

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