For as long as she could remember she had been dancing to the rhythm of her demons. Sometimes they’d grant her respite and she would feel the illusion of control so much so that she could almost taste normality. Sometimes she would forcibly take her own respite and with wanton abandon refuse to follow her regimen, choosing instead to stash away her cocktail of pills.
These stolen respites almost always left her begging for her life. Oftentimes, her gallant bid to live free was denied, and she struggled, a type of walking dead for weeks, months like that fateful winter of 07.
She was smart, sexy, beautiful, and over-educated. All knowledge of her attributes went out the door when the demons punished her for these stolen respites. She danced to their drums, arms flailing, body swaying from side to side attempting to gain balance; she failed often and just had to ride the tide. Succeeded on occasion just when the pilot light was dangerously flickering, threatening to go out altogether. Somewhere inside at the last minute she managed to summon up just the right amount of energy to whisper: “I think I want to live this time. Please and thank you.”
She shook her head to clear the cobwebs of memory and walked to her window. She crouched down and stared at her piece of Yemaya lapping calmly at the shores. It was Thanksgiving; she’d been awoken by her love. Although she and the water had a tenuous relationship she was thankful to be alive as she gazed out at it. She whispered to Yemaya submitting her bid to live and her plea to keep the demons at bay. She was thankful that her demons had seen fit to hand her the most recent slice of respite. She was thankful to be loved and to be loving once again.
Musings of An African Woman 