In prepping for my first piece as a “National Thought Leader” and “Expert Opinion” (see here) contributor for the Association of Black Clinicians and Sexologists and, as usual, I’ve had to do a lot of heart work before I can produce some thought work. I’m going to be writing HIV criminalization, resilience, black sexualities, the politics of fucking (intraracial/interracial), queerness ect. But sometimes all you can do is breathe.
Writing is hard work, truth work, freeing work. It forces the writer, if s/he comes earnestly, to stew in discomfort. No one likes to discomfort. I try to deal with it. I’ve tried to force myself to like it. I don’t. I hate discomfort. I would prefer to lay in my bed, tequila sunrise or coffee in hand, shisha lit and poodle at my side…as I write truths as free and clearly as bell hooks. Alas, discomfort and truth go hand in hand, not because the truth is unpleasant, but more likely because our present comforts are untruthful. That being said, I’ve committed myself to a particular mantra. I’ve committed myself, begrudgingly, to stew in my discomfort, so that I might come out more seasoned.
As the only current, non-PhD being featured I have a bit of anxiety. I have been going in on myself. I’ve been wondering if my research is good enough, if I’m smart enough, if I’m well-read enough and perhaps maybe i’m too much. Perhaps I’m too radical, too queer, too steeped in critical race/blaqueer/feminist theory to be accepted in this real of writing and discourse. This isn’t me being vulnerable, this is me tearing myself part. At some point we must decide that we are worthy. I am. I’ve seen my triggers. I acknowledge my weaknesses, fears and insecurities and now it is time for me to breathe, *breathes*, and move beyond the internal tragedies I have created for myself. Today, as with every time I write, I stew in my discomfort, eject my own sabotage, claim my truths/story/vulnerabilities/power and move forward into my personal excellence and liberation.