Anger or Depression

Anger can control you if you let it. It can also be the doorway to depression.

You’ve grown up to be quite the success; however, people often wonder why you can’t seem to make friends quickly. You have begun to believe that it is everyone else’s fault for your downfall. In continuous time you have now rerouted what bothers you the most about yourself to an angry outlet. You’ve pretty much read every self-help book there is published on NY best sellers list. Even Oprah Life class or Iyanla can’t fix you. Where do you go for a repair? Who has allowed you to have an outcry without judgment? Is there a shoulder out there available that won’t later whisper your dark secrets to the next person?

This epidemic is highly prevalent among other women. We glamorized ourselves in hopes that we can mask what an underlined depression is. We began to seek validation from outward commodities that get us through the day. We label success as a ladder to further push our underline depression more also into the abyss. Why? We do this so that society doesn’t label us damaged goods. We do this in an effort that someone will see the dried up tears underneath our smile. We do this to wave flags up to suggest that one day someone will turn on a switch to happiness. When this is all said and done, we’ve grown old and now angry, while never addressing what caused us to be depressed.

Depression is standard; it is unhealthy to think that something is majorly wrong with you when you cry up for help, and no one hears your cries. Don’t be embarrassed to know that you are not alone. Don’t allow your doorway to have a depression welcome mat in front of it. Live. Laugh. Love

~Fearless Passion

Visual Scarring

I was bouncing to the sink to wash my hands when suddenly the water from the faucet splashed on the mirror. As I begin to clean the water drops off, I was reminded of a scar I gently cover up daily with concealer. Between my eyes; there is an asymmetric scar that is in a shape of a backwards L. I was given this scar by someone that I can now say is not a demon, not a horrible person, not a representation of black males, but merely a teacher.

At the time at nineteen, I had my life planned out. This person changed the course of my life by dividing the visual effects of my face. Marking me a spokesperson for questions and judgment.
The sound of brass connecting to the bridge of your nose sounds similar to a car wreck. The pain is probably worse. I had no idea that in-between your eyes were so sensitive. This painful connection paralyzed me on the spot, as I fell to the floor in slow motion, I remembered I landed on the front of his hi-tech left boot.

All I remembered at the time of the impact is what my appearance would look like in my future. I had Vaseline my eyebrows in perfect symmetry. The only thing I could do was be still, if I blinked my face would probably have exploded or so I thought.
With brass knuckles still on his right hand, he held my head, and I could see his shiny pupils dilated from his masterpiece. I looked up at him and just turned the corner of my lips up with a smile.
You see visible scarring is easy, the emotional attachment to the pain is the hard part. I asked myself for years if I had died what would the world be without me in it. There would be no historical data of my weirdness, my boldness, my fearlessness. Here is when I realized that I was a victim. I have three beautiful daughters; the pain didn’t numb me into nonexistence. It taught me right away about trust.

It told me that no matter the pain, God is a healer. Every time I wash my face, I am reminded of the slow motion and strategic movement the doctor orchestrated to stitch my face up. I remembered the darkness I experienced, that forced me to tap into a passion I always knew was there. It taught me that beauty is not outer but inner.
I won’t lie, that lesson was not learned overnight, there was a lot of confusion at such a young age. So when I hear someone say why aren’t you smiling, I am speaking with my eyes that smiling is not an indication of my appreciation of life.

Breathing is my validation that I could have been dead twenty-four years ago, but God spared me. The stories that hide behind my dark eyes have been so private for so many years, keeping quiet keeps you at a victim state, letting go, makes you victorious!

Fearless Passion






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