There comes a time in one's life, better yet I've come to a point in my life where I could no longer ignore the evident. For too long I had dreams, for too long I thought I could do what I put my mind to, for too long I felt like I "lived" all the while I ignored what laid so actively within me. Do not misunderstand, I still dream, I know I can do that which I put my mind to, but today I made a conscious choice to finally listen to what was happening inside of me and then, do something about it.

The unconscious can be a scary place; there are thing you know, but don't know that you know that can impact not who you've become, rather who you've become comfortable being. It is a human quality to be perturbed by the "unknown", by mystery, by change, though it is the length of perturbation that varies per individual. Either way I don't want to digress into irrelevant tangents; the point to this entry is simply to bring to the forefront, even the mere idea of self exploration. Do not stop at the point that makes you feel bright, go to places unbeknown to you, to dark places and once there open up a window and sit for a while. You'll be surprised at your purest form and the metamorphosis that will transpire. Then don't just live, actually live.

So there are these lessons I am learning along the way and one in particular that has had me thinking for some time is language and the usage thereof. I've always been interested in the words we choose and the meanings attributed to each particular concept as it relates to what we intend to convey; each person adds a hint of who they are and what they've experienced to their word choices. As a Mental Health professional I was always inclined to ask clients to tell me more about what they mean so that I may be able to understand them a bit more fully. You see when we pick words, whether they "form on their own" or "we look for them" it does not mean that they express or imply the same thing that others might despite words' universal conceptualization. "How is that possible?" one may ask, but it's fairly simple. Each individual speaks a different language.

It is difficult to fathom the thought of someone speaking English and one not being able to understand them, but nonetheless it occurs daily in our lives. Lacan, a theorist that focuses on language and signifiers that open ways to the unsayable teaches therapists to help their clients find the universal definition of words that will enable others to understand us better, that would enable the client to understand him/herself better in particular to see light in the cyclical pattern of trauma. (of course this is a super vague explanation of this theory and although it's not more complicated it is very multifaceted).


I have come to a place in my life where I now see that I need to study my own language; I need to find the words that can describe what was of me and what I've become in order to allow others to understand me, so that I can finally whisper and be heard (by them, but more importantly by me).

All my life I wanted to do something to help people. Come to think about it, I desired to reach out into the undesirables and pull them up into greatness. As time progressed I found myself growing hungry and nothing seemed to quench my stomach's quails. My drive was so intense that I embarked in an expedition to study crime, but only to learn a system founded on rehabilitative principles that practiced inhibition, invalidation, stunting growth, "restitution", and the disappearance of individuality. It makes perfect sense, here is why: as I learned, I knew where the gaps needed filling, where my work would render the most efficiency, where the difference had potential to evolve from. I interned at FMHA as an undergraduate, which catapulted me into an Applied Psychology program at NYU's Steinhardt; I loved it. I now want to help in the tx of persons who've committed sexual offenses. I am unsure if the fact that my (then) new found passion laying within this population is what led me to feel this way about "Lolita" by Nabokov, but I must make clear that I do not condone, nor do I think that such behavior is acceptable in any regard.

Still I found myself submerged into the conscious world of the protagonist or was it the antagonist?-- let's just say the narrator--all the while I aimed at discovering what laid in the subconscious to no avail as I wrapped myself in what was happening, what wasn't happening, and what was left to happen. I found myself cheering for the narrator as I conveniently, I presume, forgot that his heart's beat was creating the music of love for a Dolores Haze, Lola to some, but Lolita to him...a mere child of about 11years of age (upon their first encounter).

Page after page the reader is revealed secret after secret,  is introduced to a new way of loving; however detrimental it had been to the child, one seems to find the "facts" irrelevant. Here is where I want to proceed to make a grand point. Although Nabokov has excelled in capturing the psyche of a fictional character, capturing the attention of its audience, of writing in superb eloquence, as his novel was reflective of expressive and articulate idiom, he stands to show that as a people, I being a prime example, we are desensitized to an extreme where such things as the plot and narration of the novel seems to be entertaining, rather than disturbing.

It is not just in this particular media, rather it is in all forms of media in combination with high frequency exposure that we become accustomed to seeing, hearing, letting be (even if not accepting), and tolerating that which should not. This blog was not written from a mental health counselor role, but it was indeed written after some reflection and hopefully with some intellect.

…And I wish I were a bird, so that I may ever so lightly sit upon a tree branch and intake that which surrounds me. Perched, submerged in tranquility I desire to gage outwards and admire the beauty that has been laid upon me. As I turn to my right I’d be able to cock my head back and expand my lungs as I inhale the positivity that has flourished at close proximity. As I slowly exhale I am overcomed* by an immense urge to spread my wings and stretch my extremities and so, I do. Smiling is not just something that happens on the external part of ones physique, rather it is something that radiates from within and I indulge on internal smiles as they warm my core. Over to my left I am consumed by the magnificence of the foundation that sustains my being afloat; how it is inhabited by various organisms and how strong it is to be able to give life and live simultaneously.
I wish I were a bird, not convinced what type, which species in particular, but wish I were one just so that I may be able to…experience the uninhibited…

It is not that my eyes fool me. Not that I think there is, I SEE there is...All around me there is no laughter, there is no glitter, no twinkles in eyes, music in souls...

On the BX15, the crosstown bus that rides into the Bronx from my dear Harlem, I see a grim "once was". Buildings that should be demolished are still inhabited, streets that should be functional are caving in, people that should be rising have stood down.

Poverty is such a multifaceted concept; it is such an engulfing abstraction. It manifests in rippling effects and it consumes its (intended) target and then crushes it under its wrath. Hopelessness, despair, unhappiness, anxiety, disappointment, stress, weakness, destruction...seem to all follow you as if life were a magnetic field and you their adhesive counterpart. Endless becomes one's struggles and after enough time has passed, you come to lose sight of your predicament and you conform to its tragedy; you stop looking for doors, let alone windows, trapped doors and alternative escape routes; you sink as speedy as quick sand can suck you in and suck life out.

I sit and ride and try not to look, but if I pretend that it doesn't exist I too am like the rest: delusional (living in that which does not exist). So I force myself to look, I force myself to observe and not pray (I don't believe in an all powerful/ultimate being), but I FEEL. I feel for the people, for their children, for the community, for the amalgamation that's been constructed and dictated upon humanity, this humanity, that lives so deathly. I see the rear-ends of drugs peeking its head up at me, the dissonance between dreams & potential and reality, the surrendering being, the distressed, disheartened, and dispirited and I FEEL.

It is not a matter of observing and thinking and releasing the thought into thin air. We are not passive beings and we are not singular entities, we flourish amongst our flock; taking this into consideration, it is this that allows us all to fly, to be liberated. It is our ability to observe, think, and react (be active entities) that can generate change. You are one person and one alone, but it doesn't mean that you aren't a leader...lead.