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rigid sense of justice + aquarian sensibilities =

dear reader,

as i approach 27 years of age, i’m mentally transported to my 13 year old self. the self that was a little unwell. the self that wasn’t sleeping or eating much of anything. i was 13 years old and i didn’t think i’d live to see 27. i don’t say these things and expect pity, i say these things because they were my truth.

i received my depression and anxiety diagnoses the summer before my first year of high school, but i’d been depressed since early childhood. i had my first existential crisis when i was 6ish. i remember asking my mother if i was really her child or a product of an alien invasion. i won’t share her response, but it wasn’t reassuring, so i spent the next year questioning my humanity and trying to communicate with extraterrestrials. it didn’t work.

i fell ill with another case of existential dread after reading albert camus’ The Stranger when i was 15ish. how do i find meaning in a world that is so absurd, so meaningless, so painfully insignificant in the endless cosmos? how do i make sense of a world that makes no sense? i have always been a little dissatisfied with the human condition and yet, here i am, attempting humanity everyday. even with a brain full of depression and mush.

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dear reader,

like a lot of depressed people, i am also an artist. and like a lot of artists, i am depressed. as i continue to work with my brain (instead of against it), i’ve begun to recognize the ways in which depression has influenced my art and approach to art. however, to move forward, i must also go backwards.

i was born as the Eldest Female Child in a Christian, Nigerian Household. all of these identities are pretty tame, separately, but growing up within all of these contexts at the same time was heavy, for a child. an Already Depressed Child, mind you. if you don’t know, nigerians tend to have a fierce belief in the future. it can be a little All or Nothing, at times, but the spirit is always admirable. this spirit usually boils down to this: if you aren’t Achieving, you’re Failing*.

*and failure isn’t an option.

at the peak of my Artistic Busyness, it was often commented that i was “good at everything”. well, dear reader, i didn’t have a choice.

i have come to realize that my approach to art, and in a grander sense, my approach to creativity, has been by driven by external validation. Achievement. yes, i do have capricorn placements…

getting the best equipment. getting the solo. getting the first part. getting into the top ensemble. getting into music school. getting a music therapy job. getting likes on social media. getting validation from famous people. getting validation from the ancestors that my pursuit of art isn’t frivolous. getting, getting, getting.

but also, i realize i was driven by a need to be Understood. creating something my audience deemed Valuable. being Valuable. admittedly, this isn’t great for a person whose brain chemistry is never satisfied, but i know i’m not alone in this chase. i was like pac-man, consuming Achievements mindlessly, without stopping to think if i was happy being Achieved.

so now here i am at the tender age of almost 27, with almost no connection to the artist i once was. i don’t have a piano or a keyboard, nor do i have the beautiful taylor guitar i bought with all of my high school graduation money. i don’t have any of my drumsticks or mallets, technique books, no more shakers and drums. gone are my trophies, ribbons, and certificates. no more gold stars.

the thing that was once my soul, my blood, is nothing but a memory.

in Samia’s song, Fair Game, she sings, you can go outside on a hot night and clap, but you won’t get your blood back”

so if i can’t get my blood back, how do i move forward?

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dear reader,

i am a Geese enjoyer and i’m fighting the urge to explain myself. when it was announced that the newest album was titled, “Getting Killed”, i was curious to hear how that phrase (a pretty edgy and succinct one, mind you) would manifest in the album.

in case you didn’t know, the full lyric is this: I’m getting killed by a pretty good life. it takes cameron winter about 8 bars to sing that one sentence, lol. as a depressed person, i don’t think i’ve stopped thinking abt that. getting killed by a pretty good life. what does that look like? what does that even mean?

i live in america. while things On A Larger Scale are very bad right now, in other ways, Things Are Not As Bad As They Could Be. the other week, the power went out. it was only for a few hours, but it was definitely an inconvenience. First World Problems, I Know. but i talked with a family member abt it and they said, “imagine being in a war-ridden country where you don’t have any power for weeks and here we are, complaining abt not having power for a few hours.” yeah.

listen, i’m not going to sit here and say that Being Alive in America is amazing and beautiful. but there are so many privileges i have today that i cannot ignore. i have a home with heat. i have a job and a support system. i have autonomy over my body. i have access to healthcare. i have this platform where i can safely express my perspective. all things considered, i have a pretty good life.

at the same time, look at the news. look at what’s happening across communities across the country. look at who gets to be in power and who becomes disenfranchised. look at how broken the systems are, both On A Larger Scale and within our own seemingly insignificant microcosms. as my justice sensitive brain tries to grapple with the world today, i feel like i’m living with survivor’s guilt. why do i get to live a “pretty good life” and others die and are killed every single day? how is this fair? (and since i know it isn’t, how do i make peace with this?)

going back to geese’s “Getting Killed”, cameron also screams says, “I can’t even hear myself talk, I’m trying to talk over everybody in the world”

yes. look, everyone is trying to be heard. there are so many other issues and voices that need to be heard right now so what makes my voice so special, In the Grand Scheme Of Things? what right do i have to try to cut through the noise? that’s the survivor’s guilt speaking, btw.

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dear reader,

i was first introduced to the idea of Tragic Optimism, simply by being raised in a culture of Fierce Believers In the Future. i was taught that no matter how little you have, no matter what tragedy you’ve endured, you must live (and live well).

i learned the terminology later in life, Tragic Optimism and also saw it called Critical Optimism. Dasia Sade (@dasiadoesit on IG) describes it well within the ideas of “embracing life’s inherent contradictions” and “the idea that nothing matters gets you nowhere”. heavy on the latter.

i’d add that the ever persistent It’s Not That Deep population can be included in this. if what’s going on right now is Not That Deep, or the things that are systemically and historically oppressive are Not That Deep, if that’s going on in your state, your city, your social circles are Not That Deep, then i beg you to tell me: what is?

as i mentioned earlier, i have a justice sensitive brain. i know when people, systems, environments are being unfair. i’ve been on the receiving end of this unfairness more times than i can count. it’s an unfortunate sensitivity, considering the world we live in right now.

however, hearing abt Tragic Optimism, and hearing it phrased as such, made things click for my brain. it is a Tragedy that the world is this way, but let’s use this life to the best of its ability. let us find meaning in the struggle, in the process toward collective peace. even if we cannot do it On A Larger Scale, we have our own now kind of significant microcosms to take care of. our communities, who we choose to break bread with, who we choose to argue and disagree with, who we choose to tolerate and love, who we grieve with, matters now more than ever. the war is already here.

The Slow Factory, an environmental and social nonprofit, developed a list of roles and callings for Collective Liberation (which can also be used to prepare for what’s abt to come tbh….) and i’m sharing it here:

if you know nothing abt me, know that i am a woman of action. and because the things that are happening are On A Larger Scale and completely outside of my control, i feel helpless. i feel useless. cue Depression Brain. but seeing these Roles has helped. i’m starting to think abt my part in the Grand Scheme of Things. i’m starting to think abt what my part Could Be. i hope you find yourself in these roles too and work to make them applicable in your everyday. we all have a calling. let’s listen to it.

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dear reader,

i’m smiling because samia’s song, Fair Game, the namesake for this essay, just came on shuffle. the question still stands: how does this relate to my art? how do i get my blood back?

i think it’s by honoring how much blood has been spilt. i am almost 27 years old and i survived a 20something year long abusive relationship with my mother. i am almost 27 years old and i am not a victim. i have a history of victory. so now what? now that i’ve survived, what can my approach to art look like? now that art isn’t a coping mechanism or a means to an end, who am i as an artist?

i’m trying to find more definitions for being an artist or approaching art. especially as a writer and spiritual practitioner. sometimes my art is editing, other days it’s sitting for hours and getting all the thoughts out. sometimes my art is a full day of tarot readings and other days it’s meditating on one card for an hour and analyzing its symbolism across my various decks. i’m not holding myself to deadlines anymore. in all of this, i’m also beginning to build a ritual alongside the practice. i shared this with my sister the other day and she said, “well, you (we) were raised in a Christian, Nigerian household. ritual is a part of who you (we) are.” yeah.

i’m reminded of the Jean de la Fontaine quote, “a person often meets their destiny on the road they took to avoid it.” i also found this quote attributed to the 8 of cups, in tarot. the 8 of cups is abt the painful, yet necessary decision to walk away from situations that may seem like what you wanted, but actually aren’t in line with your truth. the leaving sets you back on course to what you actually wanted in the first place, symbolized by the 9 of cups being next in the story.

i cannot avoid that i am a ritual artist. i have to write, i have to think, i have to sing, i have to meditate, i have to reflect. i have to share what i think and how i feel and what my heart cannot carry by itself and what pisses me off! i have to defend the community of people who look like me, talk like me, think like me. i have to support those who have a shared history alongside me. i have to do all of these things even though i will be Misunderstood, Invalidated, Disrespected. i have to do these things in order to heal my survivor’s guilt. i have to do these things in order to re-hardwire my depressed brain. i have to create meaning in the struggle. i have to find the Optimism in the rubble of Tragedy. if i must live and if i must die, it would be an honor and a blessing to die by a pretty good life.