Imade is empty. Please remember that. She is spiraling, and her skin does not feel like her own. The matter in her head is pilling, so the past is coming before the present, twisting, turning, rolling over. She is remembering. Remembrance is a ritual, a last–ditch effort to fill her back up. 

It was last week. Or maybe the week before. Or perhaps, even the week before that. You get the point. It is not today, not right now. Merely a time in the near periphery. Near enough, but far enough to be distant. 

Whatever it was, whenever, it was the first time she realized with all certainty that she did not have a home in anyone but herself. She could feel it so physically—her rage. Her teeth were chattering, and the synapses of her brain firing. She is back there again, in the musty old lounge chair. Her hands are gesturing wildly, and she feels that ache in the area under her breasts. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“You’re too sensitive. It was just a joke—”
“Fuck that, please. I don’t like it. I don’t think it is a funny joke, and you should never make it again.”

That should be the end of it, but then Imade hears her speak. “You’re dragging it out. Drop it. What's this stupid beef that you guys have?”

Snapping back to the present, Imade shakes her head. Once, then again. She can remember the shuddering,  and how she felt that it was unfair that her realization had chosen that time to taint her taste buds. That moment? Well, that was when she realized that there was isolation in her anger. No one else was in it with her. She did not make sense to anyone. She was ‘irrational’ and ‘difficult’/ ‘weird.’ It would make no sense to anyone else, this rage. 

She would rather make sense to everyone than live alone in this anger. So Imade shuddered, and she pretended. Oh, all was okay. All was fine. We were fine; the system was whole. We were smiling today, hiding, masking, pretending. 

Until we unravel, that is. 

We are fine. Imade is fine. 

Suddenly, Imade is in Mrs. Eze’s classroom, learning what Adornation is. The word is beautiful, but something is wrong with the cadence of Mrs. Eze’s voice. It sounds a lot like ‘adoration.’ Imade knows what adoration means, and when the woman asks who knows what the word means, her hand shoots up to ask, to be sure. “Ma, could you pronounce it?”

The woman’s voice calls out ‘adoration.’ And now, Imade is sure. 

“Adoration means respect, worship.” one more thing, “and it doesn’t have an ‘N’ in the spelling.”

There, she had said it. Imade is what? Six? But she knows. It is wrong, and she has a brain sparking just then, needing the satisfaction of the wiped, misplaced alphabet or a lesson. Correction. 

“That’s good! But the word is spelled correctly. It is adornation. Does anyone else want to try?”

Imade inhales sharply, wondering why the dictionary she had read the night before — the A section in particular — had lied to her. She had gotten to the ADUs, for adultery. 

To make a fuss or be quiet? Compliant or curious? Why were they mutually exclusive?

Imade waits. After the class, she glides out of her chair to meet the teacher to ask why the word is not in the dictionary and if it is sisters with the word ‘Adornment.’ She remembers adornment. 

She can taste shame from how the woman says she is an ‘I—Too—Know.’  The pronunciation and the inflection of her voice carry condescension. In it, Imade can hear that curiosity is bad. 

It will take years for her to unlearn the shame of curiosity, of sharing and gathering knowledge. 

But then again, Imade has never forgotten anything, has she?

Ibukunoluwanifunilalalaifilaalasi. What age was she? Imade thinks it was 19 years old. Or 17. She was stuck at 17 for a long time. More likely, it was 13 years old, though. Imade has found a way to do it. She has just learned how to express dislike. ‘‘I don’t like this,’’ she says, but do you know, nobody likes a complainer.

A fight will happen. Well, not really. Imade just expresses a dislike. Passionately, for once. This dislike matters. This dislike hurts. It isn’t really an argument. That would require speech from both sides. 

Ibukun merely nods her understanding.

Imade is there again an hour later. Imade says hello in the painfully blue hallways, and she—who—shall—not—be—named keeps walking, a new half beside her, a new pair formed. 

Imade realizes in a flash, with a cruel suddenness,  that she is replaceable if she is not exactly what is needed. The new person has her physique, a tinkering laugh just like hers. A cookie—cutter replacement best friend. She learns two things. One, she is replaceable. Second, there is a lot of pain in community. 

Okay, that is dishonest. 

She learns that she has no community, and might not ever have one. She is a straggler, and comfort is a foreign thing. A new thing. A confusing thing. She doesn't like new things in any capacity. 

Unlearning is easier for her than learning. She unlearns the expression of dislike. 

She will never forget how it felt to her, in that moment.

A migraine hits just then, and she is snapped back to the present. Her entire frame zings, and Imade moves from the floor she is scattered on, pulling her legs to her chest for comfort before punching the air with each arm. The satisfying crack! of her bones propels her to get up. The mild pain faintly reminds her of where she is before fading out. 

She needs to cook. She does not like food, but she has to cook. Starving to death by accident would devastate her mother. 

Mother. Mummy. 

She adores mummy with everything she has. 

Her eyes conk out for a second. She cannot see. The pain in her head is in her eyes. She can feel her heartbeat in the sockets of her eyes, and she knows it is not normal. But she also knows that it is constantly happening these days. 

She simply crouches to the floor and shuts her eyes, more for familiarity than anything. She is temporarily blind, so who cares if they are left open?

She wishes to beg God. It is hard. Everything is. Every breath, the loneliness and isolation she has taken on — a perfect shield from being misunderstood — the world is noisy, so her eyes water, and she cannot seem to say things in a way that makes sense to anyone but her. Imagine being articulate at advocacy yet losing vocabulary the instant it is for yourself.  

Pathetic. 

She remembers that she was 4 years old with more spirit. 

She snaps back to 4 years old, at work with her father because her mother was busy.

“Don’t touch,” she had said, slapping a hand away. She had been curious then, too. She had tracked the man's movement across the factory. Asked her father what room he went into. He came out without wet hands; dirty, dirty, dirty. It was a toilet. And now he wanted to lift her. “Don’t touch!” she had said, and promptly slapped his hand away so hard, her father had to remove her.

Something touches her skin, and she looks up. There is nothing but blackness. Perhaps her brain catches up before the rest of her. If it was rain, she would be outside, and all of her body would feel it. She loves the smell of petrichor, and she would simply know. 

She is crying. Her father, Baba Imade. He used to carry her. He used to be soothing. He was safe. She missed the foolishness of 4 years old. Being carried.

 Imade. What is wrong with you? How did you manage to lose his love? Where did it go? 

She has her father, but she misses daddy. 

She was gifted. Not anymore though. She used to be great. She was wonderful, one upon a time. Before. Not too long ago, before 20. Her eyes shoot open, and she makes her way to the kitchen. She keeps Ibuprofen in there, along with the leftovers she plans on heating for breakfast. 

The diagnosis unraveled her. One more for her christmas basket. Bipolar, ADHD, Autistic. Pretending was doing her harm, according to what they said.  She had never returned, for fear of that pity in their eyes, but she had listened. Learned that pretending was called masking, and the fix? Unmasking. 

She had tried. Had unmasking done her any good? No, not really. At least before, people pretended to love her. Imade missed pretenses. If only someone could pretend to hold her again. She would simply melt.

She is in pain. Mentally? Physically? Which kind? Both. They are now the same. She can pretend to have what it takes to distinguish them, but she was never any good at telling. Maybe that is why, and it isnt the ‘tism. Imade has never been good at analyzing for long periods of time, unlike literally everyone else. Things were what they were. Things are what they are. Or are they? Everything seems to have multiple meanings now, many different states of truth. There are seven truths, sometimes even more, and  she can never seem to pick the right one. Her head hurts. A lot. She never did get up to eat.

 It is painful, this being. Alive—ing feels  a lot like dying, sometimes. 

Dying. 

Imade does not scar well, but she can still see one of the three vertical lines she drew on her wrist. She was not trying to die, or at least, that is what she tells everyone. But when you are trying to excise a rot and its home is in your veins, on your wrists, strategically vertical and not horizontal, then maybe, maybe you are trying to die. 

It will take another decade to pry the truth out of her. But we deviate. 

Imade thinks living is a lot like dying because she doesn't want to do either. They both require work that is physically painful for her to deliver. If she fails at any, she will lose another bit of her pride. 

Too much trying. 

Once, Imade was 14, and she was 6, she will be 22, but she hopes she is not 43. It is her brain, the errant little thing. It is too chaotic. It is too different, too lazy, too indifferent, too affected. It likes to mock her, to disobey. It will not let her live, or die, or breathe. It will not allow her inhale, it will not shut up. It is telling her everything that can go wrong and it is telling her loudly.

She treats it like a remote control with a faulty battery, slapping the base of her palm against it, over and over and over again. It will not work, it will not forget, it will not remember, and she is well and truly tired.

When will she be better? Will she be better? Does it get better than this, ever?

The lights are back on. By which we mean that Imade can see again, by which we mean the migraines are receding, planning their next attack. Imade knows this, so she gets up, like there is a fire under her. Food. She is methodical about sustenance, none of that ‘love is one of the main ingredients’ schtick. And she stands for the two minutes it takes the noodles to cook. She swallows the gel coated painkillers and makes her way back into the room, where the unfurling had begun. 

Imade sees her journal, the bright blue gift from a man she no longer speaks to, a man she barely knew in the first place. She will cross her legs under her frame and begin to pour. Just see.

So she writes, the noodles forgotten by the third forkful. 

It is not even noon yet. But she says:

Dear Journal,

Today was a hard day. I want to remove my brain. It doesn't work. I wish you were a person, so I could say this to you in person. I want to remove my brain and give it a nice, long wash. Sometimes I wonder if that is why I cut off my hair. 

I had an argument with them again. I did what I always do. I tried to be patient. I allowed my body language speak for me, but they don't like that. They never do. I exploded. I just couldn't anymore. Now they are avoiding me, and I'm afraid to reach out. I'm sorry. I know I said I would try this time. But I can't stand it. I don't like how they make me feel, and I'm not sure I like them, but I am desperate for company. Desperate to not be lonely, desperate to feel heard and loved and understood. 

I want to be somebody's best friend. I saw someone's tweets about their best friend, and I can feel myself getting even more jealous. I want a best friend. I want to be the first person that is called for good news and bad news and I want someone to choose me in a room full of people.

I'm so lonely oh my god. I— 

Imade was revealing too much. She is resting now.

Imade is empty. Please remember that. She is spiraling, and her skin does not feel like her own. The matter in her head is pilling, so the past is coming before the present, twisting, turning, rolling over. She is remembering. Remembrance is a ritual, a last–ditch effort to fill her back up. 

It was last week. Or maybe the week before. Or perhaps, even the week before that. You get the point. It is not today, not right now. Merely a time in the near periphery. Near enough, but far enough to be distant. 

Whatever it was, whenever, it was the first time she realized with all certainty that she did not have a home in anyone but herself. She could feel it so physically—her rage. Her teeth were chattering, and the synapses of her brain firing. She is back there again, in the musty old lounge chair. Her hands are gesturing wildly, and she feels that ache in the area under her breasts. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“You’re too sensitive. It was just a joke—”
“Fuck that, please. I don’t like it. I don’t think it is a funny joke, and you should never make it again.”

That should be the end of it, but then Imade hears her speak. “You’re dragging it out. Drop it. What's this stupid beef that you guys have?”

Snapping back to the present, Imade shakes her head. Once, then again. She can remember the shuddering,  and how she felt that it was unfair that her realization had chosen that time to taint her taste buds. That moment? Well, that was when she realized that there was isolation in her anger. No one else was in it with her. She did not make sense to anyone. She was ‘irrational’ and ‘difficult’/ ‘weird.’ It would make no sense to anyone else, this rage. 

She would rather make sense to everyone than live alone in this anger. So Imade shuddered, and she pretended. Oh, all was okay. All was fine. We were fine; the system was whole. We were smiling today, hiding, masking, pretending. 

Until we unravel, that is. 

We are fine. Imade is fine. 

Suddenly, Imade is in Mrs. Eze’s classroom, learning what Adornation is. The word is beautiful, but something is wrong with the cadence of Mrs. Eze’s voice. It sounds a lot like ‘adoration.’ Imade knows what adoration means, and when the woman asks who knows what the word means, her hand shoots up to ask, to be sure. “Ma, could you pronounce it?”

The woman’s voice calls out ‘adoration.’ And now, Imade is sure. 

“Adoration means respect, worship.” one more thing, “and it doesn’t have an ‘N’ in the spelling.”

There, she had said it. Imade is what? Six? But she knows. It is wrong, and she has a brain sparking just then, needing the satisfaction of the wiped, misplaced alphabet or a lesson. Correction. 

“That’s good! But the word is spelled correctly. It is adornation. Does anyone else want to try?”

Imade inhales sharply, wondering why the dictionary she had read the night before — the A section in particular — had lied to her. She had gotten to the ADUs, for adultery. 

To make a fuss or be quiet? Compliant or curious? Why were they mutually exclusive?

Imade waits. After the class, she glides out of her chair to meet the teacher to ask why the word is not in the dictionary and if it is sisters with the word ‘Adornment.’ She remembers adornment. 

She can taste shame from how the woman says she is an ‘I—Too—Know.’  The pronunciation and the inflection of her voice carry condescension. In it, Imade can hear that curiosity is bad. 

It will take years for her to unlearn the shame of curiosity, of sharing and gathering knowledge. 

But then again, Imade has never forgotten anything, has she?

Ibukunoluwanifunilalalaifilaalasi. What age was she? Imade thinks it was 19 years old. Or 17. She was stuck at 17 for a long time. More likely, it was 13 years old, though. Imade has found a way to do it. She has just learned how to express dislike. ‘‘I don’t like this,’’ she says, but do you know, nobody likes a complainer.

A fight will happen. Well, not really. Imade just expresses a dislike. Passionately, for once. This dislike matters. This dislike hurts. It isn’t really an argument. That would require speech from both sides. 

Ibukun merely nods her understanding.

Imade is there again an hour later. Imade says hello in the painfully blue hallways, and she—who—shall—not—be—named keeps walking, a new half beside her, a new pair formed. 

Imade realizes in a flash, with a cruel suddenness,  that she is replaceable if she is not exactly what is needed. The new person has her physique, a tinkering laugh just like hers. A cookie—cutter replacement best friend. She learns two things. One, she is replaceable. Second, there is a lot of pain in community. 

Okay, that is dishonest. 

She learns that she has no community, and might not ever have one. She is a straggler, and comfort is a foreign thing. A new thing. A confusing thing. She doesn't like new things in any capacity. 

Unlearning is easier for her than learning. She unlearns the expression of dislike. 

She will never forget how it felt to her, in that moment.

A migraine hits just then, and she is snapped back to the present. Her entire frame zings, and Imade moves from the floor she is scattered on, pulling her legs to her chest for comfort before punching the air with each arm. The satisfying crack! of her bones propels her to get up. The mild pain faintly reminds her of where she is before fading out. 

She needs to cook. She does not like food, but she has to cook. Starving to death by accident would devastate her mother. 

Mother. Mummy. 

She adores mummy with everything she has. 

Her eyes conk out for a second. She cannot see. The pain in her head is in her eyes. She can feel her heartbeat in the sockets of her eyes, and she knows it is not normal. But she also knows that it is constantly happening these days. 

She simply crouches to the floor and shuts her eyes, more for familiarity than anything. She is temporarily blind, so who cares if they are left open?

She wishes to beg God. It is hard. Everything is. Every breath, the loneliness and isolation she has taken on — a perfect shield from being misunderstood — the world is noisy, so her eyes water, and she cannot seem to say things in a way that makes sense to anyone but her. Imagine being articulate at advocacy yet losing vocabulary the instant it is for yourself.  

Pathetic. 

She remembers that she was 4 years old with more spirit. 

She snaps back to 4 years old, at work with her father because her mother was busy.

“Don’t touch,” she had said, slapping a hand away. She had been curious then, too. She had tracked the man's movement across the factory. Asked her father what room he went into. He came out without wet hands; dirty, dirty, dirty. It was a toilet. And now he wanted to lift her. “Don’t touch!” she had said, and promptly slapped his hand away so hard, her father had to remove her.

Something touches her skin, and she looks up. There is nothing but blackness. Perhaps her brain catches up before the rest of her. If it was rain, she would be outside, and all of her body would feel it. She loves the smell of petrichor, and she would simply know. 

She is crying. Her father, Baba Imade. He used to carry her. He used to be soothing. He was safe. She missed the foolishness of 4 years old. Being carried.

 Imade. What is wrong with you? How did you manage to lose his love? Where did it go? 

She has her father, but she misses daddy. 

She was gifted. Not anymore though. She used to be great. She was wonderful, one upon a time. Before. Not too long ago, before 20. Her eyes shoot open, and she makes her way to the kitchen. She keeps Ibuprofen in there, along with the leftovers she plans on heating for breakfast. 

The diagnosis unraveled her. One more for her christmas basket. Bipolar, ADHD, Autistic. Pretending was doing her harm, according to what they said.  She had never returned, for fear of that pity in their eyes, but she had listened. Learned that pretending was called masking, and the fix? Unmasking. 

She had tried. Had unmasking done her any good? No, not really. At least before, people pretended to love her. Imade missed pretenses. If only someone could pretend to hold her again. She would simply melt.

She is in pain. Mentally? Physically? Which kind? Both. They are now the same. She can pretend to have what it takes to distinguish them, but she was never any good at telling. Maybe that is why, and it isnt the ‘tism. Imade has never been good at analyzing for long periods of time, unlike literally everyone else. Things were what they were. Things are what they are. Or are they? Everything seems to have multiple meanings now, many different states of truth. There are seven truths, sometimes even more, and  she can never seem to pick the right one. Her head hurts. A lot. She never did get up to eat.

 It is painful, this being. Alive—ing feels  a lot like dying, sometimes. 

Dying. 

Imade does not scar well, but she can still see one of the three vertical lines she drew on her wrist. She was not trying to die, or at least, that is what she tells everyone. But when you are trying to excise a rot and its home is in your veins, on your wrists, strategically vertical and not horizontal, then maybe, maybe you are trying to die. 

It will take another decade to pry the truth out of her. But we deviate. 

Imade thinks living is a lot like dying because she doesn't want to do either. They both require work that is physically painful for her to deliver. If she fails at any, she will lose another bit of her pride. 

Too much trying. 

Once, Imade was 14, and she was 6, she will be 22, but she hopes she is not 43. It is her brain, the errant little thing. It is too chaotic. It is too different, too lazy, too indifferent, too affected. It likes to mock her, to disobey. It will not let her live, or die, or breathe. It will not allow her inhale, it will not shut up. It is telling her everything that can go wrong and it is telling her loudly.

She treats it like a remote control with a faulty battery, slapping the base of her palm against it, over and over and over again. It will not work, it will not forget, it will not remember, and she is well and truly tired.

When will she be better? Will she be better? Does it get better than this, ever?

The lights are back on. By which we mean that Imade can see again, by which we mean the migraines are receding, planning their next attack. Imade knows this, so she gets up, like there is a fire under her. Food. She is methodical about sustenance, none of that ‘love is one of the main ingredients’ schtick. And she stands for the two minutes it takes the noodles to cook. She swallows the gel coated painkillers and makes her way back into the room, where the unfurling had begun. 

Imade sees her journal, the bright blue gift from a man she no longer speaks to, a man she barely knew in the first place. She will cross her legs under her frame and begin to pour. Just see.

So she writes, the noodles forgotten by the third forkful. 

It is not even noon yet. But she says:

Dear Journal,

Today was a hard day. I want to remove my brain. It doesn't work. I wish you were a person, so I could say this to you in person. I want to remove my brain and give it a nice, long wash. Sometimes I wonder if that is why I cut off my hair. 

I had an argument with them again. I did what I always do. I tried to be patient. I allowed my body language speak for me, but they don't like that. They never do. I exploded. I just couldn't anymore. Now they are avoiding me, and I'm afraid to reach out. I'm sorry. I know I said I would try this time. But I can't stand it. I don't like how they make me feel, and I'm not sure I like them, but I am desperate for company. Desperate to not be lonely, desperate to feel heard and loved and understood. 

I want to be somebody's best friend. I saw someone's tweets about their best friend, and I can feel myself getting even more jealous. I want a best friend. I want to be the first person that is called for good news and bad news and I want someone to choose me in a room full of people.

I'm so lonely oh my god. I— 

Imade was revealing too much. She is resting now.