Movember, Movember, The 1st of November

The night of the 31st of October and for the first time in awhile, sleeps evades me. In the dark, all the shapes, patterns and colours dance around in my view to the ringing silence of the room. In this state, I started to wonder: what are the odds of me being alive? Becoming and being the person I currently am? This started to run a little deeper. What adversity did my great-great-great grandparent have to endure for me to be here, breathing and living today? I could have been born anybody in the world. Born in any country on this planet. Why was I born black, bisexual with bipolar? These intersecting attributes doesn't seem to add any value in this world. In fact, I'm told it doesn't. I'm told it's weak, flawed and worthless. I could have been born white, male and straight. That privilege seems to get you anything you want. At will. Without question or explanation. Then it got real dark. Is my purpose on this planet, like every other black life, to be killed by white people? Am I here to be another statistic dead on the floor of a police cell, wrongly convicted of crime I didn't commit? Am I the example of what uncivilised looks like? Do I need to be taught by those who are civilised? What really is purpose?

I thought about my job, my career, my professional colleagues and the journey I am on. I question if this is my purpose because: if wasn't doing this, what would I be doing? I thought about my family and friends. The ones that are there for me, even when they don't have the strength. The conditions of their love are a few. Are they my purpose or am I theirs? This spirals into a chasm of despair. One where self-loathing and insecurity started to dance with the colours and shapes in my view. Suddenly they became murky and the silhouettes sharp and spiky.

I scratch my beard, feeling the coarse hair run underneath my finger tips. Gosh, I feel like I look a mess. I don't want to face that in mirror in the morning. I decide I'm going to shave. I'll shape it up and look more presentable. But who am I doing this for? Every time I shave my face, I feel different for all of 5 minutes before I starting hating myself. Urgh, why can't I just look like: Jeffery Dean Morgan? I wouldn't have to face this hideous reflection every morning! "This can't continue" I tell myself. I rack my brain, frowning and scrunching my forehead so hard, I give myself a headache. In the space of three hours, I tired to unravel 20 years of self-hate, media beauty ideals and stereotypes. I told myself: I love you. I didn't believe it though. That's a polygraph test I would fail, epically. It would be used as an example of what lying actually looks like.

Before I knew it, it was 1st of November 06:45am. My alarm rang reminding me of the sleep I didn't get. After a few minutes of staring at my phone, it was now 8am. Up I jumped and went to the Londis, buying shaving gel and disposable razors. In the mirror, wearing my Mariah Carey t-shirt. I applied the shaving gel carelessly to face. My initial thought was: try and time travel back to pre-puberty. Maybe you can rebuild your schemas by looking at a baby face. Then it hit me: It's November! Men's mental health awareness month. I thought about being black, bisexual with bipolar and all the trauma those things caused me. I was shunned from every community. The general population place a stigma on mental health and its even worse for men. Within the black community, poor mental health doesn't exist; I just should be happy and never show the cracks in my home. I am vehemently rejected for being bisexual; it's against my Christian and homophobic upbringing. For heaven's sake, even within the LGBTQ+ community, bi-erasure is real. It's an integral letter in the acronym from a community fighting for acceptance. Yet. Shooing one of their own because bisexuality is: greedy. A halfway house to being gay. A toe outside of the closet. Straight women and gay men sharing the same insecurity of: competing with the opposite sex. Just in case I change my mind. I didn't fit anywhere. I thought about the times I had no-one to talk to. Every suicidal thought, and every time I felt pathetic because I couldn't even bring myself to end my life. I thought about the times I cried loudly internally, but silence emitted to the outside world. I remember feeling angry, frustrated, alone and depressed underneath a well-dressed, charming and charismatic mask.

I would take my tribulations and build awareness. Especially for Paul. A dear friend of mine who killed himself last year November. I remember a friend of mine, Will. He grew a tash for Movember. I decided I'll grow a beard from scratch and document my journey with a picture everyday to show my progress. I hate pictures of myself. At every opportunity, I'll run from the camera. But. A favourite mantra of mine: 28 days to build a habit. By day 28, I should make some progress with at least tolerating my appearance, whilst support a cause dear to my heart.

It's day 15. I've raised almost £450 from a target goal of: £200. The love, the support and the generosity is overwhelming. People really care, they want to support change and awareness! I've heard from people I haven't seen in a long while. Sending me the warm messages of encouragement and their adoration of my journey. I vowed if I got to day 30, picture 30, I would give a final donation of £100.

It's day 15. I still can't face the negativity in the mirror, and it's not getting easier, picture by picture. I want to quit I hate my appearance so much.

Let's say, the journey of self-love is still loading.