June 2, 2023

This is the second time this happened to me. The last time was about four years ago.

I had just come from a lover’s house, a one night stand, someone who I remember his name, and his face, even the house he lived it, but you know, the sex was perfunctionary and base. He had pissed me the fuck off, and I walked from his house to mine, furious over some infraction. Show you how stupid it was, I don’t even remember what it was.

When I got home, I was hungry and had had a piece of fish remaining from my lunch. It was as cold as a dog’s nose, rubbery and stale-ish, but I bit it anyway.

Furious and annoyed, I don’t think I was paying attention to how I was eating, and I bit off a piece too big, and before I could properly chew it, it slipped down my throat. It’s when I felt the pain in my throat, tight and startling that I realised something was wrong. Then my head started to get light, and the next thing I remembered was the sound of my brother’s voice calling my name. It was like he was calling me from a million miles away, and it was like a thread I clung too, and I followed it all the way back to consciousness.

My brother was pretty freaked out, and as soon as I opened my eyes I asked him, “What happened?”

“I dunno,” he replied. “I heard a thud, and when I came in the room you were flipping around like a fish and frothing at the mouth.”

He said he tried all kinds of things to dislodge the fish. I’m assuming it did eventually slide down my throat and that’s how I could breathe again. I got up, stumbled to the shower and then threw myself into bed. It didn’t hit me what had happened to me until the next morning. I burst into tears as soon as I woke up the next day, and swore of fish or flesh of any kind.

My brother to this day thinks it was some kind of fit. I just think the fish cut off my oxygen and I blacked out.

I started eating meat last year, after a similar episode of blacking out. Except this time, it was because I wasn’t eating enough of anything, and certainly not getting any protein.

Since then I have been eating chicken and fish.

Last night, when I got home, disinclined to cook (told ya’ll already cooking for one person is depressing) I ordered some rotisserie chicken from Royal Castle.

The delivery guy took fifteen minutes longer than he said he would. While I was standing waiting, I saw the Young Mr K, dart across the street and go into his yard. Maybe he didn’t see me, since I was mostly standing in the shadows, and a large tree was between us, however I saw him.

I’m annoyed with the Young Mr K. This week, he’s relegated me to the back burner while he dealt with all these ‘other things.’

What it has meant, is that I haven’t seen him and when I do it’s only ever for a few minutes. I have been lonely, and I’ve missed him, but at the same time have been annoyed that I seem to mean so little to him.

When the delivery guy finally showed up, he gave me a package, when I got inside and opened the box, I realised it wasn’t what I ordered. I called back Royal Castle again, and informed them of their error. I had to wait again until the driver showed up to bring the right order.

Once inside, now starving, famished, I broke open my food and plucked a couple french fries from the box. That’s how it happened.

The fries slipped down my throat, the same as before. I could feel the pain blossoming in my throat, and I sat up, paying attention. It was too familiar. I swallowed some more Sprite, trying to force the fries down. The pain got worse.

I got up and went to the bathroom, and turned on the tap in my tiny little sink. I splashed water on my face, and repeated over and over in my head, ‘Breathe, breathe, breathe, just keep breathing. I ain’t going out like no punk.’ I swallowed and swallowed.

I leaned against the supporting wall, separating the shower stall from the toilet, using my other arm to brace against the other dividing wall separating the whole bathroom from the rest of the house.

I remember telling myself to hold on, hold on, hold on. I don’t remember anything else.

The next thing I remember, I was on the floor. My body was heavy and I could feel nothing. I wondered what had happened, why was I feeling so strange. It took me a minute to realise that, yes, it was the cold tile of the floor my faced seemed glued to. Then I could feel the almost unnatural position of my body, crammed into a small space and my leg pressed against something sharp. Interesting not; I experienced the thing as sharp, but felt no pain, even though I knew it was digging my skin.

I felt so heavy, like bricks, like gravity was concentrated on pulling me as tightly into its embrace, and there was no way to fight. I decided to fight my way off the floor.

I slowly moved my arm, tried to see if I could push the ground at all. As I began to push, I noticed that there was a sensation, but couldn’t pin down what it reminded me of. I pushed the ground, and my torso began to raise, halfway up, the sensation’s name came to me. It was the feeling of urinating. I was wetting myself. I tried to contract my PC muscle and couldn’t. I couldn’t find the control mechanism anywhere.

Involuntarily, I burst into tears, terrified. What was happening to me? What had happened to me?

I wanted to try to call out to someone, but there was no one there I was alone. I continued to push, slowly dragging myself to my feet. I said to myself, ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ because the shower was right there. I just stepped over the bricked short wall, and pulled the curtain behind me.

I turned on the warm water, and just leaned there for a while, crying. I have to tell you folks, that’s been one of the loneliest moments of my life. I can’t even think of what else to say, because I’m crying right now.

It is scary for to me realise, that if that was my moment last night, I could have laid on my bathroom floor for days before anyone came to find me. The sounds of my apartment seemed like the echoes of canyons, and each thing began to reverberate. The silence, the sound of no one asking if me if I was okay.

Things like this make me understand that I am not in complete control of my life, and never will be. That part of it I can’t control, it’s only then and there and in that space, that the goodly and kind spirits that see to and look after me, do just that.

In retrospect, I realise that without them, I could have left this place last night.


The feeling of heaviness was phenomenal. I suspect that’s normal. My soul left my body, and I was in the dark. Maybe I travelled, I don’t know; I don’t remember anything. Then the heaviness after was a combination of being hyperconscious of not only gravity, but of my soul inside my soul-case, pulling and weighting me down; tying me down to the earth, to the moment, to space and time.

I pulled my heavy feeling ass, staggering into my bedroom and at least recovered enough to spread towels on my bed before falling into a stupor. My heart was beating so fast, and I couldn’t seem to stop panting.

I laid there for minutes, then rolled over and called the Young Mr K. Could not get him. Unit off or out of service area. Tried a few times, no success. Then finally, a signal. He answered.


My voice barely above a whisper, “I’s me.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Something happened.” I whispered.

“What to you?” he pleasantly inquired.

“Some french fries slipped down my throat and blocked my passage. I blacked out.” I whispered.

“Oh shit!” he exclaimed.

I said nothing.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No.” I whispered. “I need somebody to be here with me.”

“I’m not home. I’m not close. I’m out with B.” he said apologetically.

I hung up.


I woke up around midnight, and for about an hour and a half I sat up. I logged on and started working on this post and watched BETs Midnight Love, dazed and fucking confused. Managed to fill out that whole survey and post it. I hope it was lucid.

I eventually fell asleep again.

I believe I am about to go into a diet change again. I don’t think I can eat french fies, fish, chicken or fast food ever again. I just can’t.

Right now, the left side of my face is still stinging and hurting from where I hit the floor.

I called the Young Mr K this morning, and we fought.

I braced him him ignoring me most of the week, and he says, “Don’t be like that. You just miss me.”

I didn’t respond to that, but told him I really needed him last night. He said he was on the road in Tunapuna. I asked him what that had to do with it. He tells me some shit about complicated situations.

I could hear the strain in his voice, but I vented! He asked me if we could talk about it tonight. He said he had a little free time tonight.

“A ‘little free time’?” I asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, a few hours.” he said, like he’s throwing bones at a dog.

I was silent for a moment.

“Forget it!” I said.

“Let’s just talk about it tonight.” he pleaded.

“Just forget it. Forget it!” I replied, disgusted.

Then I hung up.

I went outside and made some coffee, and although I said I wasn’t going to cry. I did.

It’s not him it’s me.

I found a Masters programme in Journalism in the UK. It’s a fellowship I qualify for. I downloaded the forms yesterday, and printed them out. I spoke to my boss (one of them) and she thought it was a good idea. She even signed the form, recommending and supporting me for the fellowship later in the day.

I’m going, I’m going. I’m leaving.

I am seriously worried about where the money is going to come from for me to do these things. I am stressed out about it.

I still have to get my guard done, and it’s way more expensive than I thought it was going to be. I can no longer afford my apartment and buy my ticket, and although I’ve had offers, I don’t know where I am going, or what I’m going to do. I still owe money to be paid off, I still have to sell my things and come up with enough money to live on for about three months.

I’m going, I’m going. I’m leaving.

I’m not afraid to go. I am just coming to grips with all I’m leaving behind. I know that my future is in England, Europe, but my heart I’m leaving behind; part of it in Barbados, and the bulk of it here in Trinidad, my home, my birthplace.

What a strange difficult time it’s been. What a beautiful time it’s been.

I nearly died last night, and I realise I don’t want to be alone anymore. I also realise I don’t want to be a second fiddle. I want to be number 1.


dayo's mama, writer, web developer, orisha devotee, omo yemoja, dos aguas, apple addict, obsessive reader, sci-fi fan, blog pig, trini-bajan, book slut, second life entrepreneur, combermerian, baby mama, second life, music, music, music!

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dayo's mama, writer, web developer, orisha devotee, omo yemoja, dos aguas, apple addict, obsessive reader, sci-fi fan, blog pig, trini-bajan, book slut, second life entrepreneur, combermerian, baby mama, second life, music, music, music!


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