The "Strong Black Woman" Trope vs Fibro/ME/CFS

Or, "She had a body that wouldn't quit. Except when it did."

I am not the warrior, the savior, the mom, the siren, the jezebel, the big sister, et cetera, et cetera. I am not all things to all people, although it has been expected of me.

I tried tho.

I was called lazy a lot. Although I did keep up, but I never seemed to have enough energy for things, even as a kid.

I would sleep like the dead and wake up like I didn’t sleep.

I didn’t get any help, because, lets face it, in a lot of households, and in society in general, little black girls are grown women as soon as they can form a word or be mobile.

It is simply understood that intuitively, we know what we are doing and how to do it.

“Come on, you know this”, “You know better than that”….

I did not. Eventually I did, but probably with a lot more hurt and confusion than was necessary.

In high school, I hurt a LOT. Physically.

I was “lazy”. I would never graduate, get a job, or get a man.

I did not graduate, of course, because I missed too much of my senior year.

I did have doctor notes, a misdiagnosis of Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, but no.

They said if I had been pregnant, they would have sent me a homeschool tutor.

But since I only had inflamed joints and fatigue so bad I couldn’t move, my Parent was advised to let me drop out and get my GED instead. Except I had to wait for my class to graduate. Parent thought that was a great idea. (Tuh.)

I took it upon myself to write to the Superintendent of Schools to ask for special permission to get my GED as soon as possible. Graduation be danged.

Of course the school would not object, lest their idiotic reasoning be questioned, and thus I received my GED in January of 2001. 6 months early.

Mind you, I could barely write, or walk, or type. I took the bus to every class, walking 3 blocks to the bus stop. I was so lazy, tho.

But over the years, I did things. I graduated with a degree in Anthropology, specialty Archaeology. Yes, I did excavations. I minored in Art History.

I was a waitress, a clothing retail worker, a fast food worker, and a manager of a convenience store. I was a patient care advocate for Tricare Beneficiaries. I was a volunteer, a (useless) daughter, a wife, an auntie, a surrogate mother, a best friend, a sister from another mister, a writer, a poet, a researcher, a shoulder to cry on, a place to get a meal, someone to help fight battles, a peacemaker, a go between, a soap maker, an artist……

And one day, I slept. And I did not fully wake up for four days. And when I did. I was exhausted.

I had always had the pain. The insomnia. The fatigue. The brain fog. But I powered through, because I was needed.

I was needed, and I, as the Strong Black Woman™ must always know and accept that and be ready to heed the call, in alllll aspects of life, sweet babies. I was born for this. I was born for this?

So sorry. But the days of dying for others to live is done.

After my Diagnosis of Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue (ME/CFS) I was devastated. I would not be an Archaeologist or Art Historian.

How can I hold a job when I will have to call in regularly because I am having a flare and I don’t know when it will end? Hmmm?

I’m not a liar. I would be straight up with an employer from the jump.

Oh, did I mention that the spinal disorder that Parent was told to take care of when I was nine ( They did not, because they too were a medical professional, and so my pediatrician was obviously an idiot) deteriorated to the degree that now the condition is degenerative. Yay! So now sitting, standing, sleeping walking, running is soooo much fun! /s

We’ll end this part of the story with my second go round with Ms. Rona, where she specifically attacked my pancreas, leaving me with Long Covid in the form of Labile or Brittle Diabetes. So I am, wait for it- both hypo and hyperglycemic!!! yayyyyy

(I’m also perimenopausal. Hellloooo 50 pounds in 12 weeks! But hey, at least I got a booty now. Yessir, we draggin that wagon over here!)

Now, do not misunderstand this rambling to mean that I am unhappy or bitter. I am not. I am, actually, the most happy I have ever been in my life.

My chronic illness cost me a lot. I fight everyday with no strength, sometimes not even mental. But

I know who my people are. They are the ones that stayed.

The ones like my beloved Husband, who understands who I am and where I come from and allat. Oh, the way he loves me. He is a very quiet introvert. He says jokingly (or not) that his love language is ‘Acts of Service’. So he takes care of me, the lively ambivert, so I can take care of others (within reason). Our anniversary is July 14, 19 years. No Novels or novellas, no books of any kind- there is not enough data in the world to contain my words of love for that man. And to know- to know!- that the feeling is mutual. We are each others blessing. Praise.

Don’t get me started on that cat. We love the furry trainwreck.

The ones like my small but tight knit tribe of friends. And I say tribe because we are. We are. Their kids are my kids. What I have is what we have. We support one another. This is decades of love. These ones stayed when i was no longer useful. And they have been here when my usefulness fluctuated. I use the word useful ironically. But y’all get my drift.

These are the ones that help me with my limitations out of love, not of duty. Yes, my husband made vows and such, but doesn’t love feel better when it’s free? Yess, Yess, BFFs, Forever and ever. But isn’t it a great feeling when one chooses not to leave because they want to stay, they love you, no obligations?

To be wanted, to be loved, to be accepted when you are not whole. And will not be. It is wonderful.

Those not up to task of loving me in my Slow Living Black Woman™ phase have fallen by the wayside over the years. It’s ok. No hard feelings. I have gone lo-to-no contact with a lot of family. Some refuse to let the first trope die. DIE. I am in therapy to help me understand and cope with my new way of life. It is helping in more ways the one.

The Strong Black Woman™ is for everyone. I no longer am.

I go at a pace of, yes, forced intuitiveness, but I am more grateful than I have ever been. Being forced to move at a snails pace leaves one with a lot of room for thought. and writing. and painting. and reading. and learning. and sharing. and loving on my people.

Yes, it takes me twice as long to cook a large meal. Gather here anyway my loves.

Of course, it takes me forever to weed my garden. But then Husband and I will take a snoozle in the sunbeams.

I do have to change the way I volunteer. But I still try, and it is rewarding for me and others still.

You guessed it, I takes 1 day per room to clean my house. But it smells good and it’s clean enough, ok?

Yes, it takes hours to write this. Yes, I took a nap at my desk. Yet you made it this far. Thank you.

I do not know what the future holds for me. I do not know how things will turn out.

But I do know that releasing the trope of the Strong Black Woman™ , allowed me to see her for what I feel she is usually reduced to, a sacrificial lamb, for the gain of others.

The releasing has allowed me to obtain a new, true strength, of power and purpose. Strength of mind and spirit that can be shared with others, be replenished by others, but not drained.

Releasing the trope has allowed me to become the Beloved, Content, Enduring (with joy)

Black Woman.