I Give Up.
Sometimes I am paralyzed by the pressure on me and my life. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in the ring, boxing head-to-head with mere existence. Life takes a swing, and I eat it. I might hunch over for a second, but I adjust to the pain. Then I stand back up again, back straight, core engaged, eyes focused, ready to plot my defense. I take a swing and life backs off, even if only for a moment. It’s been a ritualistic exchange that challenges my persistence and quest for life. I’ve been in this boxing ring for years–28 to be exact–and I find my muscles growing weary.
My existence is a complex cocktail of mental illness, single motherhood, limited support, a lack of community, and a 9-to-5 job doing something that doesn’t align. My complex cocktail tastes like battery acid, a taste I never wish to grow accustomed to. That’s why I strive to create a tolerable flavor. Artificial sweeteners like new hobbies, a weight loss journey, ample therapy, and a stance against lust and lackluster partners have altered the taste greatly. Sometimes a gulp tastes manageable, and I get by.
Now I question why I’m still drinking battery acid.
As I type, I can’t believe I’m admitting this–but I called the suicide hotline two days ago. There’ve been many adversities I’ve passed through; few have left me feeling trapped and alone to this degree. That was a tough fucking day. It was mere hours after my long-awaited tax appointment, where I was fully expecting this year’s refund to cover my remaining debt to the IRS. It was only $4k, a major difference since my tax trouble started with a whopping $14k in 2020. I’ve been working my ass off to finally get it right. I was ready to clear this debt and start getting some type of financial relief every year in a refund check. One less debt off my load, one more burden off my shoulders. To my surprise, the total amount of my refund was significantly less than my projections. Why? I made too much money last year to qualify for certain tax credits.
Telling a woman who is currently behind on rent while being on leave from work, whose budgets are tighter than a model’s latex bodysuit, whose online shopping carts remain unpurchased, whose townhouse’s tissue was 1-ply for some time, that she made too much money in a year of straight-up struggle is laughable. Where did the money go, and how did I make too much money if I am still very much an economically low-class citizen?
I’ve been working a job I’m not too fond of. I’m good at what I do, but the work is draining, and I hate it. I’ve been trying to find an exit plan for months, but nothing felt right. Nothing aligned. I received rejection after rejection; no after no; fail after fail. So when I got word of a Central Sterile Processing Training program at a local hospital, I was more than confident this was my chance to finally switch lanes. I want something lowkey, but still purposeful work. This felt perfect. After updating my resume and writing my cover letter, I felt in my gut that this was mine. I completed the application within an hour of its posting. And then I was rejected within 48-hours. Yet again, a swift punch right in the face. To make matters worse, I found out by checking the Workday application status during work; businesses hardly send formal emails with feedback anymore. I couldn’t even control my tears in that cubicle, y’all. Another failure. Another dead end. The optimism I felt was stifled like a candle before bed. I left work an hour early because I needed the space. I needed some time.
There I was, driving, feeling stuck at a job that created a permanent state of anxiety and shock to the nervous system. There I was, without anyone I could call to vent to, hands cramped and stained with ink from journaling. There I was, miles and miles away from most of my family. There I was, single and desiring companionship, feeling undesirable and eternally lonely. There I was, thinking about every single debt owed, every single bill due, every single adult responsibility for my child and me unfulfilled, every single negative balance across my bank accounts, and then my Check Engine light came on. I pulled to the side of the road and laughed. Not a joyful laugh, a scary one. I was utterly flabbergasted at the back-to-back happenings of the day.
When you spend weeks on limited rest (I haven’t slept longer than 5 hours since I don’t know when), in survival mode with countless prioritized tasks to tackle, you start to lose your mind. You start to feel burnt out. And you start to wonder what the point of any of this shit is. Think about it–we (humans) were put on a planet with all the resources we need to survive and live harmoniously, and niggas started war and credit scores. Mothafuckas created class, wealth, and privilege. What a waste. And some of us have been powerless victims of the concept.
The more I grow and evolve into a self-providing, mature, peaceful woman, the more I uncover my cluelessness. Growing up not really being taught anything means I am now 28 and unsure of almost everything. Every day, I find out I didn’t know something that most of my peers did. My introduction to a lot of things (like credit scores, rent processes, the FAFSA, and job hunting) was due to me tackling it alone and fucking it all up. Then I’d have to learn how to undo the bullshit I created—alone, overwhelmed, and confused.
I’m not one to sit around and sulk and complain about my life.
Even when I was homeless with $10 to my name, sleeping in a car with my infant, I never threw myself a pity party. I suppose I’m notorious for an optimistic outlook and persistence through adversity. I remember always telling myself that things would turn around for me. I remember always feeling a flicker of hope at the pit of my tummy. Years later, in 2026, I felt that flicker dissipate.
Maybe it won’t get better, I said to myself in the car. Maybe I’m not not equipped to handle all of this. Maybe Zayna would be better off without such a fuck up of a mother.
What a sinking feeling.
I don’t know what stopped me that afternoon.
I don’t know what challenged my strength. I had no intentions of being here today typing this. I never wanted relief and release more than I did that moment I sat at the edge of the lake. I’ve been mentally ill for my entire life, but any self-harm was 100% out-of-the-picture for me. I wouldn’t have dared let the thought (or its possibility) cross my mind. But that day at the lake, it felt more tangible than ever. I was gonna do it. And I had everything I needed. But something pulled me up, put me in my car, led me to a stashed car joint, and got me back home. Something prompted me to pivot my perspective. I do not wish to understand what that something was. I’d like to think it was God. I’d like to think it was my brother, Ernest. Someone reminded me that I need to stick around.
I was high out of my fucking mind (and not to mention uber dehydrated from all the crying) when I wrote my month-to-month plan for the rest of the year. It flowed out of me like lava, like I was translating languages only I could understand. I brainstormed things to look forward to and monthly steps to get there. I created milestones and carefully drafted something to live for; something beyond my daughter. Something beyond the general hope of brighter days.
I never thought I’d see the pressures of life build up to the point of suffocation. And I never thought my mental illness, because of my many attempts to cope, would exacerbate feelings of hopelessness. I thought I had it under control, but in reality, we control nothing. I’ve spent my life building a bubble around me, shielding myself from the pit of suffering, but that bubble was nothing but a fortitude of forced positivity.
I am willing to admit my life is fucking nuts.
And my brain is the biggest fucking enemy. I’m willing to admit I am in holes I don’t quite see a way out of. I’m willing to admit I still feel hopeless to an extent. There’s a life I picture for myself, and the way to get there is all a blur. But maybe life is all about living each day to unblur the path ahead. Maybe life is an imperfect mess we must work to accept and admire regardless.
Though I am still alive, I won’t sit here and say all is well. I won’t lie and say I’m out of the woods, or that I love my life, and everything is awesome. But I can say I am stronger than I give myself credit for, and I’m willing to trek forward. So when I say ‘I Give Up’, I don’t mean in a sense of giving up on life, per se. I mean giving up my sense of control; giving up this bubble of fake positivity. Shit is NOT okay right now. Shit, I am not okay right now. But I am here, and I give up all expectations of myself and the world I exist in. I just want to breathe. I just want to exist. And most importantly, I want to get out of the boxing ring. I’m tapping out.
If I spend my life focusing on what doesn’t work, I won’t recognize what does. If I spend my life magnifying everything wrong, I can’t recognize what’s right. If I spend my life hating it, I will drown the love inside of me. I can’t let that happen. Not even a little.
