Skip to main content

My F**k moment !

 

F**k...sht...f*k!!!


Photo by Camila Quintero Franco on Unsplash



I said it all. Like what the f*k!!! I can’t stop cussing. Everything was going to sh*t...am literally living from another's’ pocket, a dollar a day...why the f*k did l quit my job!

 

F**k! I can’t sleep! I either study late in the night or worry myself out of sleep. Dark eyed circled monster walking....give way...or don’t..l won’t make it outside in daylight. The night is my day!

 

F**k! The sun hasn’t touched my face in weeks, as l only leave my room with the sunset to buy food. No one to see this dark eyed circle monster walking!

 

F**k! What am doing here! This sh*t is so fucking hard! I want to quit but l can’t. I promised myself never to quit again!

 

F**k! I do have a problem! Let me call my friend Jolly l talk it out! Plus l need sleep medication...this fking meditation ain’t helping. Them sport shoes are arriving tomorrow...so am f*king gonna start jogging with sunrise from tomorrow. He missed me and l did too!

 

F*k! Let me f**king post this and go study my f*king exams!

 

Fkkkkkkkkk!!!!!

 

“Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today.” – Thich Nhat Hanh
It is okay to have a f**k moment...l did have mine today! It felt good! Have yours whenever you want and remember to reach out to anyone when it is too much to handle. This can be a friend/ family/ Mental Health Specialist or even me by writing to me to my email here: 
lucyjilly.a@gmail.com

Cheers! To taking care of our mental health!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Five Scars and a Breath

 Some stories find you and change you. This one did. In today’s post, I’m honoured to share a deeply moving account of pain, survival, and unexpected grace. It's a story of resilience, recovery, and what it means to return from the edge with five scars and a breath. Shared with permission and written in her own words: Five Scars and a Breath " At the beginning of last year, I became fluent in the language of pain. I knew the routine by heart - walk into the hospital, wince through registration, and recite my prescription like a nurse: Start with 40 milligrams of Nexium, top up with another 40 if the pain doesn’t retreat. I wasn’t a doctor, but I played one with practiced confidence. Until one day, the pain didn’t follow the script. They gave me 80 milligrams of Nexium, then paracetamol. The pain remained, stubborn and screaming. Then came the opium. Relief arrived cloaked in a darkness so absolute it stole my sight. The pain retreated but not without a warning. I finally surre...

The Messenger

“Mama! Mama!” That call became her signature tune, the sound that made her mother’s heart skip a beat every time she heard it. This is the story of Ella, the family’s messenger of doom. A role she never asked for, but one that somehow chose her, maybe because she is the eldest daughter in the family of Habbu. Ella is the fourth child out of eight. Before her are three brothers whom Habbu, their father, sent to the white man’s land, America, to study and make something of themselves. So when they left, Ella became the eldest at home, holding the fort for everyone else. She took care of her parents, her younger siblings, and in many ways, became the glue that kept the family running. With that came another role, that of the bearer of news. All news. But mostly, bad ones. The first message came like a thief in the night. A telegram from Nairobi. Her younger sister’s husband had died, barely two years into marriage, leaving behind two little children, one still breastfeeding. There were n...

Calling on Our Ancestors

When I think of prayer, I remember that the African way was often through calling on our ancestors. Long before formal religion came to our lands, our people believed that those who had gone before us still walked with us, standing at the threshold between the living and the divine. Ancestors were not distant shadows but custodians of wisdom, protectors of families, and intercessors who carried our cries to God. Whether through libations poured on the earth, whispered names in the quiet of the night, or ritual gatherings around the fire, prayer in Africa was deeply relational, a way of keeping the bond between generations unbroken. I never imagined I would one day find myself reaching for that path. But when my niece lay in a hospital bed, and doctors struggled to find a clear diagnosis for her discomfort, I felt powerless. That night, my sister sent a message saying the doctor suspected a heart defect. My younger sister and I had just left Gertrude’s Children’s Hospital around 3 a.m.,...