Ashma John

For as long I can remember, acne has plagued my life.

I look forward to menopause. A life without periods is what I dream of.

I don’t have an Amazon account. I fear that if I get one, the convenience and affordability it encourages will ruin my very fragile relationship with brick and mortar shopping.

One of the greatest myths of capitalism is that the more choices available to us, the more advantaged we are and because we participate under a capitalist structure sometimes those choices can make us feel as if we are winning.

“2 Flaschen Ol pro haushalt!” (2 bottles of oil per household) reads the German sign in my local supermarket.

Lifeless, drained, beaten down. This is how you feel when you constantly mentally digest experiences that relate to racial trauma whether from direct or indirect experiences.

Poverty porn is a strategic tactic which often reveals itself in the form of photographs and videos in order to drum up support (often financial) and draw sympathy/interest from the public.

As much as I have gone on in the past about the importance of putting boundaries in place to protect one’s mental state, for the first time ever, two weeks ago, the opportunity presented itself where I had to be explicit about them.

The female body when pregnant has always been treated as something to conceal as if it isn’t going through the most beautiful experience.

One of the most callous things we can do to a person who has come forward with allegations of abuse is to dissect the truthfulness of their story solely based on our relationship with the abuser or people closely connected to the abuser.

The thought of having children terrifies me and it has for as long as I could remember.

Privilege is blinding. Sometimes it is hard to recognise because those steeped in it embrace it as a natural way of life, and expect everyone else to just accept its inescapable chaos and unfairness as realities.

Every Black person has a hair story. Whether it is one of garnering ultimate self-acceptance in a society rife with nothing but contempt and ignorance towards the varying types of black hair or one that is replete with the yo-yo attempts of negotiating their way in and out of love with their hair all while simultaneously trying to gain acceptance.

The journey to officially starting therapy and seeking out mental health care can be a long and frightening one.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined spending an arm and a leg on skincare and dedicating so much time towards daily routines.

When I was growing up, my mom used to give us all gifts on Valentine’s Day.

In the most Rihanna way possible, sis made it known a few days ago that she was pregnant; she posed in an oversized pink Chanel jacket, which was left tastefully open to reveal her bump, and paired with baggy jeans, draped in jewels including an encrusted cross.

This past week has been awkward. My sleeping patterns have been misplaced and it felt like I subjected myself to an obscene amount of unnecessary screen time out of boredom.

“Black eye, black hair, black skin Black queen stand majestic with the black king Today I’ll sing you a black song, you need to hear about beautiful black things ‘cause Most time we hear about black, we hear about black magic and black witches Black list, black book, black market Black Friday, ya spend off your black riches I’ve never seen a doctor in black nor seen a black pill fi cure no black people But I’ve seen bush doctors like Tosh and Marley resurrect like a real black beatle Malcom, Marcus, Martin When you see Walter Rodney ask him.”

It may be a bit late, but Happy New Year, nevertheless.