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Cathartic Introductions.



I would like it to be at least. If not, at least a proper introduction and the purifying comes later in the idea of why I decided to start writing again. Although, to a select few, I've written to you before. Some may remember an emotion-drenched series called ¨Collage of Emotion¨. It was really only family and friends that paid attention to it so I don't fault you for not having any clue of what I´m talking about. The last entry was ten years ago. If you do happen to remember those...


Welcome, Back.


I'm Bear Brown, I use the pen name/moniker "July Jones" because I'm a Cancer but for the sake of this space, I want you to truly know who I am. This would technically be ¨C.O.E. 11¨ if we keeping tabs on public divulsions and even though we have gotten a better hold of our emotions as time has progressed, we've never stop experiencing them. I wanted to get back in the saddle, at least something to build on to attain the eventual title of "author". Figured this would be a good place to start since my head is a congested highway of memories and dark thoughts I never talk about. This will be my therapy.


Its been a rough year so far:

- The isolation and routine adjustments due to Covid-19,

- The being out of full-time work since March,

- A woman I care for and love dearly struggling with an auto-immune disease,

- The getting to meet and getting to know my father after 31 years,

- My family woes that have doubled simply because of the aforementioned event,

- One particularly draining volunteer duty and...

- My mother having a dreadful, second, mental breakdown.




That last one specifically has put a strain on me mentally, just in the last month. Seeing the depths that she's reached is disheartening. Watching her completely catatonic calling out to God to bless her family, then hours later her not recognize them was a different kind of hurt. It's like the further she fell the more she prayed until she eventually hit rock bottom, and went completely non-verbal. In my heart, I feel like she was trying to remember the things most precious to her.




This is the last time I hear her voice and it sounded like her. July 24th, 2020.


I don't have the outlets I wish I had, nor do I have the guidance I wish I had so I figure I'll just type, and vent here. That way I don't bother anybody that doesn't feel like listening. Had enough of that over the last few years to last a lifetime. Sometimes it's just best to wait for who asks and wants to know than getting the courage to spill your soul while the scroll their phone or changing the subject at the first opportunity they get. Now, I'm here, writing and trying to keep everything together and hold true to my purpose, but it feels like every time I do, everything falls apart.


This will be a domain I occupy frequently but I'm not giving a time table on uploads. Some readers may be accustomed to droves of content when I was choreographing the zodiac blog that I abandoned due to COVID. July Jones, The Curating Cancer, was a moniker I came up with to freely talk about something I knew a great deal about but had nowhere to share. Come to think of it I may still use it for book material. The idea behind it was to help men, that were interested and may not know much about the zodiac, get insight into how to approach the particular woman of the respective sign that they may be interested in. I went by the name of July Jones and I was on a roll with week by week sign compatibility breakdowns. I thought it was fluid information but nobody that I talked to about it seemed like I was saying anything worthwhile. I got some favorable reviews and a very small fan base in some Zodiac Groups on Facebook. It started to wear on me to produce the highest level of content I was capable of, and I wanted somebody to be able to appreciate the effort put into it. That isn't what I'm here to discuss, but is necessary to note that because of its existence and the reasons it stopped because I truly became aware of one very subliminal fact about myself.


"I think better at a desk..."



That is honestly one of the more continuity based facets of my life. Especially seeing that I never could pay attention in school due to my mind taking a word spoken in context and producing an elaborate daydream that would last long enough for me to get caught drifting off in space. I stayed in trouble for not being able to focus as if it's my fault most of the teachers I had growing up sounded like Charlie Brown's school teacher. For years, it was nothing but ideas that I had no idea how to bring into fruition, or elaborate daydreams involving my peers and teachers that don't even think I had the gall to share out loud. Now that I can, I have to stare at that one glaring fact and move accordingly in the newfound retrospect it allows. I need a space to let my mind be at peace, because if anything is a constant, its how fleeting my thoughts are when I can't visually categorize them properly.


Some of my best ideas have come at the helm of a desk that puts my surrounding areas into a blur, and the ideas and dreams and what-ifs play and dance in front of my eyes like small children on a playground. Each thought has a name and some of them even help grow the others. Being away from a desk makes those thoughts seem more like a mosh pit at a rock concert. It's an understatement to say that it gets clouded after too long without being able to identify what you're thinking, why you're thinking it, and what you need to do with it.


Now, this isn't to give credit to an inanimate object for every waking creative thought I have. It is moreso a glimpse into the reality I live with mentally. That's what this space will be used for.


Mental Health.


I am probably in one of the most sensitive spaces in my life, and in it, I feel like nobody can hear me when I talk about it. It's like I'm speaking a different language and the people who can hear me have automated responses that are supposed to follow exactly what I'm saying.


"I wish there was something I can do."
"I can't imagine what that feels like."
"I hope you feel better."

So it's safe to say that with that virus I mentioned, and everything else that has transpired since March is subsequently how I'm sitting at a desk now in August. I haven't a clear thinking space since being forced out of my house last January, and the partial one I had afterward was at work, where I was fired in August of last year because a woman lied and said she was five months pregnant, and I tackled her, to the ground, while working as a Loss Prevention Detective for TJ Maxx. I was good at my job and have yet to put hands on a woman while doing it.


I knew I had to do something. It was the day before Mother's Day, and a friend named Meagan Daniel told me she had a dream about me. In the dream, she began to faint and she said that I caught her. When she opened her eyes and saw that I was the person that saved her, she said she could only say one word to me. "Write". I was in a dark place that particular day as I had recently been entrusted with something that I didn't ask to have. She came in with a clear voice and told me about myself some things that I desperately needed to hear. I needed to hear a voice that could actually see me, not a programmed response or a half attentive retort about some of the subjects I was trying to talk about. A genuine, comforting, foot-in-the-ass for my emotional turmoil at that moment. Somebody to remind you that everything you're going through is temporary and that perception is oftentimes the most powerful ideal that we tend to look over. Her "wordz" were heavy that day as she speaks from a place of affirmation oftentimes.


"So why abandon your gifts? You have spiritual gifts, Jonathan."

Now, after wise counsel, a desk, and an idea... this blog space was born. The July Journal. I plan to use it to display my life, the decisions I've made, and their stories to provide anybody willing to read with not only a better understanding of who I am but a glaring look at the reality of my upbringing, and the toxicity of mental health going unaddressed for a young black boy trapped inside of a bible thumping family on the Northside of Bessemer.


I will be using all the media at my disposal to tell stories about development, accountability, and the effects of trauma on multiple scales. Not all bad stories either, I have had some pretty good days in my life that I can't wait to share with you. Everything I post here will be something I'm trying to have the courage to share, glimpses of my soul in fact. I am slightly excited, and I don't get excited, ever. Another one of those traumatic instances I'll expound on later. Each photo, video, tweet, snap and story is a piece of a puzzle that fits together to reveal something much more significant.


"Puzzle Pieces" an Instagram Story.


The mental fortitude of a man from a family riddled with mental illnesses rooted in poverty and religion. I promise to be as open and honest as I physically am allowed to be. So I appreciate your taking the time, and I will begin soon.


Masks are necessary for this COVID climate, but I won't be wearing one in here.


See you soon.


- Bear




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