I’m writing in an opened space.
I got the clarity that I was seeking; the moment that I so strongly wanted all last week, and so much more. I was afforded the thoughts that were jumbled or willed away by the happenings of life.
The thought of this seems weird. At 10:16 tonight, it’ll be more than a notion.
I was just holding her on my hip.
Hell, I was just carrying in her my womb.
I was just taking her off to her first day of school.
I just bought her Junior Debutante dress.
I was just explaining the intricacies of being a female and all the weight that, that carries.
And now, my little, semi-sweet, chocolate, pudding is suddenly at the age where independence is hers for the taking.
Life will seem grand through her newly freed eyes. She’ll enjoy it on levels that mommy no longer will be able to supply.
That frightens me.
That makes me happy.
It was during the sixteenth year of my own life, when she came to existence and I pray, preach, and scream for her not to have to write this same post at thirty-two-years old.
Though now, I can count her as a blessing because having another child is nearly medically impossible for me, but who knows things could happen…but it won’t bother me any if they don’t. Because of her early presence in my life, I was afforded something that many women with my disorder won’t be. I got to experience childbirth.
Then it didn’t seem all that fantastic.
Now, I’m thankful.
Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!
My pretty, little, darling, will be off to college soon and I’ll be—for the first time—an uninhibited woman free to do the things that being a young mother hadn’t afforded me to do. You know the stuff like just up and moving when I please, kind of just do whatever the heck I want to do without being considerate of someone else’s feelings.
I don’t think any mom can do that…so I digress, but at least I’ll get the chance to live alone.
The thought? At one time sexy to me.
Now? It’s scary.
I’ve lived my life for her and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
She is my everything. EVERYTHING.
The reason to breathe, the reason to love, the reason to believe, the reason to keep going…when I’ve wanted to stop.
I miss her already.
I want to hold her tight and not allow her the freedoms that she deserves.
I want to protect her from the world that she’ll now see through new eyes.
I want to keep her the little baby that held on to me for dear life when strangers were around.
I want to keep her the little one that said, “Don’t worry, mommy. We’ll be okay, huh?” with bright-eyed optimism that said I could and would fix everything for her with just a simple band-aid.
I want to protect her from the heartbreak she’ll experience.
I want to protect her from the failures that she’ll take personally.
I want to protect her from the mistakes that she’ll make and more importantly, I’d like to protect her from herself.
She’s wonderful, adventurous and has no care in the world about being herself.
She calls herself the Black-Hippie. Which, yes. All complete yes.
She’s awesome, dope.
And really, those of us born in the 80s know that being dope is a very important part of life.
But, that’s scary to a mom that wants her to be the same little one that thought that a band-aid could fix everything.
I’ll have to let go.
I don’t like this idea.
I’ll adhere to the rules.
She’ll be off to live her own life very soon and I’ll have to begin…again.
Yeah, I miss her.
Happy Birthday, Baby.
I love you, lights out!
So, today is a day of love, of wonderfulness, of kindness, of sexy thoughts and naughty parts, and I’m here for it. Every drop of it. However, I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the time to jot this down; the time to allow my present self to chastise my former self…and to also be thankful for her as well. There are a few posts here about a guy that I spent too many years of my youth (listen, my early youth, because I’m still young. Thank you kindly. Shit.*stares at you and dares you to refute*) and there’s a lot about him in those post that don’t necessarily paint him in a good light. Trust me it was well deserved. Okay, okay, it wasn’t all bad. The times that I didn’t spend crying, or angry, or pissed, or worn, or battle weary, I spent laughing, smiling…loving him. I’m not angry that it happened; I’m angry at how everything happened. It was hard losing a best-friend, a lover, a partner, a confidant, just…a what was once a wonderful human being, but I’m thankful that I opened my eyes and saw what really needed to happen. The first year, (three years ago) after our break up on a day like today, I thought that I’d never laugh, smile, even love again because I was a woman scorned. I was hurt, I was angry, and I felt foolish. Foolish? Yes, foolish. Why? Because I, from a family of WELL educated African-American, strong, independent (yet dependent when warranted) women, raised by a father that said take no shit and give lots of hell, had succumbed to what amounted to an unhealthy relationship. There was no violence, (that I’ll admit to now, because…well, I want you to come back and read more whenever I decide to open my heart up and write part three or four –I can’t remember and I ain’t going back to fact check, so shut up—of the saga of that crazy relationship in which I speak.) (I was going to type “speak of” right there, but the prepositional ending got me, so I changed it. You’re welcome, critics.) There was no mental abuse, none of that stuff (or was it…stay tuned. o_O) Anyway, the point is it wasn’t all gravy and I should’ve known better. I was warned, I’d been told, I’d even given advice to friends and some family members to stay away from the exact situation I was in, but I didn’t listen to myself or anyone else. So, yeah, on days like today, three years ago, I was puke-gut sick. Like for real y’all, sick. Sick, because I reminisced about all of the good dudes that I had maybe passed up to stay with this one guy that deep down in the pit of my spirit I knew was never any good for me, but for whatever stupid reason that I may have had, I stayed. I was sick because I remembered on days like today, what I wanted to remember. I remembered the flowers he brought me, the candy he brought, the envious and jealous looks that I received from co-workers, the wowed eyes that I got from the students in my class, the jittery feeling that I got when I knew those roses, those candies, those cards were from me, and they expressed how he felt. I didn’t remember the next night sending silly messages of “Where are you?” I didn’t remember calling too many times, never getting an answer, but listening to that stupid voice message over and over and each time getting excited that this might be the time that he might pick up and tell me the current lie of the day.. I didn’t remember feeling puke-gut sick when I found out that those cards, those roses, those candies, those sexy pieces of lingerie were all just tangible items that held me over until the next heart break and brake. But on today, three-years-later, as I prepare to have a wonderful evening—something that I never thought I’d be able to do, because as stated, I was battle wearied, I was hurt, broken, confused, angry—I’m glad to remember it all. The good, the bad, the worst, because without it, I wouldn’t know how to be thankful, I wouldn’t know what a real relationship was, and I wouldn’t have had fodder for my soul. Damn the chicken soup.
The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that no matter how bleak it looks right now, no matter how bad being alone (if you’re alone) right now may hurt (what you think hurts), absorb this feeling. Enjoy it; be thankful for it, because there’s a lesson there somewhere. There’s a story there somewhere, there’s a reason there somewhere. Instead of crying or being angry, or wondering…just try figuring it out…or you know, don’t. What the hell do I know, I’m just out here tryna make money to feed muh daughta, it’s all good baebe babaee (RIP Biggie Smalls…you hip hop heads will get that that, for the rest of you, who the hell cares?) Anyway, if no one else has said this to you today, then let me be the first. I love you and I mean it…you know as much as I can without knowing who the hell you are. Whatever to your faces! 🙂
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
As for the other shit that hurt. Y’all, I’ve got a brand new pair of Spanx and I promise you nothing has ever been more uncomfortable (sans childbirth) but damn it, I’m kicking ass in this shape hugging dress. Suck it universe and society that are trying to make me lose weight. No way. No way! I laugh at you, because these Spanx are doing the trick. Never mind I can feel all of this chubby pushing against my bladder. Never mind it, I say!
Note: I legit didn’t edit this, this time, becuase I’m fixinta go *virginia drawl*. I mean, I caught what I could, but I didn’t go back and proof, so if there’s something out of place, grammatically incorrect, or misspelled… keep it to your damned self, you judgemental shrews. No, seriously, though, I love you. Really. Whateves.
I waited for a while
I listened for a while
I hoped for a while
I prayed for a while
I still believe
I’m fed up, I’ve had enough
And that’ll be enough.
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
Mine are waiting.
Where are you going?
Mine are welcoming.
Won’t you come in?
Mine are soft.
You know that quite well.
Mine are thick?
Never ever to thin.
Mine are warm.
I’ll provide you heat.
Mine are always opened.
…where could you be?
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
So…where did I leave off? Oh yeah. College, second semester freshman year.
So yeah, I asked did he want to be my boyfriend and he, without thought, or hinder, said “Yes.”
See, now here’s the thing with that yes. While I was pretty happy to have my best-friend as a boyfriend, this same best-friend, had another male friend, whom I had…let’s say, dated. We didn’t really date, and seeing as how someday a lot of people will read this and no doubt judge me—if I were to be completely honest—I’m calling it dating, and if you chose to draw your own sassy conclusions from the words in between lines, then that’s your stuff. I’m going with dating. Yeah, so we dated. Did I say date a lot? Yes? Then good, you get it, we dated. Dated! Anyway, with him having a friend that I dated, it put him and the friend in sort of a bind, but my best-friend, being the good friend that he was, decided that after saying yes to me, he would check with “dated-guy” just to be sure. According to my history, “dated-guy “said, “He did not have a problem with our—best-friend and I—new relationship.
Right after we made our relationship official, we ended school for summer break. Both of us coming back to Virginia, to do what most college students do during that time. We hustled. I worked at a day care, he worked at some distribution company, which had him working strange hours into the wee hours of the morning. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
Our summer went off without a hitch, we had a few dates, had a little fun, and made a little money to take back to college with us. I went on vacation with my family, and he went on vacation with his. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
Oh…wait, I forgot an important fact, before the THOUGHTS or wee-hour schedules, or the summer vacation, we took a step in our relationship not more than a month after making it official, and made it waaaayyy official. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
That time spent officalizing—Shut up that’s a word—our relationship, was probably the most special, most meaningful, most passionate time that I’d endured. You know, at the ripe age of nineteen, and honestly, ‘til this very day, I wouldn’t have changed a moment of it. Wait. OR. SO. I. THINK.
Nearing the ending of our summer, I couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving him to go to separate schools that were two hours away from each other, but then, there was a silver lining. I was finally allowed to take my car to school. WOOHOO! I would just drive to see him on the weekends that I didn’t have a football game (see previous posts, I was in marching band), this would be just fine. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
Those of you who know anything about being in the marching band at a Historically Black College and University knows that marching band is a way of life, a culture, it’s everything, and so…there’s no free time. Plus, I didn’t have gas money and I damned for sure wasn’t going to ask my parents for money for gas to go see a boy. What? So I could hear, “We didn’t send you to college so that you could go see men, we sent you to get an education that had better pay off.” Listen, my mother, is very articulate, but that sentence isn’t even remotely close to anything that she would’ve said. Had I asked for gas money to travel from the Albemarle Sound of Carolina to Raleigh, there would’ve been expletives that made you cringe, so I didn’t even bother to ask. I snuck. I snuck and I didn’t get caught. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
Yeah, so I did go to see him, drove my red 96 model two door Toyota Corolla (it was 2001 at this point) to Raleigh, under the guise that I was going home with a friend for the weekend. That was the truth and a lie. I did go home with a friend, I just didn’t stay there with her. I stayed in a hotel room with my boyfriend.
ASIDE: Listen, mom, when you read this, I just want to say, I’m sorry. I never meant to deceive you, but see, here’s the thing, I was dealing with crazed teenage hormones, and all kind of stuff that made me feel kind of funny inside. So yeah, the excuse/reason, legit. I love you.
So that weekend, we spent it held up in a Comfort Inn in Raleigh, experiencing the epitome of being in an adult relationship. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
When making the plans to go there, Dee (Yeah, that’s what we’re still calling him right?) said that he had a hookup from a boy who could get us the room for cheap. No problem, right?
Wrong. Wrong on so many different levels. Anyway, so, I had to pay for the room (I think that’s how it happened. Listen, as this story goes on, this part won’t even matter and “Dee” if you paid for it, my bad, but seriously, you, you can tell me to change this around? Get outta here). Anyway from there, we went on to have a lovely lunch at Burger King, dinner at some place cheap or another, and then back to the adult version of our relationship. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
Anyway, when our weekend was done, I drove to my friend’s house, picked her up, and we headed back to the Albemarle sound. We had been back for about three weeks, when I realized…Oh No, I’m a girl, I’m supposed to have a period. Hmmm…whatever could be the problem? Oh no, I’m a girl, I’m supposed to have a period. Damn, I know the problem. And according to Clear Blue Easy, I was destined to have eighteen more years worth of problems.
It was not to be.
I vacillated between a feeling of loss and a feeling of relief to a feeling of anger. It was the most hurtful and confusing time of my entire nineteen years on earth that far. Those of you that are close to me, know that I’ve been plenty confused and hurt before, but came out of that lake of shit, smelling like a rose. This time…I just stunk. The day that I called to tell him about what happened, was the day that he didn’t pickup. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t been picking up his dorm room phone regularly since the previous week. Which made me wonder. But then, he was at school on a sports scholarship, which required strict regimes and demands, so I let that go. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
After him not picking up for a week, my best-friend and I went into the computer lab at our school, because using the clunky COMPAQ in my room drove me nuts, because seriously, it was just too slow (Internet wise). Anyway, we went into the computer lab with the sole purpose of emailing him, but then, something clicked and I remembered that I had his password to his email—he gave it to me willingly, you know we were best-friends nothing to hide—so she and I both decided to check his email. Wait! Don’t judge me. We checked it just to see if he was okay and such. You don’t believe me? Whatever, that’s your stuff. And what I’m about to type is my stuff, and it still makes me nauseous until this very day. I mean stupid sick! We logged on to his email, and my best-friend (girl bf from college) said, “You sure you want to do this?” with the skepticism of a real best-friend, but a nosey bastard at the same time.
I said, “No” and then I opened it.
The first email was from, his ex-girlfriend. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.
So the day that I called him to let him know that we had created a child together, however, my body was not equipped to carry it at the moment, and so, subsequently, we had lost a child together, I had the wonderful knowledge of knowing that; all those long hours that he worked at the distribution center, yeah, he was with her. The family vacay’s that he went on, yeah, he was with her. The day before we made our relationship waaaaayyy official, he had called her to talk to her. Why he hadn’t been picking up my phone calls for about a week or so, yeah, he was talking to her. So, as you can see, my THOUGHTS were clearly FUCKED UP. Silly me…and yet that’s only the beginning of my stinking think.
You’ll never believe the conversation that happens next. Until this very day, I still can’t believe it…but then…maybe I can…OR. SO. I. THINK!
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Alas, I do. Which is good and horrible.
Res Ipsa Loquitur
Also for the shit that I should’ve done a long time ago, well…I think you get it by now!
I’m not who you think I am.
Don’t feel bad, I’m not who I think I am either.
I’m not what you want me to be.
Don’t feel bad, I’m not who I want to be either.
I’m not where you thought I am.
Don’t feel bad, I’m not sure how I got here.
I’m not going where you think I’m going.
Don’t feel bad, I got lost.
I’m not going back to being who you thought I was.
Don’t feel bad, I wasn’t happy there, so I had to leave.
I’m not the smile you see on my face.
Don’t feel bad, it was faux anyway.
Will you stay?
~Vive Sine Paententia~
Res Ipsa Loquitur