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.
this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don’t squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know— don’t pick people’s flowers, you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all…
– Girl, Jamaica Kincaid
Like the little girl in this poem/story, I was warned. I was warned of a lot of things. I was told not to do a lot of things, and I listened to most of them. Most of them I didn’t. I have suffered the consequences of my actions, and I blame not a soul because of it. However, I’m learning in this process of…growth (I guess we’ll call it that) is that though you’re in a new space, in a new vibe, in a new feel, the person(s) that you wronged, or didn’t help, or lied to, or didn’t believe, or didn’t want, or didn’t love, may not be there and you simply can’t right that wrong. Even if it was a wrong you’ve done to yourself. Most of the time people that want to gloss over facts, rearrange history, make themselves feel, better tend to not want to hash up the past. Well, that’s exactly what I want to do, I’d like to go back and tell the old me that I’m sorry, I’d like to tell some of you that I’ve hurt, inadvertently and advertently, that I’m sorry and I’d like to fix a few hearts that I somehow managed to break, but I can’t. However, if my world was perfect, if my life was perfect, if things were just, I’d start off by saying the following:
I apologize for leading you to believe something that wasn’t true. I apologize for leaving you when you needed me the most, I apologize for not understanding you, I apologize that I really don’t mean any of this.
You heard me.
I don’t believe any of it.
To go back and right a wrong means that you get to rearrange history, and I know we’ve all seen the movies or cartoons or stories what-have-you about changing one minor fact and it possible rearranging your whole life.
I believe that to be true!
I believe that every heart I broke, every person that I hurt, and every person that has hurt me and broken my heart has helped shaped me into the character that I’ll become. And like the girl that Ms. Kincaid so avidly illustrated, I’m inclined to believe that there was a good part of the “Warner” that knew she (the girl) would do the things warned against and while I don’t have literary proof, I’m willing to bet it made her a pretty special little lady…I’d bet the farm, and so, I choose, with all of my might to dismiss all warnings now, and just be. The ones that I thought I listened to, I now renounce them and the ones that I know I didn’t listen to, I’m thankful. And I am forever grateful and you should be too! I’m so damned excited to get to this next chapter in my life that I don’t know what to do, because as a hopeful fiction and romance “penista” (Yeah, damn it, that’s a word…MY word. DON’T steal it) I’m conditioned to believe in happily ever-after endings and once upon a time beginnings. The first chapter of my tale started out perfect. There was drama, lust, lies, deception, peace, good sex, bad sex, all the stuff that Mrs. Ellis, my 9th grade English Teacher, said made for good foreshadowing. And I gotta say, I can’t wait to see what’s next. Stay tuned…
Vive sine paenitentia!
Res Ipsa Loquitur
Tyler Durden’s 8 Rules of Innovation:
1. “No fear. No distractions! The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.”
2. “No fear. No distractions! The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.”
3. “I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”
4. “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”
5. “You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis.”
6. “People do it everyday, they talk to themselves…they see themselves as they’d like to be they don’t have the courage you have, to just run with it.”
7. “Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”
8. “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”
I start out this post with the above posted because, hell no, I’m not trying to teach a lesson. Nor am I hoping you learn a goddamn thing…I just thought this spoke to my need and like the ever-present divined intervention that I believe is my life, I stumbled upon this nugget and decided that, yes indeed, Ye Ole Intervention struck again. Look at the Lord…won’t he do it? *Smacks teeth and performs the ever formidable and sometimes ethnicity defining neck roll.* This little gift was bestowed upon on twitter (@pcosstinks) from a person that I don’t even follow, haven’t a clue who this person is, but it was retweeted and I happened upon it, and I know this may be a little self-righteous, but I sweadagod that it was meant for me. Whatever, it’s my blog, you can go write your own and deal with it. Anyway, as I read these rules and truly began to understand them I, in all of my unknowledgeable and sometimes too knowledgeable glory decided to apply them to my way of thinking. Now, if you’re reading this as one of my friends, family, close acquaintances, you know that I am struggling with self-definition at the moment. If you’re not any of the aforementioned and happened by, “Welcome, my name is Uncaught Recidivist and I am pleased to have you eavesdrop on the mess that is my life at the moment. Thank you and your comments are welcomed.” Being that at this season in my life I am caught in that ever fermenting battle, this was like a breath of a fresh air (seriously, I hate clichés and analogies, but this one nails the feeling); these 8 rules spoke to everything that I need and want to be and it speaks also to everything that I despise I was. Having said that, I’m bored with this typing now and really just wanted to share this great bit of information, so now, I’ll let you talk amongst yourselves! You’re welcome. *Shoos you away with a flippant right hand vaguely remembering your presence.*
Res Ipsa Loquitur,
Addendum: I think Tyler Durden…whoever the hell he is, is savant.
Note: To Self, do a little research on this dude, may have something sustaining to say. hmm…oh, is that a cookie, yeah, what was I saying. Oh yeah, I like cookies.
Note: To You Guys….HELP!
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
~ Grown-up, Edna St. Vincent Millay
The idea to blog isn’t new to me, it’s just that today the idea became a bit more attractive. Dressed and sexy. After a proper downward spiral into the abysmal in which I’ve created to be a life, the idea of getting people involved in my world started to make me tingle. “Why not?” some inner voice asked—one of many—prompting my sane self to give it thought.
Thought. Thought? Thought!
That is most certainly the derision of my procrastination. Thought. I’ve spent much of my life thinking about it, that, those, this, things in general and not enough acting upon it, and so…I acted. For the first time in many moons, I acted. Not that I’m a couch potato type gal…well at least not in my head, I am, however, perhaps, a slow starter. And I, quite frankly, am okay with that. Enlied the problem. My inward motto has been “Satisfaction is the bullet into the head of success.” Stay with me here, really, I’m going somewhere. Have you ever taken the time to wonder how, “they got there” and how “you ended up here”? No? Just me? That’s fine, I’m used to the oneness, I’m an only child, so I’ll paddle through this anyway. To answer the question…yes, I have, many times over and it wasn’t until this very day, this very night, this very minute that I received the answer. And that was, successful people are never satisfied. I am now thirty-one years past my birth and up until recently, all I’ve ever wanted to be was satisfied. Is that just the most insane shit that you’ve ever read? I mean seriously, have you ever laid eyes on such utterly ridiculous and filthy rhetoric? Fodder? Gibberish? Listen, there’s no need to enumerate or shake your pretentious, all-knowing heads in disgust. So, I’m late to the party, the point is, I’m here. Yes, world (that means you) I just wanted to be satisfied and as I worked different job after different job after finishing with school for the moment, I sought satisfaction only to be displaced by such natural disasters as being okay, settled, and swallow this for kicks and giggles, just fine. Those three words should be banned from the vocabulary! I’m serious. When was the last time you saw someone who was in their minds successful being just okay, just settling and all right being just fine. My guess, never, and so in lieu of prolonging this post a moment more and to give my thumbs a rest (posting from my blackberry—duh, they still exist) I am here today to renounce satisfaction. I don’t want to be satisfied! I want to be successful…
I just don’t know in what? Thus, the Blah Conundrum…
Res Ipsa Loquitur,