I love men. But they hate me.

And I’m saying that with a fragile heart that I think is breaking. The chinks in my armor are becoming full-blown holes and I am tired. Let me explain.

Every time there’s a new year, people spend some time talking about what they learned over the past year. I learned that I am stronger than I thought, and that transition is necessary. I am a better writer than I’ve ever been in my life and I’m more and more a believer in love, in passion, in forever–even though I haven’t had the best romantic experiences. But that’s where my heartbreak rolls in. Because another thing I learned, in 2015, is that there are large numbers of men, staggeringly large numbers of men, obscenely large numbers of men… who hate me. And I don’t mean me personally (although that may be the case, who knows?). I mean women. In 2015, I have never before, in my life, had my eyes open to how many men… hate women. Don’t get me wrong. They love pussy. They’ll fuck you clear to next Tuesday. But they hate WOMEN. And I mean hate us in the sense that they don’t believe us, respect us, fight for us. The #BlackLivesMatter hashtag/ organization was started by three women; women are the forefront of every hashtag on Twitter, every march, every protest. But a lot of our men… hate us. They won’t fight for us. They don’t care when we’ve been assaulted, raped, shortchanged. THEY. DON’T. CARE. And that has been the hardest pill to swallow. Because I love them so much. Too much. And they hate me.

Let me just spend a few minutes and tell you how much I love my men. I. LOVE. THEM. In every shade of brown, every body type, every piece and part. I love the way they walk, and talk. I love how cool and confident they are. How intelligent and funny they are. How sexy and talented they are. I love their laughter and tears. I love their strength and stability. Black men have been the arms that cradled me, the hands and mouths that drove me out of my mind with lust, the force field around me, protecting me. I love them so much. I would give my life, with no hesitation, for the ones that I love, no question. I have risked my heart with them again and again, because to me there’s no one better. Do y’all hear what I’m saying? My men are everything to me. If there is a world without them, I don’t want to know it.

But… they hate me. They hate us. And it’s breaking my heart. Because I don’t want to give them up. I don’t want to walk away. I love them in spite of everything. But it’s killing me. It gives me so much pause. How can I fight for women, loving these men so deeply when they hate me? Does that mean I have Stockholm Syndrome? Isn’t that what it means to be in love with your abuser? It’s some crazy shit, having to come to the realization that SO MANY of our men hate us.

If you don’t believe me, social media is a great tool. It exposes the inner thoughts of people better than alcohol ever did. This Cosby situation has turned my whole mind around. I mean, the amount of men who are caping for him, justifying him being a serial rapist, finding ways to discredit and disrespect the women–it’s disgusting. I mean, this is my Facebook we’re talking about. I thought I knew these people. But the sheer number of them who are twisted enough to think that this is some sort of a plot against Bill Cosby is ridiculous. And they believe it. And it shows how much they hate women. They won’t even fight for us. Believe us. THEY DON’T BELIEVE US WHEN WE TELL THEM WE’VE BEEN ASSAULTED. They won’t believe women–they call us liars to protect the image of a FICTIONAL FUCKING CHARACTER ON A TV SHOW. If that’s not hatred, I don’t know what is. Cosby hasn’t done a thing for them except be a man like they are. And for that, he is worthy of their protection–and rape victims are not. Because they’re women. The hatred runs so strong.

Another example–Twitter started off 2016 with a bang and had the child support discussion again. If you could see these men, so angry about having to provide for lives that they helped to create-it would make you sick. And as soon as they are given facts, they counter with insults. The disrespect, the widespread asshole comments. Apparently these women are all greedy whores who just want as much money as they can get. Never mind that it costs THOUSANDS of dollars to raise children. Never mind that some of these men are actually happy to not have to do the day-to-day with their kids; that some of them are perfectly content being weekend/ holiday dads. AND never mind that there are a ton of ways to prevent pregnancy if you don’t want to provide for your children. Never mind all of that. They just blame the women right away. They go on the attack, they say the most awful things. They are so busy hating the women they don’t say ANYTHING about the children. And this is a manifestation of their true feelings. This is how they see us. They hate us. It’s mind blowing. And heartbreaking. Some of them even try to convince you that they’re the “good” ones because they love their mothers, and sisters, and daughters. But if the only women you can think to respect are the ones you know personally, then maybe you hate women too. Because we’re everywhere, bruh. Not just in your family.

Now like I said, these men love pussy. Make no mistake. They love to fuck us. But they hate us. And even that comes with crazy strings and extra expectations. Because some men will love your body when they’re long stroking you, and then judge you for knowing how to fuck. Some of these men will want your mouth on their dicks and then throw that in your face and call you a whore when they’re angry with you. They think the number of partners you’ve had determines how much you’re worth, and how worthy you are of respect. Those men… hate me. Hate us. And they’re everywhere. In much larger numbers than I ever thought.

You want to know what’s the worse? When other women jump right in their corner. When other women say sexual assault victims are lying (even though less than 2% of all reports are proven false), when OTHER WOMEN help these men hate us. That wrenches my guts, I swear. That’s the worst part of it. Now, I don’t want you to think that I don’t know there are trash ass people in the world. I KNOW. But when the men, that I love, so much, see me as the enemy, I’m heartbroken. Because where does that leave me? These will be the men in the world that I will be asking to love me, to build with me, to create with me. And when women, fall in line with men who abuse, and disrespect women. Who trap and imprison women. Who don’t protect women (and girls). When WOMEN fall in line with these men, it’s a punch in the fucking stomach. I mean, what’s going on here? Am I in the fucking twilight zone? I’d hate to think 2015 is the year I dropped my optimism completely, but maybe my rose-colored glasses just shattered and broke. Only took 35 years. Go figure.

I need to say to my black men… that I still love you. I still love you. I know it’s not every one of you and I still love you. But I’m so disappointed. And my heart is breaking. Because the number of you who don’t love me back is a bigger number than I thought. I guess I need to wrap tight in the love that’s real. It’s getting harder to find though.

 

In my everyday life, I am very much a woman in charge. I make all the decisions, I pay all the bills, and my biggest pet peeve is someone even THINKING they can tell me what to do. I am outspoken, sometimes loud, stubborn and bossy and one of my favorite things is being right. So in my everyday life, I would say I’m a pretty dominant person. But I’ve been noticing more and more that I’m developing an interest in being a sexual submissive. It took me quite a while to even think about writing this, because I didn’t want people to look at me differently. I didn’t want to look at myself differently. But I pushed. This is me. And I’ve got to learn to be more unapologetic about it.

Let me just start off by saying that I am no expert in BDSM. I’ve never practiced any sort of kink. To use a Twitter word, my sex life, as passionate as it’s been, has been pretty “vanilla” in terms of kink. So if you’re looking for some wealth of knowledge on being a submissive, I got nothing for you. This is just me expressing some thoughts. But in order not to offend anyone, or make a total ass of myself, I did my Googles before I started writing this. One of the first things I saw was that my interest in being a submissive is pretty common. It seems that many people like to use their sex life to be the opposite of who they are in their daily life, which makes perfect sense to me. And there was a time when I never would have considered expanding sexually in this way. I saw kink in a very narrow, negative, lens. To me, it seemed like people with no chemistry trying too hard to create passion that should come naturally. But the more I read, and observe, I can admit that was wrong. I can admit that BDSM is just a way for people to enhance their passion, to make a good thing greater. And I’m completely down with that.

Now, from what I’ve been reading, there’s definitely levels to this dominant/ submissive relationship thing. I already know that I have no interest (right now) in anything humiliating or painful. Those things can be exciting to some, depending on your level of kink, but I’m not there. I do have an interest in bondage, and some in domination and submission. I’ve also read that some dominant/ submissive relationships extend beyond the bedroom and the submissive surrenders their day-to-day life to the dominant partner. I don’t have any interest in that either. I would want to stick to sexual spaces only, with safe words for when I feel uncomfortable. Let me explain further.

Bondage is the one that peaks my curiosity the most. Being tied and/ or restrained seems very exciting, the idea of being forced to wait for the pleasure, and learning to appreciate the anticipation. I think it’s a great way to learn patience, if that makes any sense. And being a submissive in that situation means that I get the opportunity to let someone else make the decisions, to do the heavy lifting, so to speak. I let someone else, someone I trust, have their way with me, and be responsible for both of our pleasure. I’m very interested in that. Honestly, I’m not very dominant sexually now, even without the kink. I don’t like to conquer; I like to be conquered. I love strong, outspoken partners who can overpower me (with my consent, of course). So this seems like a natural progression. The idea of surrendering my power to someone else, bending to their will… and taking pleasure in it… my heart races just thinking about it. To be able to feel, without having to think. To take directions instead of hoping I won’t have to give them. It sounds like a relief. And the fact that there’s pleasure at the end, if I’m patient and obedient? Icing on the cake. Taking orders is something I definitely don’t do in my everyday life. To be in a sexual situation, where I literally can’t do anything unless I’m told to, sounds equal parts scary, and stimulating. Scary because I’m sure I’ll resist it in the beginning, just because I’m not used to it. But stimulating too, because once I let go, I can have fun, and make a good thing greater. And like I said before, I’m completely down with that.

Sometimes bondage situations can involve blind folds, but that piece doesn’t really appeal to me. It’s going to sound funny, but I think that I’m more against that because I wear glasses, and I definitely feel insecure, and at a disadvantage when I’m not wearing them. So maybe having a visual impairment already means that making that worse isn’t exactly a turn on for me. Lol. But it could be that I’m just not ready. Maybe with the right dominant partner, and that level of trust.

As for the discipline angle that can accompany the bondage, I don’t think that’s something I want to do. Like I said earlier, I’m not into pain or humiliation. I wouldn’t mind being spanked, or taking a “punishment” just for the sake of sex play and as a means of stimulation. I think I could be comfortable with that. But not more. Not now, anyway.

But who knows? This may be just the beginning of my foray into kink. I may decide I want more. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not even in a relationship. And even then, I’d want to be as sure as I could about the level of trust I had in the other person. So I’ve got a ways to go. But a girl can fantasize. That’s what it’s all about, right?

Guess who’s bizzack?

Hi guys! I know, I know, it wasn’t that long of a hiatus, but it was full of changes and shifts and transitions and lots and lots of head clearing. And then… something wonderful happened. A mere four months after I decided to stop writing until I had something new to say, I woke up the other morning… with something new to say.

Hallelujah! Thought I was losing my mojo out here. Anyway, for a quick update: house sold smoothly, I quit my job, moved back to my hometown, and took an entire month off to think and write and contemplate where else I want my life to go. Things are settling down for me finally, which is probably why I’m finally compelled to put down some non-fiction words. But enough of the update. On to the topic, right?

My sister got sick over the holiday. Now, she’s diabetic with a myriad of other health issues, so her being in the hospital was serious, but it wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t the second or third time either. I tried to take it in stride. My parents were scared. They usually are. And I try to keep a clear head, but I worry too. I’m already and anxious person. I’m already full of worry about things going wrong, about the destruction of any of my carefully laid plans. So I was scared too, though I tried not to show it in front of her kids. Which leads me to the crux of this matter. Her kids… not so scared. Not so worried. Either they wear the bravest faces I’ve ever seen and hide the fear so deep you can’t detect it, or they’re so numb after years of her health issues that they really weren’t affected. I didn’t wipe any tears. I didn’t give them any comforting words. I didn’t hug them and reassure them and let them know it was going to be okay. And it’s not because I didn’t want to do those things. I didn’t have to. They didn’t need it. There were no breakdowns, no clinging, no tears. And it dawned on me that those things didn’t happen because THEY ARE USED TO THIS. They don’t need the coddling because they are used to this, and as such, numb to any fear of it. They probably have some deeper seated fear of the worst happening, but as long as the worst is nowhere in sight, they are fine. They were so fine that they got me thinking about scars. How first time fear is a fresh wound, and second and third time fear rips off the scab, but then… nothing. The scar heals and then it’s par for the course. We are scarred but we don’t feel it anymore. It fades. We can walk through our lives and ignore it. My nieces certainly do. And some would think that’s making them stronger. But is the fact that they don’t feel as much hurting them in the long run? Hurting us all in the long run? I think it is.

I hate to think of my nieces getting to the point where worrisome or fearful things just roll off of them, but it’s hard to be an aunt and want them to be scared. I don’t really know where to go here. I’m a little anxious about it. Okay, a lot anxious. I have no desire to see them turn into me, an extra anxious over worrier who can’t stop thinking of what could go wrong. But it’s not okay that they’re so used to what’s happening that they have no reaction at all. I mean, that affects you. It changes you. And not in a good way. I want them to be able to feel things in their interactions with other people. I don’t want them to be jaded.

It makes me wonder about the battle scars I carry. The things I’ve seen and heard so many times that they just roll off of me; the things I don’t react to anymore. Is my sister one of those things? Am I not as worried as I should be? Do I not take it as seriously as I did the first time she got sick? A part of me thinks I don’t. And it’s not just that. Am I numb to bad news? Goodness I hope not. But after a while, you feel like you have to ignore it to survive. You can’t let it affect you too much because then how can you go on? Sometimes, there’s not much else you can do to keep moving, keep living. But how do you strike a balance? Where’s the line between letting the scars heal and not letting them fade completely so you can feel?

They talk about it on Twitter all the time. How we’re so numb to the unjust death of our people that it barely resonates anymore. Maybe for #TrayvonMartin it hurt. Maybe for #JordanDavis it hurt. Maybe it even hurt for #FreddieGray. But does it still hurt now? Does #LaquanMcDonald hurt the same? Does #JamarClark? Does #SandraBland? Or are we all just numb now? Have our battle scars faded to the point where we can’t feel them anymore? Are we just resigned to this being a normal, regular, thing? I sure as hell hope not. And those deep and active in the movement will say absolutely not. But sometimes I’m afraid that it has. That it will. I’m afraid that my nieces are resigned to my sick sister. That they’re numb to the medicine, and tubes, and visiting the hospital. That they’re used to it. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’m used to it. But you know me. I don’t always have the answers. This is just the place where I ask the questions.

But when I think of it, I guess the answer is the balancing act. I guess the balancing act is life. And I guess I’m back. Thanks for reading.

Hi Guys:

The last month or so has been an absolute whirlwind for me. I’m getting ready to put my house on the market, I’ve been de-cluttering and organizing at home, plus gearing up for our triannual Council meeting, which makes this a super busy time at work too. I’ve been evaluating things in my life, trying to rake through all my frustration and angst and get to the bottom of everything. I realized that I spent quite a few blogs complaining about the state of my life, and lamenting on my fear and anxiety. I’m sorry if all of that brought you down, if you wanted me to handle it differently, or if you just didn’t want to hear it. But when I have those feelings, THIS is the place I let them out. This is MY space. My safe, nonjudgmental space. It’s the place where all my emotions are valid, even the ones I repeat over and over, even the ones people are tired of hearing about. And in this space, every single emotion that leaves my mind and heart and travels through the keyboard is valid… and okay. No worries, I’m not upset. And I don’t want to seem defensive. But I needed a minute to remind myself of that.

Anyway, since there are areas in my life where I’m about to embark on a brand new journey, I thought it’d be a good time to talk about moving on. When is the right time? How do you prepare? And how do you know if what you’re moving on to… is better?

Now when I was in a relationship, this was a question that plagued me often. That sounds sad, doesn’t it? That I was in a relationship where I often thought about moving on. But the honest to goodness truth is that he and I were no good for each other, and I was often hurt enough and lonely enough to consider giving up. Love and loyalty made me feel like that was the wrong move. So I stayed. Now, I finally did move on. But what I figured out during the healing process is that I did it way too late. I was with him three and a half years. We NEVER should have lasted that long. All it did was crush my heart into even smaller pieces. I learned from that. I always say there’s a very fine line between not giving up too soon, and not holding on too long. It’s a tightrope walk for sure. But what I did learn for myself is that it’s all about when the scales tip. The moment I start dreading things (like conversations) with my s/o, it’s time for me to reassess. And the moment I dread more than I look forward to, it’s time for me to go. Your barometer may be different, of course. That’s totally fine. But this is what I learned. In this scenario, I find that although you can know when it will happen, and there is definitely a good time to move on, there’s no real way to prepare. No matter what, a broken heart is simply that.

I’ve also since moved on from having a roommate, and I’m in the process of moving on from owning a house. Both of those have been big emotional adjustments, because both of those things represented a level of stability to me, and I won’t have them anymore. And having those things represent stability pretty much means that there’s no good time to move on. You just have to when it comes. This is definitely one where you roll with the punches. But how do you prepare? Well I’ve been sighing, and crying and stomping my feet a little. But after that, you just get your ducks in a row. You search for new places to live. You stack all the money you can. You do your research as far as selling your house. You reinforce your relationship with your best friend so you don’t feel like you’re losing her emotional presence, just because you lost the physical one. You prep. And prep. And prep. And it’s time for me to do that in full force. It’s time for me to move on, whether I want to or not, and no matter how hard it is. But just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean it won’t be good. See what I mean about multitasking?

Now how do you know that what you’re moving onto is better? You don’t. Mind reading doesn’t come with age, unfortunately. I have no idea what the future holds. But I know I’ll never find out until I move on.

Speaking of which, July marks the three-year anniversary of my blog. It’s been everything I wanted and more. It’s given me a voice, and made me a far better writer than I could have imagined. With that being said, I think it’s time for me take a break. My life hasn’t been all that different over the last three years, which means I’m running out of “new” perspectives and experiences to talk over with you guys. So I want to back away for a bit, and come back when I’m in a different place, so I can offer my readers something new, instead of just struggling to put a new spin on topics I already covered. I also want to pay a little more attention to writing publicly, broadening my audience, and telling more stories. So look out for me in some other spaces.

I’ll keep the blog up, so people can still read it, and every once a while, I’ll post a link, so you can read my older thoughts if you want to. But I want to thank each and every person that ever rocked out with me. If you ever clicked on my links, read, commented, liked, and subscribed. I love you so much. I’ll be around, even if it’s not in this forum. And one day, I’ll be back.

Thank you.

Hello beautiful people!

How are we? Are you all okay? I want you to be, you know. Nothing makes me happier than knowing that my readers, my family, are out here flourishing in love, respect, compassion, good food and all that great shit. Anyway, I’ve been weighing topics for a blog for days in my head. I mean, as a writer, I always have 40 million thoughts at once, but I try to focus and center on one cohesive blog topic. Sometimes it takes me a while, which is why I normally only do this once a month. So like I said, I’ve been weighing my options for topics. Do I want to talk about my house? My job? My love life? My family? My weight? Where do I want to go? I honestly had no idea. So I decided to make this post just sort of a catch all, and tell you a little bit of everything I’m going through. So here we go. Highs and lows.

Low– My house. Sigh. I have to admit. I’m resentful. I feel like I’m being rushed. And I feel like saying I’m being rushed is the wrong thing. I want to tell everyone to back the fuck off and give me a minute to adjust to the fact that I HAVE TO MOVE AND I AM LOSING MY HOUSE! This has nothing to do with whether this is the right thing, because I know it is. I’m not saying I don’t want to do it. I do. I’m not saying I want the process to take forever, because I don’t. I’m saying I. Need. A. Fucking. Minute. I want to be alone with this, and I haven’t been. I want to breathe for five minutes. So there’s that. It may sound whiny, but I’m allowed to be. My feelings are real, and valid, and no one can tell me that they aren’t. I’ve submitted to this staging process, but that’s more shit. Because of course the stager is only using some of the furniture, which means I have to find a place for the rest. And I will. I will. Because I know this has to get done. But man, this is some bullshit.

Low– My weight. I canceled my appointment with the weight loss surgeon. I don’t want to do this. Any of this. The idea of surgery scares the complete shit out of me and I don’t know. Everyone keeps telling me that I should at least do the consult, but the thought of it makes me sad, I don’t know why. Is this where I am? And people speak of it so very casually, as if it’s something… commonplace and normal. And you know what? In 2015, I suppose it is. But it’s not common for me. It’s not everyday normality for me. It’s scary to think about doing this. And it’s scary to think I’m so far gone that this is an option. I just… wish everyone would stop acting like it’s a simple decision, like it’s not my whole life forever changed. My self, my outer self, has been a source of both joy and pain for me. But this… sigh. Whatever. I’ll just continue to mull it over.

High– My job. I’ve been traveling for work, and actually staying on top of my work. So things are good. I’m making my way through and feeling like I might come out of this thing alive, lol. Travel is rough and tiring, but also fun and interesting. I hope I get to break the monotony like this for a little while longer. It’s been good for me. The other high about work and work travel is that it affords me the opportunity to have space that is invite-only. I don’t HAVE to answer my text messages or check my Facebook, or otherwise involve myself in anything but work. It’s kind of freeing.

High– My family. We had dinner over Memorial Day and I got to see and laugh with a lot of them, some of whom I haven’t seen in a while. I have two cousins who are engaged and the thought of that made me happy. Not happy and sad, or happy and envious, or happy and reflective. Just… happy. I held and kissed and loved on all of the babies and didn’t hear that stupid ticking of my clock I normally hear. It was pure… and lovely. I reconnected with some people whom I thought were slipping away, and cemented my overall thinking that home is really where my heart is right now. I had a friend tell me to reconsider my future, to not give up everything I’ve gained in this current situation. But the reality is, I don’t have anything now that I can’t get again. It was ME- not this place, that gave me what I have. Anyway, my family is doing what they do best- reminding me who I am. My Gran and my dad have been especially wonderful with this, and I’m so grateful to them.

Flirting and Lust– Let me tell you about men and how wonderful they are. How cute and cuddly and sexy they are. How when you see their picture they make you wonder if they smell good and if they taste better. Let me tell you about that. Let me tell you how they can give your lady parts all the tingle and your writing all the lustful inspiration. Reading blogs has been helping my flirt game tremendously, and I think I have a soft spot for writer boys. And why not? I’m an awesome writer girl, you know. And that seems to be how I’m attracting them. Who knew my dating-challenged self had an ace in the hole? Anyway, it’s been fun rediscovering how much fun it is to say what’s on your mind, even if it’s filthy. And it’s been fun just laughing and talking with no strings and no boundaries.

Random Airport Thoughts– I haven’t had the time or inclination to write. I want to brainstorm my next project but my mind is just not in it. I keep finding contests to enter and then not getting myself together in time. I know that has to change. I know it. Writing is who I am. And I can’t let it fall by the wayside because I’m consumed with angst about this transition. That can’t happen. So I have to find a way to resolve that issue too. Let’s add that to the list.

Anyway, that’s where I am now. Where I’ll be next? You’ll find out soon enough…

My job let go of five people. Four last Thursday, and one today. The person they let go of today was an older lady who’d been there 17 years, longer than anyone else. And with what I’ve been writing about lately, all of the changes I’m making, I feel like the universe is just peeling back my mental security net, and showing me how vulnerable I am.

One of the people they let go last week is my friend. She and I have been pretty cool since I started there (9 months after she did), but we’ve really gotten closer over the last couple of years. Having to sit in a conference room while she cleaned out her desk and put her things in a box made me burst into tears. Now I’m a G. The last thing a thug like myself does is cry at work. But that shit… I broke down, ya’ll. I mean, I felt like I had no choice. I was so completely shocked and sad. Not just for her, but because her firing let me know how vulnerable I was, how vulnerable I am. This is just one more link in the chain. I mean, I’ve written about how much upheaval my life is in right now. I have to sell my house and move. I can do my job remotely, but I doubt they’d let me, so I’m probably going to have to get a new one. Now, having to get a new job anyway may make being fired seem like just a hastening of an inevitable timeline. But still. I like for things to be in my control. And this isn’t. Nothing is, right now. Nothing is. It’s scaring me to death.

I’ve never been let go from a job. I know people who have. Shit, almost everyone I know has been. But I never have. And I honestly don’t want it. As someone who has absolutely NO skill in emotion-hiding, it would be one big cry fest. And not just tears of sadness and helplessness. But also tears because I’m angry and I can’t hit anything. Tears of pure frustration. God, it sounds like too much. Anyway, I know that sometimes these things happen, that you can’t control them, but I sure wish I could. I wish I could make this fear go away. I wish I knew what was going to happen to me. Everyone will say, “Shameka, you’re going to be fine,” but the simple truth is that I don’t know that for sure, the simple truth is that no one does. and that unknown is rocking me to my core. I’ve been anxious all weekend. My supervisor told me today, “all we can do is keep our heads down and work.” It makes me feel like my job is war zone, where I’m just trying to avoid the land mines. I’ve never felt like that. It’s unnerving. And not at all comforting.

My friend Teri is fond of saying that I shouldn’t worry about anything. That the things out of my control will happen no matter what I do, and all I can do is focus on the things I CAN  control. This is the most logical advice I have ever heard. And my ears definitely heard it. The problem? My heart didn’t feel it. And I don’t know how to make it. I don’t know what this is. Maybe this is just years of coping catching up to me, falling apart, blowing up in my face. Maybe the Universe is stripping my “brave face,” my rose colored glasses. Maybe at 34, it’s time for me to me to be a realist, instead of a romantic optimist. I don’t know. And I know that sounds dramatic. But I’m at a loss. Because people keep telling me I’m going to be fine, and I always respond, “I know. You’re right.” But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel it. I wish I did. God, I want to. I just…

It sounds really crazy to hope I don’t get fired from a job I may have to quit, and am not even all that fond of, but here we are. I like security, safety. I like the nets under me when I walk on the tightrope. I like the nets. And I like deciding when I don’t need them anymore. I don’t like anything being decided for me. And now there’s feelings of dread, like the net is going to be stripped away without me knowing, without me preparing. And the worst part? I don’t feel like I have anyone who can keep me from falling. Which hurts, because I’ve been the net for so many people.

I used to be afraid of dogs. I find nowadays that the fear is fading. I don’t know how or why. I just know that I’m not as afraid as I used to be. Now, I will say that my fear of a dog has a direct correlation with my trust in the owner’s ability to control said dog, but I am definitely less afraid than I was ten, five, two years ago. I wouldn’t say I was over it, but it has lessened considerably. Another fear of mine that’s lessened? My fear of thunderstorms. I can remember crying for my mom and hiding when thunder and lightening hit the sky. Now, I pause a little. I get a little freaked out if I’m alone, or if I’m driving, but the fear doesn’t cripple me like it used to. I learned to cope, and then the fear started fading, little by little. The problem is, I don’t know how long it’s going to take for that to happen in this case. Maybe my real fear is that if something unexpected happens, if my safety net is snatched away, that I won’t get through it like everyone else I know. That when shit gets real, I’m not really strong enough. I’ve been talking in the last few blogs about having someone to lean on, about how I miss my dad more than ever. What would happen if he wasn’t there? Would I make it? By myself? And with all these thoughts, on top of everything, I feel ashamed. Because I used to have so much more faith. I used to have undying belief in the happily ever after. And I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Now normally, this is the part where I gather myself and wipe my face, and get back to the business of handling my life. And I will. I promise. But the more I swallow the tears and avoid the breakdown, the worse I feel. So today… I need to let it happen. I need to let those waves take me and stop fighting. I just… have to hope I come out on the other side.

Ya’ll. Ya’ll. I need to just… man, seriously. Wait, wait let me gather myself.

Wooooooossssaaaaaahhhhhh.

Okay, I’m good now. So yesterday, I was on Twitter, being innocent, tweeting about the goodness of the Lord like I usually am, and then I decided I wanted to answer some questions. Some of my Twitter friends do this Ask.fm thing where people can anonymously ask you questions and you can answer them. You can post the answers, or not, and the person can tell you who they are if they choose, but mostly it’s anonymous. As you can imagine, with anonymity on your side, the questions can get a little raunchy. So anyway, I’m answering questions about… stuff, and I start getting inquiries about how young I’ll go in terms of dating. And then a young gentlemen tells me he wants me, and he’s 21. Sir. No. I mean, I can’t do this. Really. THEN, someone else asks me anonymously if I’m some sort of cougar now. And I responded that I didn’t think I was. But that I almost always attract guys who are younger than me. I don’t mean to. But it’s true. About 80% of the time, I do. But I don’t know why. So here I go again, with another thing to try to get to the root of. Now I’m going to break this down in sections, as organizing my thoughts is my way.

Hot Mama or Little Girl?

Now, when I noticed years ago that this happened to me, I figured it was because I came across too motherly. I mean, no lie. When I was 25, I legit met a bunch of guys who were 19. And as flattering as it may seem, it’s… sometimes not. I didn’t want to be seen as someone who’ll take care of you. And I felt like that was the case. Now, the conundrum with this is that I will take care of you. I am 100%, pure unadulterated nurturer in terms of personality. I will always make sure you’ve eaten, and ask you how you slept, and get on you about drinking enough water and eating vegetables. I am just built that way. So of course that’s how I come across; that’s how I am. But that doesn’t mean I want to date someone so much younger than me, whose main attraction is that reason. Got dammit, I want to be sexy to you! I want you to want to eat ME up when you see me, not your vegetables. So, trying to balance the facets of my personality has been a struggle for me. Either way, I don’t want to be your mom, mentor, or your “stability.” I mean, you’re cute and all sir, but I can’t do my work and make sure you get to class too.  As an aside, let me just say that this has nothing to do with the maturity level of these younger guys. Because I don’t go into it assuming they’re all immature. I think that would be short-sighted of me. This is all about me (as my blog usually is, lol), trying to figure out what I’m projecting into the universe. So, on we go…

Then my next thought was just as problematic. I started to wonder if I attract younger guys because I come across as someone their age, in terms of mindset and interest. Maybe they don’t see a mature, mother figure– maybe they see a young girl when they look at me. And I don’t take that as a compliment. I’m 34, and proud to be. I’m also a responsible, mature person. I pay my bills on time, and think before I speak, and hide my petty tendencies with the skill of a Jedi master. So is it a compliment that someone seven or eight years younger looks at me and sees a match in terms of mindset? Sigh. I don’t know.

My friend Teri thinks I’m over thinking this. And a small part of myself does as well. I had the thought that I should be happy to even be approached, because that means I am giving off a vibe of approachability, which was hard for me before because I’ve struggled so much feeling attractive and adequate. Let’s not rehash that. You guys know how it was. Anyway, part of me thought I should go with it, and enjoy it. Teri agrees with me. Believe me, I’m trying. But it’s hard to get something in my head and not flesh it out, so here we are.

My Own Age?

Okay, so I went through the first part of this, but there’s more pieces. The second piece to this is that I have a harder time gaining, and keeping the interest of guys my age. I don’t know why. Do they see me as immature? Or am I too motherly for them too? I’d say it’s about half and half. Half of them want younger girls, spry and 25, at the latter end of the party girl phase that they can start families with. I’m not too old for babies, by any means, but 25 is not 34, that’s for sure. And it could just be a clash of personality. Maybe our interests don’t line up. And maybe my interests typically coincide with people that are younger than I am. A lot of times I feel like guys my age are looking for women that are more… “ladylike,” I guess is the term. Girls that wear full face makeup and stiletto heels. They always have their nails done, and perfect pin curls. And I’m barely out of my adult Punky Brewster phase, lol. By that I just mean that I’m not a “girly girl.” You’ll have to excuse the generalizations. I know none of these types are absolutes. So don’t lecture me in the comments, okay? I’m just saying. There seems to be a bit of an expectation that I don’t meet in terms of personality. But I’m working on my sexy. Watch me this summer. Anyway… to the last thing…

Sugar Daddies?

Now. Older guys. Oh my goodness. First of all, most of them smell so damn good. But that’s neither here nor there. The crux with them is that most of the time our interests aren’t lining up. If I have to tell you who Action Bronson is, I don’t know how far we’re going to go. That sounded shallow, didn’t it? I apologize. It was just an example. But you get the overall picture, right? I never meet an older guy whose interests line up with mine. NEVER. I suppose it’s not impossible. But I have no knowledge of this life. I have a Twitter follower who’s an older guy that I think is so awesome. Not too much older. Early 40’s. But still. He’s kind of in a class by himself. I mean, he listens to hip-hop and knows (like I know and everyone else should know) that Rakim is the greatest MC of all time. How can you not love him? But like I said, he’s the exception. Most of the time, the rule is jazz festivals and me having to explain who Action Bronson is. No bueno.

I was talking to my best friend about this, and I sensed she didn’t think it was worth the mention. But that’s how she’s always been about this. Most of the time when I tell her someone significantly younger shows an interest, she acts like I shouldn’t even entertain it. I wondered if I should listen. But her dating life hasn’t ever been anything like mine. I mean, she’s met assholes. We all do. And she’s struggled. We all do. But she hasn’t had the trouble even getting approached, like I have. She’s never felt out of place and small in a room full of her FRIENDS. She’s never been the one girl at the bar who doesn’t have anyone talk to her ALL NIGHT. I have been that girl. I have complexes and confidence issues. I give myself enough grief. I think, for this, maybe I should relax. And I’m not saying this to say I should entertain everyone. I’m saying it to say that age seems like a smaller thing, when other things are so much bigger. Did I just solve my own problem? Hot damn!

So now that I’ve done exactly the opposite of what Teri told me and over thought this, I’ll just end it here and go back to Ask.fm. Apparently, someone on there wants to tickle me very badly, lol. Thanks for reading. Love you!

Hi Guys.

I always feel the need to start out saying thank you. Every time I log into the site, and look at my stats and see that someone else has decided to read my thoughts, I get all sentimental inside. I mean, it’s kind of an honor. That you want to read me, listen to me, see me. Because that’s what I do here. I peel back the layers; I reveal myself. And while it’s been pretty scary in some cases, it’s worthwhile to think that people may be identifying with me, or even better… that I might be helping someone. Anyway, thanks so much. On to the topic at hand…

Nearly three years ago, in the early months of the blog, I wrote one about how I was afraid that my “independence” and self sufficiency were hurting me in the dating game (if you’d like to read it, you can do that here: https://shamekaerby.wordpress.com/2012/08/07/self-contained/) Anyway, I went into some detail about my ambivalence towards pretending to be helpless to attract a man, and how I’m not even really the damsel in distress type. Fast forward nearly three years later, and I think I may not have explained enough about the topic. I can admit that. That’s why we’re here, right? To grow. But let me tell you why I feel that way.

Now, I’m still not a damsel in distress. I’m still a self-sufficient force of nature who juggles and multitasks, and get things done for myself. And I still hate it when perfectly capable women dumb down so the men in their lives can feel better about themselves. And I do still wonder if I’m sometimes in my own way. None of that has changed. The reason I think I took the wrong approach is because these days I’ve been full of angst, and fear and fatigue and someone to make me feel better would be the best thing in the world. I want that so badly. I think I want it more now than I ever have.

Now don’t get it twisted. I don’t want to be coddled. But my life… you guys know about my life right now. And someone to help me, and encourage me, and just tell me everything’s going to be okay would be soooooo awesome. I know my family will tell me. I know my friends will tell me. But there’s something about hearing it from your partner, from the person you trust to make it seem okay even when it’s not, to make it so you can breathe easy when you feel like you can’t… I miss that so much. Besides that, a partner can also give you sex to make you forget about it for a while. Sex is so good that way. But my lack of penis was three blogs ago, and I won’t go off on that tangent again.

Let me give you an example: my best friend and I own a house together. She’s married now, and we’re selling the house. Well, before we can do that we have a leak in the upstairs bathrooms that’s been dripping water from the living room ceiling for weeks. Three plumber visits later, it’s still not fixed. There’s a hole in my ceiling, and I enter into a whole new territory of angst every time I walk in my front door. I’m edgy and moody, and I hate talking to people because every time someone asks me how I’m doing, I just want to yell, “I have a hole in my ceiling and water’s dripping from it- how the fuck do you think I’m doing?!!!” I know plumbing problems aren’t exclusive to me, I know that. But still. This shit is tiring and I’m so over it. Anyway, so when the plumber came (the second time) I was here alone and he was explaining to me what he thought the issue was and how he was going to fix it and what all it would entail. I tried to keep up, but the more he talked, the worse I felt. I wanted to burst into tears. Then I wanted to call my dad. Or my brother. I just… really wanted someone there with me. A man sort of someone, to be honest. Now, I’m really good at pulling it together when I have to. I didn’t cry. I’m a G. G’s don’t cry. I just sucked it up. But afterwards, I thought to myself that it’d be nice if I could cry. And have someone hold me while I do it. And say he’ll help me take care of it. AND translate everything the plumber told me into plain English. Sigh.

I come from sort of a protected environment. I have a dad and brothers, and they’ve always been there to form a circle around me, take care of things, make me feel less alone. Living here has been equal parts wonderful and fulfilling in the career and personal accomplishment sense, but also the loneliest time of my life in the relationship sense. And although I have very little experience being an actual damsel in distress (because I’m a G who just sucks it up and does what needs to be done), I find myself having a very real want (need?) for “protection.” I know every woman hasn’t had the experiences that I’ve had, but men are sources of protection in the world I’m from. And I love that they play that role. I love that they’re happy to do it. And the guys I’ve dated act like they don’t even know what that means. I miss it. And I want it back, self-sufficient or not.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been contemplating going back to Philly so hard. Maybe I just want to be where my dad can protect me again. You guys wanna know something? My dad and brothers are the only people in the world who ask me if I’m okay multiple times in one conversation. They start with it, they end with it, and they stick it in at least twice every time I talk to them. I’m not saying no one else ask me, or that they’re the only ones who care how I’m doing. I’m saying that when they hear my voice, it’s second nature for them to make sure I’m okay. My brother will Face Time me so I can see my niece, and spend the whole time just asking what’s going on with me, lol. And when there is something going on, and I don’t say it, they’re angry with me for not telling them. They want to protect me. I wish there was someone in my love life for whom I could say the same. In my first blog on the topic, I talked about how a lot of people say men need to feel needed and how I have trouble with that. With being needy. I still do. But maybe it’s because I was associating needy with helpless, which I’m not. I talked about how making someone feel needed was tricky and could give the impression that “wanting” you is not enough. I still feel that way too. But how bad do you have to want something before it’s okay to decide that you need it?

Three years later, and I still feel the same, and have the same questions. It’d be great if I didn’t feel like I was facing absolutely everything alone. And then I wonder if feeling that way is some sort of failing or weakness on my part. If I’m acting like a baby instead of a grown woman by asking for “protection.” Or if me being a G who pulls it together is running people away. Am I self-sufficient because there’s no man to lean on, or is there no man to lean on because I’m self-sufficient? Sigh. Who knows? We never even figured out if the chicken or the egg came first.

Good night.