Hey guys. I’m just going to tell you now, as a disclaimer, that I am writing this during my “time of the month,” which makes me infinitely more sore, weepy, and tired. But still… shit on my mind. And this is the place, right? It’s a safe place. So here we go…

My life is one big ball of transition. My best friend is getting married at the end of the month. We are putting our house on the market and moving. I am trying to write every day of this year, and I will be getting a new job. My Kah is due in a couple of weeks. So much change, I can hardly bear it. I mean really. I’m not good with change. I can hardly bear this. On my last trip to Philly, my cousin told me that I should take all this newness as an opportunity to transform, to step out of my comfort zone, to be someone I’ve never been. I… I just… I don’t disagree. I can do anything. I know that. And now is definitely the time. But change, as constant and necessary as it is, is SO DAMN HARD. It’s almost too hard and I find myself wanting to back away. Bad news, Shameka. You can’t. This shit is already in motion, and what’s more, it needs to be. It’s the dawn of a wonderful day. Everything that’s happening is the exciting shit that life is made of. Except… I’m not excited. Well I am some days. But most days… not. And I think  I’ve figured out why. It’s because I’m used to having the answers. And I don’t have ANY right now. Everything in my life is open-ended… and I’m scared. Not excited. Let’s examine this:

My best friend is getting married and I… I’m still finding the courage to even ATTEMPT dating after I had a setback last year. No answers there.

We are selling our house- she is moving in with her new husband, of course. Me? I don’t have a place to live. My plan is to move back to Philly, but I don’t know where. And I don’t have a backup plan if I don’t find a place. No answers there.

I have to get a new job. That hasn’t happened yet. Sigh. I’m looking.

Kah is about to be a mother. I know that one’s not about me, but I’m nervous anyway. This child is the child of the person I probably love most in the world. It makes him important to me in ways people may never realize. Plus, I’m jealous.

I got a referral for a weight loss surgeon, two girls at work are pregnant, I think my hair is thinning at the top, etc. etc. etc.

On the bright side, I think I might be having a writing breakthrough. I’m taking it slow, but we’ll see. All of this is to say that I’m being pulled in so many directions. They’re all necessary directions, but it’s like all my roads less traveled are being plopped right in front of me. And it’s so intimidating that I can’t take a single step. Transition, transformation, it all seems so… so… I know I’m making this harder. I know all of this is growth. I know there’s nothing to be afraid of, that I should run right into life, that that’s the best way to live it. I KNOW this. My problem? Getting my heart to FEEL it. All I feel is… tired, mostly. Scared.

Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to write this today. But… here we are. Here we are. Here I am. Where I’ll be next? Anyone’s guess. Mine included.

Thanks for reading. I love you.

Let me start by saying Happy New Year and I hope everyone had a great holiday. Mine was quiet and relaxing. For the first time in years I didn’t take any time off, or visit my family. I didn’t even buy any gifts. I stayed home, baked a chicken, drank wine and watched The Wire. It was… nice. I mean, I wouldn’t have minded if someone else had been there. But I was okay with just me. I was afraid at first. I thought I’d spend the weekend crying and feeling lonely. But I didn’t. Anyway, enough of that. The reason I’m here today is sex. As in, the heart-pounding, breath-stealing, sweaty kind. Why are we talking about sex today, you ask? Because I’m not having any. And it’s becoming a problem.

First thing: all the people (read men) who think it’s so easy for women to find someone to have sex with need to come live my life for a few weeks. I don’t meet people everywhere I go. And I have the annoying habit of wanting people who only want to be my friend. So no sex. I mean, there’s always the option of going with someone random, but I’m one of those crazy people who only wants to have sex with people I LIKE. And I don’t know enough about the randoms to know if I like them. So no sex. And as I sat in my house, watching TV, lusting after Wee Bay, I realized how sexless my life has been in the last year. Not that I haven’t had other shit on my mind, because I have. I mean, you guys read my blog. I’ve been struggling. With dating, with health, with weight, with loneliness, with not being fulfilled career-wise. You name it, I struggled with it last year. So sex has been in the back of my mind, but I always pushed it to the side because of having other things to focus on. And I still have other things. But my unrequited sex drive is starting to get very upset that I’ve been ignoring it. And I don’t have a solution.

My sex drive has always been high. I mean, I’m sure I think about sex as much as any man- probably more. And being who I am, I tend to think about sex as an experience. It’s not just about getting fucked until I pass out, although that would be nice. For me, it’s about sights, and sounds, and even smells. It’s about skin against my skin. Kissing and hair-pulling and the combination of sweat and perfume. All of that. It’s about those incoherent words I say when I’m so turned on I can’t think straight. You get the idea. Anyway, none of that is happening. And at first, I ignored it, then it made me sad to think about, now I think I’m pissed off about it. I mean, I’m not perfect but I didn’t do anything to deserve this forced celibacy. At least I don’t think I did. I started wondering if this is some form of karma, which I believe in. Then, I thought I was being overly dramatic. It’s just a dry spell. Everyone has them. Right? Sigh.

I wasn’t going to say anything at first. Because usually when you tell someone you miss sex, you get one of three responses: they look at you like physical desire is a demon you should immediately expel; they give you a speech about transcending the physical and advice about connecting with people in other ways; OR they suggest masturbation. Let me tell you how all of those answers are wrong. There are a lot of things that tempt us in life. And I too have been guilty of blindness due to physical lust. I know there are consequences to focusing too much on how someone makes you feel physically. But I learned my lesson from that. And I think physical needs count just as much. They’re not evil. They’re okay in moderation, like everything else that feels good. Second, I know the physical isn’t everything. I know that passion will calm and you’ll have to have something else to keep you when it does. I know that compatibility doesn’t end with the physical. That you need more. I don’t need that lecture. I’m kind of lusty. I’m going through an especially lusty period right now. That’s all. And it’s nice to have weak knees. And shivers up your spine. And fantasies. There’s nothing wrong with that. And there’s nothing wrong with me for missing it. Lastly, masturbation doesn’t get me skin against my skin. There are no hands, and mouths–besides the ones that belong to me, of course. I miss the five-sense experience of sex. Masturbation doesn’t get you that. More sighs.

I’m going to yoga on Wednesday. Maybe some deep breathing and exercise will help. It’s worth a try, right?

How has everyone been? I know, I know, it’s been two months. I’m slipping. But I didn’t have anything to say and the worst thing you can do is try to force the creativity. Besides that, I’ve leaned on writing so much in my life, given it so much weight and so much power that it’s become more of an obligation and less of an enjoyment. So I’ve been trying to get back into seeing writing as an option and not as the end-all of my emotions. So I’ve saved the writing for when I want to–and not when some imaginary deadline says I have to. Anyway… I’m back. And today I have something to say.

I’m sure you all know of the events going on in Ferguson, Missouri and other places in the country following a series of deaths of unarmed black people at the hands of the police. There’s also been more of a light shining on domestic/ intimate partner violence following a series of incidents involving some pretty prominent athletes. All of this has prompted protest of all kinds, from all sides, because people are sick of being marginalized and rightly so. All of this protest has me thinking. About my own activism, or lack thereof–and my own stake in society at large.

I believe in fairness–for everyone. The wrongs of the world piss me off daily. I avoid the news like the plague because the suffering makes me feel so much anger, sadness and helplessness. I just want it all to change. The flip side to this is that I’ve never been a front lines kind of girl. I never wanted to march in the streets, or carry signs, or even be the loudest person in the room. Sometimes I write about things that are going on, and I will retweet as often as you want me to and sign your petitions until my hand hurts (that’s a joke, by the way. Most petitions are online and you can sign just by clicking). I even write checks when I really believe in the cause. I don’t have a problem with that. But I’ve often shied away from the front lines of social justices, even when I believe in the cause. I don’t really know why. I follow a lot of people on Twitter who hopped the first bus to Ferguson as soon as they heard about the protests, they gathered in their own cities for moments of silence. I didn’t join in. I don’t know why. You know what I did? I wrote a letter to my congressman. I guess I get two points for knowing who he was, but still. How effective am I in the fight? And why don’t I feel the need to be a bigger presence?

In college, there were protests weekly, lol. I guess that’s the upside of going to an HBCU. There’s always something to fight about. I felt a connection there, a kinship. I felt like that cause was all around me. I didn’t have any hesitation about participating. But now, I just… I don’t feel the same urgency. And I know every little effort helps, but I can’t help but feel like I should be doing more, and I wonder why it’s so hard to motivate myself to do more. As I read about Darren Wilson not being indicted and the cop who killed Eric Garner not being indicted, I’m filled with so much fear. Maybe my fear is paralyzing me. Is this where we are? Where we’re going? We can’t walk down the street? Our humanity isn’t enough? Is this where we are? And the answer is yes. The answer is that this is where we are. Where we’ve been. I remember reading about Abner Louima, about Amadou Diallo, about Sean Bell. I remember being scared that it could happen to my dad, to my brothers. I remember wanting to go to sleep and wake up to something better. I think… that all this time I’ve been too afraid to be angry. And that’s why I’m feeling like I’m falling short in my activism. Because to stand on the front line of the revolution you have to be angry. PISSED OFF. FED UP. And I wasn’t. I was always just scared. I also realized that I was so ready to protest the injustices of life in college because I didn’t really have anything at stake. I didn’t have anything to lose. If anything can make you brave, it’s that. Now, not only am I afraid–of what this all means, of how the world will be, but I’m also afraid for everything I feel like I have to lose. I’m afraid because change, and revolution are uncomfortable and tough. Revolution is dangerous, most often violent. And terrifyingly real. I have to admit I don’t want that. Violence makes me sick to my stomach. I’ve never thought of giving my life for a revolution. But people have. Others will. I don’t want to. But isn’t that selfish of me?

I have friends, who fight for the rights of others on a daily basis. They dig right in and do what needs to be done. When my alma mater’s former president made inappropriate comments to young women concerning sexual assault, they jumped right into the fight, organizing and speaking and protesting. I signed their petition, and even sent an email to the Board of Trustees. I retweeted their tweets just like I was asked, but it didn’t go that much further. I just… didn’t have it in me. I couldn’t muster up the strength. And I don’t want it to be construed as not caring, because I do. I care so much. I want to cry sometimes when I think about raising a brown kid in this world. I don’t know what to do. But I know I have to do… something. Today, I read that Eric Garner’s killer would not be indicted. And my heart was so heavy. I. Can’t. Breathe. Those were his last words. And I can’t either. I can’t take this anymore. But I have no idea what to do. What I want to do. What I should do. Should I go to a die-in? Carry a sign? Write another check? Sigh. Maybe I should play “Fuck the Police” until I get angry. I make it a point not to police other people’s activism, because I’m barely raising the conscious bar myself. I don’t try to make people feel bad. Because I know some of us just want to make it through relatively unscathed. Some of us don’t want to rock the boat; some of us just want to survive the ride. Some of us… just want to survive. And maybe that was me. Maybe that is me. But something in me feels like that’s not enough. Not anymore. It could be guilt. Whatever it is, my soul is compelled to follow the feeling. The only question is… how?

Hey guys. First of all I want to say thank you, as always, for rocking with me and reading my thoughts and supporting me. My last post was my most popular one to date. I guess it touched more people than even I thought it would. If you get something positive from reading about me trying to wade through this life, then my heart is full. So thanks for that. I started therapy, and things are okay. As a matter of fact, “okay” has become my new mantra. I don’t say I’m fine, because I’m not. I don’t say I’m doing “good” (or “well” for my wonderful English major friends), because I don’t think I am. I say I’m “okay.” Because that’s as much as I can be right now. It is what it is. But I’m definitely looking forward to being more than “okay” soon.

In my journey to find some peace and clarity about my life, I’ve been talking to people who have helped me–but who have also given me a whole new set of questions. In conversations with my Kah, and my BFF and my cousin Shana, all of whom have a great spiritual belief in their lives, they all wondered how my relationship with God is–and whether I’ve asked Him for help and surrendered this struggle to his will. And in answer to that inquiry, my mind was flooded with fear, confusion and a new set of sadness. Because I haven’t fully. I’ve prayed on occasion, and tried to trust that I would come out of this better, and stronger. But I haven’t really BELIEVED it. I haven’t believed that God can help me. I think I’m losing my faith.

I’ve never been a religious person. My parents weren’t, and it wasn’t something that was stressed in our house. My mom believes in God, and she prays regularly. But the only time we ever went to church was when we got invited to someone else’s. I dabbled in studying to be a Jehovah Witness for a few years, but that had more to do with wanting to be with and like my Kah–because that’s what was practiced in her house. I always believed in the existence and omnipresence of God–and I always believed in the power of prayer. I just never translated that into any sort of organized religious practice. When I got to Lincoln, I was surrounded by people who were very fond of saying that they were “spiritual, but not religious.” I didn’t know if I fit into that group either. I just knew that I believed in a benevolent, loving, patient, forgiving, higher power–and that the key to surviving this life was being as like Him as you could possibly be. I guess I became my mother in that regard. I only go to church when I get invited by other people, and I’ve NEVER been to a church that’s made me want to go more than once.

Fast forward to now… and I’m a little shaky. When Kah asked me if I had a relationship with God, I told her that I didn’t have the one I should have. And when she asked if I even wanted one, I had to say I didn’t know. That made me ashamed. I’ve never felt like that. I have never discounted the power of God, or the necessity of having some sort of relationship with Him. NEVER. When I emailed my cousin Shana, I admitted to her that I wasn’t even sure how I should pray anymore. I can’t even articulate to God that I need help. That’s NEVER happened to me. NEVER. But now? It’s a struggle for me to believe He can help me. Maybe the struggle is believing that He even wants to. Maybe I don’t feel worthy anymore. Either way, I think I’m losing my faith. And what’s worse? I’m afraid I don’t have the energy to fight for it. This is just one more fucking thing. Damn, I’m tired.

Part of me wonders if my inability to fully believe and surrender is just me being the stubborn, uber-independent, control freak that I am. Maybe I’ve become so focused on pulling myself out of this, BY MYSELF, that my arrogance is in the way. Maybe I’m afraid that pushing forward and trusting my faith will mean changes I don’t want to make. See that? Stubbornness. Arrogance. Fear. The Devil is so damn busy. Sigh.

I tried praying the other night. Well, I tried talking. I felt like i was asking for an advance on my salary after meeting my new boss for the first time. There was so much nervousness. So much fear of saying the wrong thing. But even I, in my currently-limited faith, knows that’s not how it should be. If I’m being honest, with Him, and with myself, then there’s no wrong thing to say. Everything is the right thing to say when you’re trying to save your life. And your faith. I should know that.

I was watching random movie clips on Youtube and I stumbled upon the scene from “The Color Purple” when Shug hears the singing from her father’s church and starts singing along, regaining her faith with every note, praising Him and asking for forgiveness at the same time. It’s my favorite scene in the movie. The song was, “God’s Trying To Tell You Something.” It almost made me cry. Because the lyrics are about not being able to sleep, not knowing what’s going wrong–and begging the Lord to speak to you, so you can figure out what he’s trying to tell you. I wish I knew what He was trying to tell me. I wish I wasn’t afraid to ask. I didn’t used to be.

Goodnight, you guys. Be good to each other.

I found a therapist and my first appointment with her is Friday. Deep sigh. That wasn’t nearly as dramatic or as difficult to write as I imagined it would be. It wasn’t even that difficult to say. I think I have Janelle to thank for that. God bless my writer friends. But I bet you’re wondering how I got here, right? That’s valid. I’ve been collecting my thoughts for weeks. So here we go…

*turns on Spotify playlist for background noise*

My friend Janelle is a freelance writer. She writes a column for Essence.com and she’s pretty damn awesome. Anyway, she wrote a column recently where she spoke about both she and her teenage daughter going to therapy. I read it. It settled on me. It sank in. And then I wanted to cry. Why? Because that’s been my status quo for the last couple of months–and it’s getting worse. Let me keep going.

I turned 34 a few weeks ago. Now, my birthday month was full of fun and merriment and good times. I hung out with my friends, my family and I wore the cutest dresses. It was my goal to dress to impress every day. To care about my appearance. To look pretty on purpose. This, because I have the all too easy habit of just trying to be comfortable when I go to work and other places. Anyway, that was what I wanted to do for July. Be pretty. Feel pretty. Spend time with the people who love me. And I did. I bought new clothes and wore them. I took pictures and posted them. I “turned up” and randomly tweeted #turndownforwhat. All that jazz. But as soon as July was over and I looked back at it, I realized that there were a lot of things I DIDN’T do. I didn’t do anything having to do with my real life. I didn’t clean my house, find a handyman or call the lawn people. I didn’t check on the copyright for my book or check back with the artist about the cover art. I didn’t focus or organize myself at work. I didn’t finish any of the projects I set aside for myself. And I had to grasp and really comprehend the fact that I didn’t do any of those things because I was tired. Mentally. I had to acknowledge that. That I’m tired. And that I’ve been tired. Going out for drinks and having barbecues with my family was the easy part of July. And even when I did THOSE things, there were moments when I zoned out and still wasn’t fully engaged. Because I’m tired. So tired.

So August rolls in, and my constantly thinking, overly-analytical self needs to pull this apart and figure it out. I sit with myself, and think over everything that’s been happening. And a lot has been happening. My niece is pregnant. My nephew just had his second child. My Kah is having a baby and so is my brother’s girlfriend. New life, everywhere you turn and where am I? Still all alone. Dating is at a complete standstill and there’s no way to make it move. I’m so fucking tired of being alone. And the last guy I liked? I had to come to the unfortunate conclusion that he and I are not meant to date. Ugh. I had another friend express an interest in me. Where did he go? Your guess is as good as mine. He did some travel for work, and I never heard from him. I guess he really wasn’t interested. Anyway. So there’s that. My best friend is getting married and I will have to leave the house we share early next year. Not only will I be leaving my house, but I will be losing the in-house support that I had in her. We’ll still be best friends, but she has other priorities–like my other best friends. And my Kah has another life to consider now. I’m happy for them. Their complete success and happiness is everything I’ve ever wanted for them. But it’s tough being the odd man out. My job is less and less fulfilling every day, every minute. My supervisor says she can tell I’m not really focused on my work. I can’t argue with her. I’m not. I haven’t been; I haven’t cared to be. I’ve been sitting in my complacency with this job for years, because I liked the things the job was able to afford me. But I don’t like the job. I don’t know if I ever did. I’m getting fatter. I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. And I have other health issues we won’t discuss. But they make this whole thing harder. I know I’m a comfort eater. I know I eat my emotions. And when those emotions are sadness, and loneliness, and frustration–you can imagine how that affects the scale. I already struggle with my confidence, but it seems like every day life is finding new ways to tell me I’m not good enough. And I finally had to 1)acknowledge all these feelings and 2) admit that I can’t handle this on my own. I am simply… overwhelmed. By my life.

I had some conflicting feelings when I was thinking of writing this down. I didn’t want to come across as having a pity party, or as someone who is ungrateful for what I do have. But then I realized that was part of the problem too. This pressure I keep putting on myself to appear as someone who doesn’t need help. Someone who is patient and gracious and happy. I’m not saying that I don’t want to be those things. But right now I’m just not. I’m sad. I am sad. And it’s been a struggle not to fall apart. EVERY DAMN DAY. I love TV. But I watch reruns because I don’t have the mental space to watch a show that I have to follow and engage in. I go to bed early and I wake up tired, still. I eat bad food because not only does the thought of cooking make me tired all over again, but there’s a momentary pick-me-up in a french fry that’s just not in a carrot. Trust me, I looked. I’ve gone so long being the one that’s always “okay.” The one no one ever worries about. The one that doesn’t need help. The one that’s going to push her way through no matter what. The one who comes out on the other side. But lately everything is murky and cloudy and I know the end of the tunnel is near but I’ll be damned if I can see it. And I need to be honest and strong enough to admit that I’m not always “okay.”

I was afraid of coming to this decision. Because therapy is raw. You have to be brave and bare yourself. It doesn’t work unless you do. And I didn’t know if I was ready. But this is not just a funk I need to pull out of. This is real. And as much as I’ve bared myself in this space, with my words, there’s still so much. I’m still full of unshed tears. And this can’t continue. So here we are.

Wish me luck, my friends.

How is everyone? Summer going okay? Did you guys like the story I posted in the last blog? Well things for me haven’t been boring, I’ll just say that. I’ve been thinking and analyzing more than the average person should be allowed. I’m zoning out when I’m with other people, everything. That’s how inside my head I’ve been. I suppose I should have written my thoughts down before this, having so many of them and all. But I couldn’t organize them, couldn’t see the forest. Too many trees. Anyway… I’m ready now. You guys ready? Here we go.

So… interesting news: This past weekend, I told the man that gave me the butterflies two blogs ago that we should just be friends again. Regular friends. The kind that don’t kiss (insert sighs here). Let me give you guys a little background: he knows my family. A lot of them. He and my brother are really good friends. So he’s always at family events and hanging out with us. Now, most of them know I’ve been crushing on him a while. I’m piss poor at hiding my emotions. But not too many of them know he likes me back (he’s a Jedi master at hiding his). So there’s that. I haven’t been telling anyone anything about us because there was nothing official to tell. We just hang out more than we used to. Anyway…

There was a situation, I got possessive, it didn’t go well. Short version: when I’m in town and we’re visiting with each other, he puts the rest of his dating life on hold. That’s what we agreed. That when I was there, I’d get all his attention. And vice versa. Anyway, he’s friends with my brothers and cousins and he’s been connected to my family for a long time. So a cousin of mine (female) calls him. He answers. They talk. All very innocent I guess. But it made me uneasy. Because I know my cousin. So, in front of other people I asked him what she wanted. Why she called. He didn’t answer. Later, in the car with yet another cousin, I asked again. He said she called just to shoot the breeze. I was jealous. I admitted to being jealous. I got frustrated. My cousin starts to defend me. He starts to defend himself. At this point, I dead the conversation. I didn’t want to argue. He promised we’d talk about it later. Later, the two of us are alone and he assures me that I don’t have any reason to be jealous of her. He implies that it’s amusing that I am jealous of her, of all people. I’ve got my emotions under control (at least I think I do) so I’m good after his reassurance. But then… it got real. We started having a conversation about me putting him on the spot in front of other people. How he doesn’t like everybody in his business. How he’s a private person. I took that in stride. I apologized. Because I really was sorry. I let my emotions spill over and I shouldn’t have. But there was a pain in my chest. And I was on the verge of crying with no idea why. I wanted a hug, but knew if I got one I would burst into tears. I felt like a crazy person. I could feel my emotions on the brink. And I think he could see it on my face. Because he kissed me, gently, over and over until I was calm. And then we went our separate ways. But when I woke up the next day… my thoughts were everywhere. But the resounding theme was shame. His words about being a private person and him not wanting people in his business kept spinning in my head like a trash ass rap song, making me sick. And I could feel my shame, reaching in. So I typed a note (because I articulate much better when I write), went to see him and read it. I told him that I was not what he needed because he needs someone who can hide the way they feel. Who WANTS to. Who can see you at a cookout and compartmentalize and pretend like she didn’t have wet panties because of you the night before. And I’m not her. So now we’re regular friends again. Sigh some more.

Now, back to my shame. It was the words that set it off. “I’m a private person,” “I don’t like other people in my business,” “I don’t want people gossiping about me.” After a lot of thinking, I realized that the reason THOSE words struck such a chord is because I’ve heard them. I heard them when I was messing with a guy that had a girlfriend, and when I was messing with the guys that didn’t want anyone to know they were dating a fat girl. I heard them when there was shame connected to being with me. And they made me ashamed of myself. You guys know I struggle with confidence. I struggle with feeling good. Some days I don’t look in the mirror. I struggle on those days. I hide myself, because some days I’m ashamed. Of how much weight I’ve gained. Of facial blemishes. Of skin conditions. Because I have ALL of that. I struggle enough with my own psychosis. Dear Lord, I don’t want anyone else’s. But it’s there. Now I’m not saying he’s hiding a girlfriend, or is ashamed to be with me. I’m not saying that HE used those words to imply shame (even though maybe he did). But other people have. And my heart cracked a little when he said those words because of the other circumstances where I’ve heard them. And I realized that I couldn’t handle him ever saying those words to me again. I couldn’t handle being reprimanded for not being able to hide the fact that I like him. I couldn’t handle being ashamed of how good he makes me feel. And I couldn’t handle the possibility of him being ashamed of it too. I beat myself up a lot. Even he says this. Tells me to give myself a break. Tells me I’m too hard on myself. I know… I am. But it’s because I’m the only person I can control. When I like someone, I’m excited about it. I love the feeling. I smile, I laugh, I drift off into happy thoughts of kissing. And I’m tactile. So I like to touch. Hold your hand. Lean on your shoulder. Feel your hand in the small of my back. My ex wasn’t physically affectionate at all. That was a huge disconnect between us. And the idea that I can’t lean on your shoulder when we’re around my family because you “don’t want people in your business,” and I can’t sit next to you and put my hand on your leg at a cookout because you’re a “private person,” puts me on an emotional train ride, when I thought I’d gotten off at the wellness station years ago. Ugh. Spend years trying to put it away, only to have five minutes bring it back.

So here I am again, trying to stomp out the demons. But I did the right thing backing off. Because I want to be in the light, whether it’s lust or like or love. I want to be in the sun. No more hiding. No more guys I have to keep a secret; no more guys that have to keep me a secret. I have to beat back this negativity so I can look in the mirror EVERYDAY. I want to. So the butterflies I have for him are dissipating, but it’s for the best. And I have every confidence I’ll have them again. I’m not afraid to try, at least.

Back to shadowboxing…

Hey Guys:

How are you all? I have been my usual self: over-thinking, worry-warting, making lists and checking them a hundred times, but ultimately happy and safe and… free. I have my moments, but who doesn’t? But for the most part, this place is a good place. And it’s only getting better. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about that today. Today, I decided to open up my world a bit. For those of you new to me, I’m a writer. I don’t mean strictly in this venue. I mean I’m a writer–mostly of the short story variety, although I dabbled in poetry years ago and I tried my hand at a novel. Short stories are my thing. So much so that I have finished a collection of them that I am publishing this year. I am currently in talks about cover art and have applied for a copyright. So things are moving along. But in preparation for that moment, for the day I open my writing up in a way that I never have before, I wanted to do something smaller, but still just as meaningful. I want to share a story with you. My readers. You all have been so good and supportive, so absolutely wonderful. This blog experience has been everything to me, both exciting and humbling. And I still have so much more to say. So, as a thank you, I’m giving you guys a freebie. It’s one of my older ones. It even has the distinction of having been rejected from a magazine once upon a time, lol. Feel free to let me know what you think.

Torn

Savannah slammed the door, turning to lean her back against it. She sighed; her tea-colored eyes drifted shut. The end had come… again. This time, it hadn’t taken as long as Savannah had thought it would. She supposed it was because he’d known it was coming. Even a blind man could see the disaster, the devastation, the decaying mass their relationship had been. She’d had no choice but to end it… again. Tears slid from under her closed lids; Savannah’s heart twisted painfully. She opened her mouth, her full sensuous mouth, to let forth a sob and could barely catch her breath. As she pushed away from the door and propelled her body up the stairs to the bedroom, she wondered what would happen tomorrow. The plush mattress welcomed her; the soft pillows beckoned her tears. Savannah curled into a ball, trying to understand how this could still hurt so badly when it wasn’t the first time.

The sun danced through the curtains the next morning, pulling Savannah from a tortured sleep. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The walls of her bedroom stared back at her, the baby blue soothing to her frazzled nerves. Savannah scooted to the edge of her mahogany four-poster and dropped silently to the thick-carpeted floor. She began to strip, hoping that a shower might wash away yesterday’s heartbreak. Naked, Savannah walked into her bathroom suite. She looked around at her sanctuary. The pale blue walls to match her bedroom, heated marble floors, double sinks and vanities, whirlpool tub and separate shower closet with eight multi-directional water jets. Her bathroom was an ode to her every luxurious, decadent fantasy; a fantasy that Mike had made possible. Mike, her husband, who loved her, spoiled her, who gave her everything she ever imagined. But Mike was gone. He’d left her in a blaze of anger, pain tinting his hazel eyes two shades darker. He’d yelled that he couldn’t come second in her life anymore; he couldn’t keep sharing her with another man–more specifically, with Justin. Justin, who she’d thrown out–for the sixth time–last night. Savannah knew that letting Justin stay in the house after Mike left her was a mistake. But she never could control herself around Justin, never could say no when he needed something. Her love for him was too strong; it ran too deep. The idea that he could fall without her there to pick him up made Savannah’s blood run cold. She stepped into the shower, turning on the jets, adjusting the water until it was as hot as she could bear it. She soaped her pecan skin, trying not to burst into tears as she thought about Justin, out there alone, with no one to look after him. She finished her shower and brushed her teeth. Savannah stared at her face in the mirror, a face fraught with tension and worry. She wanted to go out and look for Justin, tell him that she hadn’t meant it when she said he needed to leave. But Savannah knew that if she was going to have any chance of convincing Mike to come home, she had to turn her back on Justin. And more than anything, she wanted Mike to come home. Savannah went through the bathroom’s second door, which led into her walk-in closet. The closet also had a second door, which led into the outer hallway, but it was usually locked. The closet was filled with clothes and accessories of every kind, organized by type and color. It was another fantasy brought to life by her husband and Savannah was sad as she stood among her clothes, staring at the empty shelves that used to hold Mike’s things. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. Pulling underwear, socks, blue yoga pants and white cotton top from the shelves, Savannah dressed quickly and headed downstairs. As soon as her foot hit the last step, there was a knock at the door. Savannah bit her bottom lip, nervous. It was beginning. This was the part where she told Justin she was serious, and refused to let him back in. It was a scene they’d both played many times. The knocks became more urgent and Savannah headed to the door, gathering her courage along the way.

            “Who is it?” she called out through the heavy oak door.

            “Vannah, open the door. Please let me in.” Justin called back.

            “I can’t. I told you last night- this is over, okay? This is the last time.”

            “Please, I’ma do better, I swear.”

            “No you won’t. Why do you lie to me? And to yourself? You’re not going to do better and I can’t… I won’t do this with you anymore.” Savannah started to cry, her heart breaking in two.

            “Give me a chance, Vannah! Just one more chance! You know you’re all I have… you gonna leave me out here like this?” Justin begged, his voice rising with his panic. If Savannah didn’t let him in, he was as good as dead… and they both knew it. He tuned into her guilt, hoping to remind her of all they meant to each other. Meanwhile Savannah stood on the other side, sobbing, wrapping her arms around her body to keep her hands from undoing the lock on her front door. She wanted to let him in so badly, but knew she could not do it. Not if she wanted any chance of a normal life, or a normal marriage, again. If she could only make him better, magically cure him of his sicknesses and childish impulses… but she knew from experience that that was a battle Justin needed to fight on his own. Savannah wiped her face, sniffling loudly and trying to get herself together. When she could trust her voice, she began to speak.

            “You have to do this alone. I can’t hold your hand anymore; I have my own life. And as many times as I keep opening my heart to you, opening my door to you, you still don’t stop. So I can’t help you this time. I don’t have anything else to give.”

            “I won’t do it no more, Savannah. I swear to you, baby girl. I’m gonna stop. No more taking stuff from the house, no more bringing women here, no more putting my hands on you- everything stops now.” Justin pleaded. She wanted with all her heart to believe him, but her fear brought her common sense to the forefront- he’d lied far too many times.

            “You’re right- everything will stop now. I’m not going to let you in here, Justin.”

            “What? So it’s like that Savannah? How can you do this to me? Huh? I hope you’re happy when I end up dead!” Justin’s last sentiment was punctuated with hard bangs and kicks that Savannah knew were going to damage her beautiful door and give Mike one more thing to be angry about. But finally, he left. Savannah went to the window and peered out. Justin was sitting on the curb, his head in his hands. Savannah knew he was crying.

            “I love you, I really do. But I have to save myself.” She whispered to the lone figure sitting outside. She turned away and went into the kitchen.

            Savannah was eating a bowl of pasta when she heard keys in the front door. A moment later, her husband entered the kitchen.

            “What you doing here?” he questioned her. Savannah shrugged her shoulders.

            “I could ask you the same thing.” She replied. Mike opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of orange juice.

            “I took the day off; I wanted to work out, came to use the weights and the treadmill. Thought you’d be at work.”

            “Yeah well, last night was rough, so I stayed home.”

            “Justin again?”

            “Yeah but-“ Mike held up his hand to stop her explanation.

            “I don’t want to hear it. That’s okay.” He said, taking his bottle and leaving the kitchen. Savannah stayed to finish her pasta, her throat full of unshed tears. She’d known that Mike wouldn’t want to hear her story, and that he’d think this was like all the other times. She’d known, but still, his rejection hurt. After she finished eating, she went into the dining room and down the stairs to the basement and exercise room. Mike was lifting weights, his muscles glistening with sweat. He’d taken his shirt off and changed into basketball shorts. Savannah felt a twinge between her thighs and she suddenly missed her husband even more.

            “Mike?” she called out. He turned to face her, his dark chocolate face expressionless. His hazel eyes watched her intently, trying to guess what she was going to say.

            “Yeah Vannah, what is it?” he answered, his full lips turning downward in a frown. Savannah bolstered her strength and cleared her throat.

            “I- I threw Justin out… for good this time.” She said quietly. Mike smirked and shook his head.

            “He’ll be back tonight Savannah, we both know that. Why do you even bother with this?”

            “This time it’s different, Mike. I mean it, I really do. I’m trying to change and I-“

            “I’ve heard all this before, baby. Why should I believe you this time?” Mike replied and began lifting again. Savannah could feel her marriage slipping away; knew that she had to convince Mike that she was serious… even if she didn’t believe it herself.

            “I packed his things, Mike. There’s not a trace of him in this house anymore, that’s what’s different. I took back his keys and changed the locks on everything except the front door. The only reason I left that door alone was so you could come in. I took all his stuff to Celeste and told her that she’d have to go back to dealing with him. I asked my doctor to recommend a counselor for me to talk to; I took him off of my insurance policy. And I turned him away, baby. He came back here… and I turned him away.” She explained desperately, needing her husband to believe in her again. Mike put down the weight and stood up. He walked over to her.

            “Show me the policy; show me the changed locks. I want to see everything, Savannah.” He said in a low voice. Savannah took his hand and went up the stairs, showing him the empty closets that used to have Justin’s things, the new keys and alarm codes; the papers verifying that Justin was no longer a beneficiary or under her coverage; more papers canceling the policy Savannah had taken out on him. Mike looked at it all with no reaction. When they were finally just sitting on the living room couch, Savannah tried to hold his hand, but he pulled away. She wanted to cry; he still didn’t believe her. Before she could control her body, she was sliding down to the floor, kneeling in front of her husband, tears running down her face.

            “Please come home Mike.” She begged. He took her hands and tried to pull her up, but Savannah stayed there. She needed him to know how badly she felt for wrecking the best thing in her life, in both their lives. She’d carelessly thrown Mike to the side to protect Justin, to nurture Justin, to win Justin’s love. But all she’d gotten was heartache and she’d broken Mike’s heart in the process. Savannah needed the chance to prove that she was sorry.

            “Savannah I want to… I just can’t, okay? Not right now.” Mike told her, his voice breaking. If there was one thing in the world he could not stand, it was to see Savannah cry.

            “Please, please, I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything. We can move away, like you wanted. I’ll never see Justin again, I promise. Just come home baby; please come home.” Savannah could barely get the words out; she was choking on her own tears. Mike stood up. He pulled Savannah up on her feet and then lifted her into his arms. Her arms locked around his neck and he carried her up the stairs. The two of them were crying. Mike had never learned to say no to Savannah; leaving her was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But Justin was a cancer, poisoning their relationship, and Mike could only take so much. He entered his bedroom and laid his wife on the bed. He kicked off his sneakers and got in beside her, pulling the drapery cord, to make the thin silk canopy fall, enveloping the bed in a filmy romantic cocoon. Savannah loved this bed; that was why he’d bought it. He kissed his wife, using her surprise to slip his tongue into her mouth. His hands moved down her body, reintroducing himself to her curves. His tongue swept her mouth, making her moan aloud and cry harder. Mike had never known desire like this, could feel his penis swelling bigger with each taste of his wife’s mouth. Savannah squirmed underneath Mike’s hands, begging to be touched. She was shocked at the force of her wanting, could feel her body becoming wet, getting ready to receive him. She ran her hands over his chest, rubbing his nipples and tangling her fingers in the soft curls of hair. Mike’s mouth moved to her neck and his hands found their way under her soft cotton shirt. Savannah lifted her arms and the shirt was removed from her body. She put her arms out to receive more of Mike’s kisses and felt air. She opened her eyes. Mike was looking down at her arms, his eyes dark and dangerous. Savannah gulped; she’d forgotten about the bruises.

            “What happened to you?” Mike whispered harshly.

            “Mike, it was an accident.” She rushed to explain. He shook his head.

            “Try again: what happened to you?”

            “Mike, it was nothing. Justin-“

            “Justin did that to you? Justin bruised your arms like that?”

            “Yes, but it wasn’t like you think. He doesn’t know his own strength-“

            “Wasn’t like I think? I think that Justin put his hands on you and by the amount of excuses you making, I think it wasn’t the first time. Why didn’t you tell me?” Mike demanded. Savannah sat up, moving back against the pillows. 

            “I was afraid of what you’d do to him. It was just this and one other time, I swear. He was out of it and I-“

            “What do you mean by that Savannah? Out of it? You mean high, right? He did this to you because he was high?”

            “No! He did it because- because I… I wouldn’t give him any money to cop, okay? I told him he wasn’t getting anything and he slammed me against the wall and gripped me by the arms. He only let me go when I… when I…”

            “When you what, Savannah?” Mike pressed, moving to cradle her in his arms.

            “When I told him I was going to call you.” She answered softly.

            “Why didn’t you call me? Dammit Savannah, he could have seriously hurt you! That’s what I’m talking about. When he’s in that state of mind, there’s no telling what he’ll do. I know you can’t handle his addiction because he can’t even handle it! He would’ve put you in the hospital for a ten-dollar high.” Mike said. Savannah knew the words were true, but she didn’t want to believe them.

It was true that Justin had been getting high off and on as long as she’d known him, which was pretty much her entire life. She went ten years without hearing a word from him and then he showed up on her doorstep one day, claiming he was clean and sober. Savannah was coming off of the hardest time in her life at that point, and thought that Justin could be a part of her and Mike’s brand new life. Mike saw Justin as a threat from the beginning; he worried about his influence over Savannah. Savannah naively thought that there was room for everyone; that she could keep Justin around. But when he started to regress into his old habits, Mike demanded that she cut her losses. Savannah refused; what else could she do? She loved Justin so much. After a while, Mike got sick of not being heard, and of helping someone who only wanted to take his wife away from him. So he’d left her. Things got worse after that.

When she first let Justin move in, he’d promised her he wasn’t getting high anymore. But soon after that, things changed. Valuable things were missing from the house; strange women would be there when she got home. When she confronted Justin, he’d gotten upset and she asked him to leave. But he was right back the next day, reminding Savannah how much he loved her, begging for her forgiveness. And she’d taken him back. And the cycle began. The last two arguments were especially combative. Justin had demanded money, jewelry, anything he could use to cop. When Savannah refused, he’d gripped her, threatening to hurt her if she didn’t help him. Only the threat of Mike had made him see reason. Savannah had never been so afraid. That was when she knew it was time for Justin to go.

            “I know I can’t handle it, Mike. That’s why I told him to leave.” She admitted in a small voice. She ran her hands through her hair and moved closer to her husband. Savannah leaned up and kissed him gently, trying to coax him out of his bad mood. She didn’t want to talk about Justin anymore. She just wanted to reconnect with her husband in the most basic way, and then do all she could to convince him to come home. Mike began kissing her back, caressing her breasts and pushing her back onto the bed. His hands stroked her hard nipples. Savannah looped her arms around his neck. Mike’s mouth moved lower, covering one quivering nipple. His wet tongue set Savannah on fire and she moaned, calling her husband’s name. He stopped and looked at her, his eyes burning into her soul.

            “Make me forget about him, Mike.” She pleaded. He stared at her a moment longer and then began to make love to her again. Savannah gave up her body, her soul, hoping for some relief from the pain in her heart.

 

            Banging on the front door woke Savannah from the soundest sleep she’d had in months. Mike lay next to her, his body still, but Savannah knew he wasn’t sleeping. He was waiting to see what she would do. Savannah turned on the lamp next to her bed and sat up. She rubbed her eyes, and contemplated her options. If she let Justin in, not only would Mike leave again, but Justin would suffer his wrath for the bruises on her arms. If she sent him away, he might not make it through the night. Savannah made her decision quickly and moved to get out of bed. When her feet hit the floor, she turned to her husband.

            “Come with me.” She whispered. Mike hesitated, and then got out of bed. Savannah wanting his support was a monumental thing. Normally, she demanded the space to deal with Justin on her own, saying that no one loved him, understood him, like she did. Asking for his presence meant that not only was she allowing Mike to help her deal with Justin, but also that she had no plans to let him in. Mike pulled on his shorts and a T-shirt and waited for Savannah to find her slippers. They went downstairs and Mike unlocked the front door. He pulled it open. Justin stood on the other side, looking tired and weak. His face was drawn and had a grayish cast.

            “Hello Justin.” Mike spoke quietly. Justin stared at him with hatred in his eyes.

            “You’re the reason! You’re the reason she’s turning her back on me! You’re the reason she doesn’t love me anymore!” he said loudly. He tried to push past Mike and enter the house, but Mike easily held him off.

            “I told you this morning- no more Justin.” Savannah said, stepping into his line of vision. Justin sneered at her.

            “You didn’t mean that shit- you never do. You love me, and the two of us are supposed to be together. Hell, we’re all we’ve got.”

            “That’s not true. You may feel alone in the world, but I’m not. I have Mike. I tried to help you; God knows I tried. But this is too hard and I’m not equipped for this. I just want some peace; can’t you understand that?” Savannah poured out her feelings, warring between sympathy for Justin and her own sense of self-preservation.

            “I just need a place to rest my head, Savannah.” Justin said in a low voice.

            “You should go home, to Celeste. I mean, technically it’s your house too.” Savannah reasoned. Mike was silent during this exchange, knowing that his opinion wouldn’t be the deciding factor either way. Justin shook his head.

            “She won’t let me in. I don’t want to have to deal with her; I don’t want her to try and deal with me-“

            “But you don’t give a damn about me having to deal with you, right? How could you do this to me? How could you take advantage of me? How could bring that shit into my house when you know what I went through, when you know how hard I worked to get clean? I thought you cared about me!” Savannah’s voice was rising with her anger and frustration. Justin held a place in her heart that no one could touch, but he was everything that she spent the better part of three years trying to overcome.

Mike was surprised. Savannah always said she tried to avoid bringing up her past drug use. She didn’t want Justin to feel bad, she would say. It was always a sore point between them. Justin using and coming to Savannah for help sabotaged her recovery, Mike thought. It just made his resentment of Justin grow.

            “I care about you Savannah. I love you and you know that. I just need a break, that’s all.” Justin begged. Savannah angrily wiped the tears that had begun to fall. She wanted to scream. Mike looked at her and stepped forward again. He could see Savannah fighting with herself, mentally tearing herself in two.

            “Look Justin,” he began, hoping he wouldn’t regret what he was about to say, “we have a little room over the garage. All it has is a bed. It has a private entrance so you could rest there whenever you needed to. We’d leave you food every day, but you wouldn’t be allowed in the house. Could you handle that?” Savannah stared at her husband, amazed. Even after all that had happened, he still had enough forgiveness in his heart for Justin. Savannah fell even more in love at that moment and made a promise to God that she’d never hurt Mike again. Justin stared at them for a long moment, and then he nodded his head. Mike nodded also.

            “I’ll get some shoes on and we’ll get you settled. Stay here on the porch until I get back.” He instructed and went into the den. Savannah leaned against the wall and let out a deep breath.

            “Please forgive me, Savannah. I just need- I just need…”

            “A place to catch your breath, I know. I needed the same thing. But eventually the occasional breath wasn’t enough. I had to give that life up… before I lost everything. You have to give it up too.”

            “I’m too old and I’m not like you, Vannah. You’re the strong one; you always were. I love you.” Justin finished just as Mike came back into the foyer. He stepped outside and started closing the front door.

            “Go back to bed; I’ll be there soon.” He instructed Savannah. She nodded and wiped her face.

            “I love you so much, Vannah girl.” Justin called as he went down the front steps.

            “I love you too Daddy.” Savannah called back. Mike closed the door and Savannah went upstairs to wait for her husband.

The End

Two weeks ago I wrote a blog that was so fraught with frustration and emotion that I was spent after it was finished. But it was about my mother, and had a little too much of my family business for me to feel comfortable posting it. I will one day though. I want to. I want to be able to tell the truth about how I’m feeling. But the truth has consequences. And if the consequences could be hurting my mother’s feelings, I can pass on posting it… for now. Anyway, I will move on. Because today I have something much more fun to talk about.

The Butterflies Are Back!

What does that mean, you ask? It means I’m in like. It means that there is someone in my life right now that makes me smile when I think of him. How fucking amazing is that? It’s not love–but I don’t want that right now. It’s fun and exciting–it’s good old lust and appreciation. It makes me a little tingly. There’s something about a strong man that makes me appreciate everything feminine about myself. It gives me butterflies. I wrote a poem once about missing the butterflies in my life. I can share it with you guys. Here we go:

The Jody Watley Blues (I’m Looking For A New Love)

So… 

I figured out that the butterflies are still there- they haven’t disappeared 
I see them everywhere 
When I’m with my friends and their partners, I breathe in the air of their love 
And realize that it comes with the high of romance, the elevation of friendship, the thrill of good sex 
I’m not at that altitude anymore… 
Mines is the atmosphere of peace and self-reflection- mines is the freedom of personal space 
Different but still good… I must say though- I sure do miss those butterflies 
I close my eyes and feel the flutter of their little wings, remember what it was like 
The thought doesn’t fill me with fear anymore… I think that means I’m ready 
The crushing blow of lost loves and broken hearts- my tears and screams scared the butterflies away 
Now when I see them over someone else, I miss what I shared, I miss what I felt 
I wish they’d come back to me… 
Lips that tingle, fast beating hearts, slow burning fire, weak knees…. that’s what the butterflies bring 
Anticipation in every dance, excitement in every breath, passion in every touch… that’s what the butterflies bring 
I wish they’d come back to me…

Forgive me if it’s not what you’re used to–poetry isn’t normally my thing. But that was how I felt back then. I was free from loving people, and liking people and having people step all over my feelings. I was at peace. But I sure did miss those butterflies. Anyway, fast forward a little bit and I try to get back into the dating game. It started off innocent… and then turned into a whole damn mess. I got lied to, rejected, slut shamed, jerked around AND Catfished. So I washed my hands of the whole thing. I told myself I was taking a break. I didn’t want to date. You guys know this. I wrote a couple blogs about it. My dating woes could make you laugh… if you weren’t me. So I walked away. And then something happened…

I’ve been knowing this guy a long time. He’s my friend. I’ve always been attracted to him, but we had all kinds of imaginary obstacles and then eventually one very real obstacle: he was in a relationship. I was cool. He’s my friend. I only ever want him to be happy. Plus, I gave up wrecking homes years ago (kidding). Anyway, so one day, he’s not in a relationship anymore. And now… there’s heat when I see him. I mean, in all my womanly parts. In my eyes, in his eyes. In the cot damn AIR when we’re around each other. And other people notice it too. Now, what I’ve always liked about him, and what made us good friends was our ability to talk. Now I can’t even talk without tripping over my speech and I’m thinking about his lips when I should be thinking about his words. And I have to keep my hands from grabbing him, and–well you get the idea. It’s so cool to feel this way again. I like this stage. It’s exciting. I feel hopeful, and lusty and full of smiles. Now I flirt constantly. Because it feels good again. Being in like will do that for you. Talk about conquering the world. Lol.

We’re not in a relationship. I don’t even know if we’re going to be. One, because he’s not ready and I don’t want to be his rebound girl. I don’t want to be anyone’s rebound girl. Second, because he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Maryland. The distance between us is not vast, but it’s enough. I don’t want either of us to have obligations we’re not ready for. I don’t want there to be pressure… on either of us. I like what we’re doing now. I like liking him, and flirting with him and getting all lusty when I see him. I like that this is easy. Easy is good. Because dating was so HARD. And I hated that.

I’m going to ride this wave as long as I can. What will be, will be. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Maybe I’ll just have some harmless fun. Maybe I’ll fall in love. Maybe it’ll fall apart. Who knows? I think the best part is that I’m not afraid of it anymore, whatever it is. I am not afraid. I am so fucking ready… for whatever this is. The butterflies make me brave. They make me fearless. And I’m going to take this feeling as far as I can. I’m going to see him soon. We’ll have great conversation; we always do. Hopefully, I’ll be able to focus on his words and not my desire to suck on his bottom lip. But who knows? Maybe I’ll get my chance and we’ll save the convo for later.

After all… that’s what spring is for, right?

Lately, my life has been one big ball of emotion. Most days I feel good, excited about what’s coming, filled with that kind of scary anticipation that makes your heart beat faster and your knees weak. There are down days, days when my overactive imagination and my tendency to analyze and internalize every little thing backfires and I’m left with a churning stomach of worry and doubt. But that’s just me, and that passes. It’s the drawback to being so emotionally connected to everything I do. But outside of that, things are overwhelmingly positive. And the positive attitude and excitement about my general life direction gives me the space and calm to write down things that I might otherwise let simmer in my head and drive me crazy. So here we go. That was a just a general status update and introduction. On to the heart of this, which not surprisingly came together one day when I was scrolling on Twitter.

I follow a page on Twitter (I’m pretty sure it’s run by a guy) called PostBigFines. The purpose of this page is to post pictures and show appreciation for plus size girls. There’s a little that gets lost in translation because the term “fine” is completely subjective and firmly in the eyes of whomever is looking at the picture at that particular time. It also furthers the example of men wielding the power of deciding beauty and judging who belongs in said category, not to mention that some people are just mean and don’t know how to live and let live and just ignore things that aren’t their preference. But on the whole, I think the heart of it is in the right place. The women on this page are gorgeous, with awesome outfits and great hair and flawless makeup. They range from the slightly thick-thighed to the all around chubby and I have secret girl crushes on a lot of them. The pictures show a sex appeal and confidence that radiates… it makes me happy. It makes me envious. Anyway, the reason I bring them up is because I was reading an editorial/ blog by a girl named Sesali B (@BadFatBlackGirl on Twitter) who was expressing her own opinion on the page and the overall acceptance of womens’ bodies on a broader scale. When I read what she wrote, I found her on Twitter and followed her immediately (I think that’s the absolute beauty of Twitter. There are so many people to learn from). Anyway, I was happy when I saw her page and her thoughts because one of the first things she said was that she was a “self-identified fat girl.” That almost made me jump for joy inside a little. Why, you ask? Because I’ve been one and I’ve been told it’s not a good thing.

Now, before I start I already know most of what people are going to want to tell me about validation and how you almost never need it from other people the way you think you do. I also know that having this stem from inside me reveals issues within myself that I need to reconcile–and I will. But back to this “fat girl” thing. It always struck me as funny that I looked at something as a triumph and other people could see it as a failure.

I’ve been this size for a while. And I’ve been plus-size my entire adult life. So there isn’t a fat joke I haven’t heard, or a name I haven’t been called. I’ve gotten the side eye at buffets and been afraid to post my meals because I didn’t want people to think that all I did was eat. I’ve been through ALL of that. And it’s not over, because the insensitivity and meanness of people doesn’t go away. Everyone has something they want to keep inside. Something that’s so personal to them they want to hide it. But being fat? There’s no way for me to hide that. Can you imagine? One of the biggest sources of pain I’ve ever had in my life is something I can’t hide. And that’s why I take the rest of my weight manifestations so personally. I keep the mental and emotional sides close to the chest. I don’t talk about it, I don’t want to. I don’t post pictures of green smoothies, and before and after shots, and talk about my exercise classes. And it’s not because I’m ashamed, or sad. It’s because I want to have SOMETHING for myself. Because my thighs, and stomach are out there constantly for the world to see. Not being able to run far or fast, losing my breath–those are all physical manifestations that everyone can see ALL THE TIME. There’s no way for me to get away from it. So I decided that the rest… was my business.

Now, the other part of this was that years ago I wanted to take back some of the power I had given all the mean people who made fun of my weight. And my mother told me that the only way to do that was to embrace it. See myself as beautiful, see myself as valuable. Own whatever I am, and be proud of it. Be amazing at it. That day, I became a “fat girl.” Confidence has always been a struggle for me and my weight was always a part of that. So I wanted to make that better, ease that burden. I wanted to feel like whatever I am, no matter what it is, is great. So when people called me fat, I responded with, “And?” I went to college and met my best friends, most of whom are the sexiest, most amazing plus girls I’ve ever met. My Stinky, my best friend Dana, used to say, “I’m fat, all my friends are fat and we like it.” We even gave our skinny friend Nikki honorary “fat girl” status because of her bond with us (and because she can eat most grown men under the table). That felt amazing to me. And I realized it was because I was confident. I embraced myself. I owned the word and as long as I did that, no one ever hurt me with it. And that radiated. It showed. Because college was the place I got more male attention that I’d ever had in my life. It was the place I found myself. It’s still the best time of my life. My world view was bigger and I felt better.

Anyway, fast forward to some years later and that self-identifier has become both a gift and a curse. Because I expanded my circle of friends and this is not college. I’ve been told in more recent years that me saying I’m a “fat girl” is a way of putting myself down and that I should stop. I’ve been told that it stems from an inner self esteem issue and that I need to get to the root of it because that’s what’s ultimately affecting my somewhat stale love life. My brother literally cringes when he hears me say it. And then he’s angry with me afterwards for referencing myself that way. He can’t stand it. And before I knew it, I was under the influence of everyone around me and  “fat” was making me feel bad again. I can’t call myself a “fat girl” because then I get a lecture about putting myself down. And then I wonder if I really am. I start to think about my self-esteem. And I can’t use Dana’s language about “all my friends being fat”, even though many of them are in fact thicker or plus sized–because THEY don’t like it. They don’t want to be seen as fat.  “Fat” is bad to them. It’s a curse word. It’s the opposite of good. Now I’ve noticed that a lot of them don’t mind being “thick” girls, because for some reason, that’s better. I don’t see it. To me, “thick” just means you have one thing on your body that’s fat, instead of multiple things.

My thing is… I don’t want to feel like that about a WORD. I’m a writer. I know words have power. But how can I ever be effective at learning and sharing as many perspectives as possible if ONE word can cripple me? I don’t want to “fat” to be my heart breaker. That doesn’t make any sense to me. I liked being a “fat girl.” I liked having “fat girl” friends. I liked that the word didn’t hurt anymore. And lately I feel like I’m surrounded by people who have been projecting the hurt and meanness and negativity that “fat” makes THEM feel, onto me. But I’ve had my turn with that. I didn’t have a baby, or a life crisis or a bad relationship and then suddenly put on some weight. I’ve been fat since I was ten years old. So I’ve had quite enough years cozied up with other people’s negative projection of the word. AND I DON’T WANT THAT ANYMORE. Time for get my own perspective back. And be proud of the moves I’ve made. This fat girl’s doing pretty okay for herself…

Today is a snow day for me and for the most part, I’ve been on my couch, surfing the net, with VH1 Soul on mute. Earlier today, they had an hour called, “Soul Squared” where they show a double play of different artists. One of the artists they picked today was Ms. Erykah Badu. Seeing her two videos got me thinking about one of my favorite songs by Ms. Badu, “Next Lifetime.” Now, I’m about 99.8% sure that anyone reading THIS blog knows of Ms. Badu and of this song. But for those who don’t, here’s a quick breakdown: the song is about meeting someone who you like, and could see yourself falling for–but you’re already in a relationship. So, you accept that it’s not meant to be and say, “I’ll guess I’ll see you next lifetime.” Music is such a heavy influence in my life. And this is a song that has popped into my head a few times over the years. Right now, there are three men in my life–wonderful, talented, kind, intelligent and not bad on the eyes either, lol. These men are my friends, kind and supportive of me. And at one point, I crushed on all three of them. Heavy. Like I could see myself washing their draws and cooking their dinner every night. That heavy. And for an entire score of reasons, I couldn’t be with any of them. I still can’t. But they all gave me so much insight into the kind of man I DO want in my life. Which I guess is the positive. I mean, if you’re going to want what you can’t have, at least it can inspire you to figure out what will work for you when you meet the one you CAN have.

Now, this is not a self-pitying blog. It’s not a sad blog, or a lonely blog. It’s more of a… sometimes-I still-wonder-if-it-could-have-worked, blog. For example… Number One is awesome in so many ways. He’s a great father (which makes him twice as attractive to me), who appreciates art and shares my love of music. He knows how important chemistry is. And he’s smart. Number Two shares most of my beliefs on relationships and we have the best conversations. He asks for my advice, which guys tend NOT to do–and I love that. It means he respects my opinion. He struggles a little, but has the best comebacks. He’s honest about who he is. Number Three is confident. He’s passionate, outspoken, but quiet sometimes too. He reminds me… of me, lol. He’s doesn’t hide who he is for anyone and it’s likely he won’t apologize either. He is who he is–deal with it or not. All three of them fill a space with their friendship, make me feel a little less… alone. Like I said though, there was a time when I crushed on all three of them pretty heavy (but not simultaneously, lol). And sometimes I wonder if they ever felt the way about me that I used to feel about them. I’m never going to ask, lol. I have friendships to preserve. I don’t need awkwardness in my life. But it’s led me to some interesting thoughts.

I’ve become sort of an expert in unrequited love. I seem to always gravitate towards people who can’t or won’t feel the way about me that I do about them. I don’t want to take it back to my dad (the biological one), but it seems like I’m going to have to. The hole he left has me grasping, trying to understand. It’s a bit of a sickness for me to crave emotional unavailability because I’m used to it–or to try to “cure” it in others because I couldn’t “cure” it in my dad. I think the second one’s a little more accurate. By the end of my last relationship, I was begging him to care, to love me back. And I know that’s not required. But being in love by yourself is so very tiring. If anyone needed a break, it was me. But he never felt what I felt. And my heart got broken twice. Once, when I realized he didn’t love me, and again when I finally left him (because believe it or not, those two didn’t happen at the same time). In college, I fell so hard for this guy. We were friends, because he didn’t want more and I didn’t want to lose him. He knew I had feelings for him though and he seemed sensitive to that. Fast forward about eight years after graduation and I see him at Homecoming. We’ve lost touch, but I’m always happy to see him. I had no ill will whatsoever. We speak, it’s good. I walk away and he says to his friends, in earshot of my friends, “Is Shameka married yet? I hope soon so she can stop being in love with me.” Then a laugh, like he made a cool joke. My friends tell me this, and I have steam coming out of my ears. Yeah, I did love him once. But I never forced myself on him. Or pushed for more–because I knew he didn’t feel the same way. I had never done anything but be his friend and there he was, making a mockery of my feelings (that had been VERY real) and making fun of me with his buddies. I was angry. Not to mention, it’s EIGHT YEARS LATER!!! I am not checking for you, you dread-locked, anti-social, pseudo-revolutionary asshole. You see how careless people are with other people’s hearts?! I was over him, but what if I wasn’t? Why is that okay?

I find myself wondering how people deal with knowing that they’re someone’s crush when they don’t feel the same way. I know you don’t owe the other person anything, but compassion is free and it would be nice. I have spent too much time on the wrong end of that scenario. Although I don’t know if there’s a right end. It’s gotta be a little difficult to be the object of someone’s affection when you don’t feel anything for them. I imagine that’s hard, but only if you’re someone who cares about other people’s feelings. Either way, I’m working to get out of that scenario altogether. I think I’m making a bit of progress, but we’ll see.

I told you all how frustrating and tiring and stupid dating has been. But I think one of the reasons I’m having so many misses so fast is because I don’t drag out the inevitable anymore. If you make it clear you don’t want what I want, I step back. I’m learning to believe people when they tell me who they are. It’s always such a process to get yourself out of programmed behaviors, but it’s necessary when they’re killing your spirit. They say hearts are pretty resilient, but I still want to try and contain the number of breaks. I think I’ve had my fair share. And blowing them off quickly may seem like another bust, which is discouraging, but it’s better than waiting until I’ve fallen for you to try and take my heart back because you don’t want it. It’s better than my love going unrequited… yet again. And better than me adding you to my list of “next lifetimes.”

I remember when the soundtrack to my life was “Icebox” by Omarion. Lol. I was tired of fighting and I was numb. Just ice cold about everything. Thank God I got over that. Although “Next Lifetime” is not a good choice either. I’ll figure it out.

*Opens Spotify- plays “The Man” by Aloe Blacc