I have long wondered
how in the hell God saw fit to keep my life away from a healthy relationship. I
have been angry at, towards and about God. I have all but cursed God, but I’d never
do that, so I haven’t. I have been hurt and if I’m not mistaken, I have cried...
Endlessly.
I have cried at the
thought.
I have cried at the
television. I have cried in my room, cried during church, I have cried while
strolling through the mean streets of facebook. I have cried at weddings. I have
cried driving.
I have cried while
listening to music. I have cried while getting dressed. I have been in the
midst of doing my make up for the day (meaning eyeliner and filing in my
brows), and had to start over due to tears that began forming and flowing,
turning my face canvas into an ice skating rink for eyeliner. I have cried and
hurt….about love.
About not having it.
Not getting it. Not having a fair shake or a fair shot at it. I remember
hearing a poet say if a woman has never been engaged by age 35, there is something
wrong with her. I may have mentioned that in this blog before because under
that rule of thumb, something IS wrong with me.
But I don’t live by
that, so that doesn’t matter.
But I have cried about
it. About not having been anything great enough to be engaged to. Not being
beautiful enough. I have struggled with body issues that you can’t imagine. Too
fat, too skinny, just right , just body.
I often feel like JUST
a BODY.
That’s it. Like fuck yo’ poems bitch, bend
over and let me see that booty. Like that’s what every man that doesn’t call
himself my brother thinks. I hope none of my brothers secretly don’t secretly
partake and I admit to wondering sometimes have they ever thought extensively
about my ass? It doesn’t matter because if we call each other bro & sis,
they would never say anything right? Let’s
hope so. Let this be a warning. Lololol……
A friend recently told me she didn’t want my experiences with other
people to affect the way I saw and dressed myself. She noted how I have stopped wearing the
long baggy sweaters and jeans in attempts to hide what never actually gets
hidden. Gone are the old tennis shoes
and the weave ponytails. You have no idea the measures and levels I've gone to in effort to prevent my ass from getting the attention over me. Even still today, there are things I would never wear (some of which I own), based solely off of the response I know it will get me. * shrug *
But I have become more free in this aspect than other years. I rock heels, dresses, skirts and cute shirts. I love fashion and I love getting dressed. I love that the size I am. It took work and continues to take work to be here. But I am often a prisoner of this body. I feel like all I am is a big ass. Like the cutie who I almost slept with wouldn’t want me based on my face, my poems or my attitude in general. He sees something that looks like it would probably feel good. Like the poets who I have been so eager and excited to meet and fellowship with and talk all things poetry with who see me and say things to me like “ I was thinking of you when I was doing my erotic poem”. …. .hmm… that’s interesting since you don’t know. <<<The response I should have said out-loud.
I am a prisoner to my
ass at the gas station, I am a prisoner to my ass around my stepfather’s
friends (I always would see their reactions to me as I grew older and more into
a woman), I am prisoner to my ass everywhere I go. Why do I say this? Because it’s
ALL they ever see. It’s all they talk to. I’ve written and performed a poem about
it before and have probably discussed this in this blog. My ass is beautiful.
Very few dimples and yes, she manages to still have some type of sit-up
capabilities. It’s probably all those squats I did when I was courting a nigga
that should have been courting me. She’s
a nice color and looks awesome in boyshorts. Gone are the hand prints from the
days of me stripping and niggas smacking it so hard that I would tip over in my
heels. It’s smooth. Shelly, is smooth…Shelly
is the name I’ve been calling my ass since early 2000s. I love my ass. People are out here buying and
dying for asses….i have an ass. And I think it’s a nice ass and sometimes, I bounce
it in the mirror to see if it will still pop the way it did when I was in my
20s.
It does.
For the most part.
But my ass is just an
ass and doesn’t and has never defined me. After it stops bouncing, the bills are still due, the dogs are still wanting to go potty and I still have a blog to write, a poem to rehearse and somewhere to be at 7pm. After my ass is uncovered in all her ass glory, I still have to wake up and go to work, I still have to practice repeatedly to learn it, I still will not be in love and I still will not be loved back. It's just an ass. It serves few purposes. It is behind me, so that alone lets
you know it has no bearing on my future, yet it has dick-tated almost every man
I have met. And for this, I have cried. I have cried because I can’t and won’t
have children, but I really don’t want one beyond the age of 3, so it works in
the grand scheme of things. I have cried because I don’t get attention. I have
cried because the attention I get is all wrong.
I have cried because I wanted to be dated, I wanted someone to surprise
me with things they know I would love,
I’ve wanted someone who
WANTED to see me smile so badly, that they made it happen.
And I don’t have that.
And haven’t had it. And I’ve cried because of that MANY times.
I don’t pray for a man.
I have never been that person. I just think of all the things I could and
should be praying for, a man is not one of them. Not that there is anything
wrong with it, it’s just not my cup of prayer-tea. I have prayed to be open, to
be optimistic, to be ready….but never FOR a man to touch down. I don’t see that
changing.
But I have cried about
it to God.
I go home to the
silence of my house and love it more often than not. But there are days, like
the two that recently passed by, that I want someone to text me. To be excited
to talk to me. And it not be like everybody else. That I know I am different
and special and on another playing field than EVERYONE else.
I want to FEEL.
I haven’t felt.
I want to LOVE.
I’ve only loved projections.
I want affection.
I’ve only given it.
I want to giggle and be
tickled and laugh and write love poems again and have heart eyes and all that
stuff…….
But you know what…..
One year later,
I don’t believe any of
that is for me. I’ve toggled w/the idea that I’m not meant for companionship
and sometimes it’s hard for me to believe and accept, but most times…I would
say about 90% of the time, I just don’t believe it. I don’t believe that
wedding will come. Or that honeymoon. Or those feelings. Or that happiness. I
can see myself standing on a cliff nearest water crashes, but I see it alone.
Not w/my husband and a pastor and a witness or two. I feel like it’s just me. People
are always hollering “keep the faith’’ or ‘someone is out there’, as if they
KNOW this information. There may not be someone out there for me. And that statement seems so unfair.
And that hurts. It will
hurt forever. It will always hurt me, to the earthly core of my body that i
feel this way.
I will always feel a
way about all that I am being for no one else.
I see the way men look
at me and these days, if they are not giving me the salacious, salivating look,
then they are looking at me so neutral
that I could drive through a carwash with it.
I wonder sometimes if
the man looking at me, whomever he is at the moment, thinks I’m beautiful.
I still wonder these
things. I still wonder will anyone ever see my light, and it still hurts that
no one ever has and that I feel like no one ever will. I still continue to live
my life tho. It’s still abundantly beautiful. I am confident in who I am and
who I am becoming. I am proud of all I have survived and lived through. I know
that if anyone were to ever catch me for real,
It would be the best
catch of their lifetime.
I know, for a
fact, that even in all my flaws, I am a beautifully created good woman. A Very
Good woman. I have raised kids that weren’t mine, I’ve hidden guns, kept dope,
hell put my fucking fingerprints on guns, I have been ready to fight, to tear
up and to go to war for my man. Things I would NEVER do again for someone because someone who loves me would never place me in said positions. I have written him to life in poems. I have
sung him to sleep when he was sick. I have pushed his back until he stood back
up and I have been at his side for every single thing that ever happens, good,
bad and indifferent. I have taught myself how to be a top chef and I am
sexually uninhibited. I am smart and I love who I love with all the love I have.
I don’t desire to punish anyone for what others have done. I only seek to spend
days patrolling the growing towers of love between two people....
I know I have
growing to do. I know I fucked up #MuseWeasel because I emasculated him. I
wanted to ‘save’ him like the Captain of an E40 16, and you can’t do that with
a man. I didn’t play the woman role only, I played BOTH of us. Lesson learned. You don't teach a man how to treat you by treating him that way. I thought so. That's not true. And he won't learn it.
It saddens me sometimes, still, that I spend all this good alone. That after all these lessons that I feel excited to act upon, I get nothing but a dry spell and a waning desire to masturbate. Oh how life is changing.
One year ago,
I released the first
blog of this series. I was hurting. I
was mortified by my hurt. By the fact that a man would come into my life and
have every possibly opportunity NOT to hurt me and then go on to do just that.
So I decided to channel that pain and hope to heal through this blog where I would
not only talk about him, but I would talk about them all. I have gone through
ups and downs, ins and outs of my dating life here. It’s been funny at times
and often sad.
It has all had purpose
to heal me, once and for all. To sweep up and out what the Only the Brave show
didn’t get rid of. It has done just that in so many ways. I have watched it
grow, I have watched the readers leave comments to my hearts delight and the
number counts go up. This blog has allowed me the opportunity to purge feelings
that would otherwise still be within me. Each one was written as spontaneously
as they appeared. Each one gave me life
in some way or another.
And now here I am one
year later.
I don’t cry as much
anymore, but I still do from time to time. I don’t really want a relationship
right now at all to be honest.
But I ABHOR the
feelings of not being WANTED or DESIRED. …for my mind.
I know I rock. I do.
I promise you that
much. I know that any man should be proud to be chosen by me. Through this blog
I have learned lots about the prey and the hunter shit. They say men are the
choosers, but we women have responsibility in choosing as well. Folks act like
we just sit back and look pretty until someone deems us great enough to go with
his flow, but the truth is, everybody is choosing.
The ones I have chosen
to allow to entertain me have been duds. Fools Gold as I like to call it.
I have hit duds with my
choosey finger. And each time I got away with marks and bruises but still
alive. But the last time, it blew up.
I barely escaped with
mental life. It collapsed me. The hurt itself collapsed me. This blog is
literally me rising, inch by inch by inch with each posting. Today, I stand
straight up. I do get those feelings of wanting to be wanted and every now and
again (def not like it used to be), I cry. But for the most part, I stand up
straight in high heels and I smoke a black and mild while looking out my
windows. I’m happy. I am. I have an internal joy that combats and beats out the
tears that want to flow due to me being all by myself. I have managed to regain control of the
emotions that had scattered all over the place and were ready for war. I don’t
troll twitter or Instagram and look for signs that the last person who hurt me
is now hurting. I stopped doing that but it took a long time. I waited so impatiently
to be properly front row seated to watch his misery. Misery indeed DOES love
company. I tried to get him to be mine. I don’t dream about him anymore, nor do
I see his name daily, EVERYWHERE, anymore. Sheeeeeeeeeeesh, I made it yaw. If I
haven’t done anything else with this time or this blog, I healed from that
non-relationship.
I don’t feel him or
smell him or even think about him without being ‘triggered’.
I don’t want to tear my
ears off from hearing Justin Timberlake anymore, but I know I will never get
Stankonia back again. I have reclaimed my right to hear love music and love it
for music and not cry about my life that lacks love.
I have healed from
#MuseWeasel.
But I am still working
on healing from all of them as a whole. The damage is done. It’s repairable
tho. And I’m still working, daily, constantly, battling sometimes and breezing
by other times, to not be irreparably broken by niggashit.
I can listen to John
Legend’s “I love, you Love’ and not feel like my life is falling apart,
lololol. I’m still coming back, but I am back from a dark place. There’s work
left, so the blog continues and the road to my first best seller continues
right here. I thank you for taking this journey with me. I think I said that
earlier. Now you should know it’s real ;)
You know why?
It's not just because I can. After all that typing I did about feeling like I am nothing but an ass, there has to be some type of real reason why I'd want to go to a nude beach and actually get nude right?
Well...yeah. There is.
It's mostly because I want to,
but partly because in reclaiming my emotions and myself, I have to also reclaim my body. I can't be a 'prisoner' in this body, as i have to live with it. When I did the Vagina Monologues show last weekend, one of my poems that I probably performed the best and was most connected to was entitled "My Vagina Is My Village". ....this poem is a woman on two sides of her personality: The one happy, excited, fresh, free, fun, i -love-being-woman vagina poem, and the other being the broken, deadened, hurt for life, raped, pillaged, abused vagina. These contrasts blended together to make a monologue, albeit a difficult one, that had to be interpreted by yours truly. I've never been raped (by rape's actual definition). I've never been stuffed with shotguns or broom sticks and have never been gang-bodied by soldiers who left me dirty, stinking and full of them. But i have been pillaged, proded, probed, i have been violated and the most scary part about reading this poem, I have been and still am, today, the flip side of her personality. The broken spirit. The one who "does not touch there". The one who "lives somewhere else" and "doesn't know where that is" .....that IS me just as Rose from For Colored Girls is me, just as all the characters I keep getting blessed to play are me. In some way, they are always me. And they always teach me about me because they show me myself from a perspective that the writer never witnessed in ME, but wrote about me. I will not be disconnected from myself or from my body.
I am one unit. One beautiful unit that deserves to be able to withstand herself, flaws, glory and all. Dimples, punctures, wounds, breaks, tears, mishaps, beautifuls, lovelies and all. ALL of me deserves ALL of me to be loved by ALL of me.
Whoooooa chile, what a journey. It won't expire before I do (the journey).
I will, in the future
postings (this one not really included), edit !!!! I will definitely start editing,
which is something I have not done in the past. Misspellings and misplaced
words and sentences that flow well or are incomplete have been apart of this
blog so as to show the raw emotion behind my blogging. Now, I will change that. I will edit and
clean the blogs up moving forwards. Hey, this is a book. So it has to be clean.
But that’s it. Spell checking and sentence checking…..content is exactly what
the content is. This is not your Christian Singles network blog. But God don’t
love me no less. I don’t love God any less either. And I’m not mad at God. I
hurt to God and hope that S(H)e hears my cry like a roll of thunder.
I don’t know if I will
EVER share my life with someone.
Like I said, I don’t necessarily believe I will. But I don’t
count it out.
I just don’t count it. All the shit dudes say sounds a lot like blahblahblah blech.
I count the mile marker signs instead instead of the He Loves Me petals.
There’s a lot of living left to do.
And I’m still here.
Able to do it……
Able to live.
I would love to share my life with someone later in the future and for now, I would love to just meet a great person that I enjoy dating. But I won't be doing it anymore. Not until I meet the man that can bring my dimple back out.
And not the ones on my ass,
rather,
the single one on my face. <3
He who makes that appear, may have just found his Queen.
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