Most of us aren’t this way because we want to be. We have no ill intent but, as spoken in those lyrics, it’s in our nature somehow. Our lack of control embarrasses us. The aftermath is shameful. We don’t boast about it in attempts to emasculate you. We would much rather have you hold us and help us through our journey to stop but you won’t be able to, after, it’s not your job. Anger is the most important emotion to control due to how violent it can make someone. Our control needs help. We can feel the rage as it starts to grow, but most times the argument in question has already gone too far. We don’t hit for sport or to exercise control; we hit for defense. I know it doesn’t make that much sense. But that tone of disgust that appears in your voice, and the sounds you make when you’re tired of us in the moment seem to push our meters up. The louder you yell and the more your language leaves a common disagreement and begins treading the thin line of emotional abuse, the less we can hold it down.
Don’t date women like me. For us, words have the same hit and force as fists and so we respond accordingly. At our boiling point lies the ‘violent bitch.’ We won’t be able to stop ourselves from risking it all as fits fly, rage thrashes and our eyes close to the incoming response.
Stay away from for we are dangerous.
We need help. We are pre-packaged so neatly and imperfectly flawless that it’s hard to remember sometimes that underneath the underwire in our bra lies a violent heart.
Two words that made up the title of a poem I heard back in 2003. Eventually, I wrote a response to it even though I wasn’t directly connecting myself to its subject matter. There have been several relationships where it never crossed my mind to throw a punch. For a while, I guess I thought I was ….ok.
We have ups and downs.
There are times, years even, where it seems like we’re different. We feel confident that we are healed although we never directly focused on such. It’s not until your kind comes along to dance a jig on our tightrope that we remember there is still something inside of us that needs fixing. We shake from the inside out. Use softer voices as a way of backtracking where the argument is heading because we know the feeling. We try without saying we are trying to keep from allowing the beast inside of us to be awakened.
Stay away from girls like me . . .
Because we fail at it often.
Your words will feel like mini knives, really sharp and piercing. Each one cuts a half-inch beneath the last and we can’t handle this. We weren’t taught how to properly deal with hurtful voices. Cruel and intentional word slinging can bring such mental devastation. Many people can handle that shit. They know how to pray their way through every disagreement or at least intercept it before it gets out of hand. We want to be this way and hopefully, one day we will. But for now, we know us and we beg you to watch your words. . . .
…But you don’t. You can’t because you are hurting too, from stuff we have nothing to do with. We both have been raised by with disappointment in our fathers. Your buttons get pushed too. It’s a masculine viewpoint of a mirrored reflection and we won’t be good for each other because of this. At best, we’ll be a hard erection to a sweet spot and the more we age, the more we know that life is way bigger than sex.
So stay away from us .
Girls like me are hurt inside our core where magma is pumping lava blood through our system. We have anger that knows how to get our attention. We’re not ready for what we wish we had and we won’t make good decisions while angry. To choose your kind would be to choose that same anger repeatedly. You may think it’s a knock against you but it’s not.
You’re not a bad person. You’re just a bad choice, for us.
Your beautiful is as bright as ours and I’m sure the shine will greatly impact a different life, but girls like me are too damaged to coddle your ego, tend to the needs you will have or pacify you with accommodating silence. Girls like me are loud.
Boisterous. There are times when we can be accommodating to our anger. Our hearts turn into leisure lounges for our temper to kick its feet upon. Anger feels welcomed with us; we open ourselves up and accept it…then we act on it. We don’t like being taken advantage of for the moment or the long-run or talked down to. We are not beneath you; we just have a different type of healing to do.
Girls like me can’t control it sometimes.
But we don’t give up. We are water bearers. Former mermaids that were drug out of the sea. Mercedes on feet, driving at full speed, poetry within a paragraph, perhaps we’re prose, girls like me don’t look like we would hoard the pain we do in our Micheal Kors bags but there’s much to be said about what we’ve internalized. It’s precisely why we don’t own compact mirrors. No one wants to see that when they are just trying to check for lipstick on their teeth. We feel secretly embarrassed when people speak of domestic violence. Because no matter how much of a discount we got on our Aldo heels, we know we still fit under that umbrella.
Stay away from girls like me….
Abusive girls. Abusive women.
Many would see us as lesser if they knew our secret, so we hide under cute dresses, crochet hairstyles, and Fenty foundation. We’re still ladies though. We want to do and be better but that begins with the choices we make on who we want to be and who we are willing to deal with.
Stay away from girls like me because we won’t deal appropriately with you. And you will call us crazy. You’ll tell a few friends that we are volatile. You’ll tell us we scare you and it will confuse us. We’ll respond with a chuckle at the idea that we instill fear in a grown man. But, I suppose it’s a fair statement. You will begin to do more than restrain us. You too will become violent and it will start with self-defense. It will grow into our standard relationship practices.
Girls like me… won’t give you what you need. We’ll be the opposite. Dangerously in love will understate how we act. So stay away from us. We are still mad at our fathers. A few of us still have yet to figure that out. They (our fathers) should have shown up. They should have taught us better and treated our mothers with more respect. We’re pissed that we (us andour mothers) were treated like everyday weeds instead of marvelous one of a kind flowers. There are pieces of our puzzle that require attention and repair and for us to stop looking out of our childhood-colored glasses.
There is no choice but to see those who failed to teach us proper love as human beings that just so happened to be in control of someone else’s upbringing. We can’t hold them higher than human nature. We’re special but not that special. Some of us are in charge of someone else. It’s a learning process to figure out no parent is above being a human being and one day, if we don’t fix our broken pieces, our children will feel the same way we do. We will inevitably show them a poor path of loving if we don’t allow growth to take place within ourselves.
Just stay away from us.
Not for now but for good. You are no good for us. Or to us.
We have to heal. We have to figure it out. We have to become greater than we are right now.
We have to choose better – for our internal and external selves.
And when this process has completed itself and we are open to freely fly in the name of love, we have one final request one of you:
Stay away from us.
Stay away from girls like me.
We are fragile.
And no matter how much gold lines the cracks in our Kintsugi, you will break us open and re-expose our blackouts.
We don’t want that.
Neither do you.
“All this love you speak of,
All I want is to love and be loved”
Nicki Minaj, the Crying Game
So stay away from girls like me.
Girls who are abusive started as girls who were abused – could be literally, figuratively or both. And if you ever wondered, abandoning your child is a form of emotional abuse (and torture). We want a love that won’t make us look back and that won’t pull violent tendencies out of our luggage when our intention is to unpack.
You’re not so special that you should be able to bring us the bags we’ve sat down for the last time.
This is the year of breaking cycles: Cycles of how we act and,
~Private Conversation about an Ex and why we broke up
My dearest Gasoline,
There is much to say. Too much. I am still making peace with the fact that much of what I need to say will never be said. It’s like an unsolved murder. I’m the homicide victim and my spirit is trolling your mind for what the fuck I did for you to kill me. But there will never be an answer that is good enough or even justifiable and beyond that, most of these are words never spoken or spoken poorly in the moment and never ‘resolved.’ I was driving down the street listening to Sia. Fire Meet Gasoline to be exact from her 1000 Forms of Fear album. Here are the lyrics that struck a chord:
“It’s a bad bet/Certain death/But I want what I want and I gotta get it
It’s a bad bet/Certain death/When the fire dies/Darkened skies
Hot ash, dead match/Only smoke is left”
I remember one of the first videos I put together of us, my most recent lost cause. It had this song as a background. Back when I was fucking around with another guy, a few years ago, I had just started listening to Fantasia’s Lose to Win album.
“You make me wanna love you
Even though this love might be the end of me
I can’t help but love you
This, love is no good for me
Could be the end for me” (End of Me)
Music has always been my thing. I get my life to music and I’m not one of those persons who is unconscious of lyrics. As much as I love every instrument and the sounds they make when combined, the lyrics are just as important to me and are often what pulls me into songs that may have otherwise not have enjoyed. It was never lost on me that the Fantasia song was quite a telling forecast for what I was projecting myself into. That non-relationship ended up as the catalyst for this blog to come to fruition. But I don’t think I was paying as close attention with Sia. Those lyrics, along with the Fantasia lyrics and several many other songs, told a story that was too come that I probably could have protected and saved myself from. Instead, I turned them into love and climbed aboard ships that would ultimately leave me sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I’ve been left time and time again to save myself from the sharks, which I assume is basically what everyone has to do. But it just kills me more to see men stroll into my life, fuck it up and leave me in shambles while crooked smile walking their ass back to wherever they came from.
I made a mistake today. I reached out to you. I attempted to ask an unnecessary question, perhaps having an equally unnecessary mental playback, and was met with what felt like disgust. I can’t blame you. For that, I hold no grudge and no anger. It actually jolted me back on the road I was on. We all know I have a thing for looking back. Today, I looked back for you with questions in my palms and my fingertips tiptoed across the keys to send a white flag of curiosity your way. You didn’t want it. Neither did I. WE are dangerously toxic fumes for each other. Even inhaling a text message from the other could lead to an all new death. I won’t pretend you may not have hurt a bit from losing me but it would take God himself to sit me down on a one on one and convince me that you ever loved me or could possibly miss me. But that’s not the point of this blog. I am writing this to you, all of you maybe, to deaden and end this circle for the last time. I’m flying the fuck outta this kill space. I have swum to the shore on my own; you weren’t there to offer help. I think you drowned me on purpose.
I THINK YOU DROWNED ME ON PURPOSE.
I think you wanted to hurt me. You wanted to kill me. You left me walking. In the dark. In Detroit. In the dark. In the pouring rain. In a dress. On the Westside of Indianapolis. In the hood. You LEFT me. It may take years before I forgive that action. It may take years before I forgive the white woman. I have a long way to go before I forgive the white bitch. No lies detected here. One thing you have all taught me or at least led me to believe is that ALL men have a woman on the side for something. My trust has been misused, harmed and mistreated. It’s my job to get it back. It’s my job to trust me again and believe in love, specifically love for ME, again. I am not a perfect woman. Let’s discuss some of my flaws real quick:
I’m messy. I toss my clothes wherever. I don’t do dishes every single day. I have so much secret single behavior (according to Carrie Bradshaw), that when I finally find myself in a relationship, it’s hard to rid myself of it completely, especially when living with someone. Which brings me to another flaw: I trust and have trusted yaw niggas way too much. I’ve allowed you to borrow my name and get apartments. When you were down and out, instead of turning my back and saying you weren’t the type of man I wanted, I pushed forward, supported you and gave you a place to live. A PLACE TO LIVE. I cannot for the life of me understand how that could be taken so easily but apparently, it’s a nonchalant gesture of ‘like.’ I vowed to never live with another man unless we were married or six months from being married, but I gave you a place to stay with no hesitation. In return, I was emotionally abused for what you found in MY home – pictures, and letters from my past that I was forced to part with because you felt so disrespected. Meanwhile, you had a bitch on the side. A whole white woman off to the side. What they say is true: a guilty conscious will treat the other person as the guilty party. I never so much as let another man smell the breath of my hello but you were dreaming about a woman while laying in MY bed sleep. I tried hard, to be what you needed. I prayed and cried for you, alongside you. I supported you – I brought my life into yours and shared it openly and willingly. I told you about the people who hurt me before and the past baggage that I had in tow with me. I told you what I wanted and what I was looking for. You took that and used it to your benefit; not to help grow me. An ex recently asked me where he ranked with me not too long ago. He sent me a letter that spoke of I’m sorry’s and how young we were back in the day, attributing that to our demise while also remembering times that he thought were good. I wonder if that good outweighed the bad for him because it didn’t for me.
I was left and abandoned with no job and no car and no cell phone, stuck out east with NO ONE – not even the person who called herself my best friend – coming to see if I was alive or not. I wanted to die. I’ve said that before. I’ve never been more suicidal than the day I sat at 6250 Brendon Way Drive with all these pills scattered on the table. I sat there with a journal, writing poems and thoughts, praying and crying while chain-smoking black and milds that I walked what felt like 16 miles to get. You know what kept me here? My mom and God. That’s it. I wanted to die tho and I’m not sure if you knew or if that pales in comparison to the good times you seem to remember. Where do you rank you ask? Idk. I don’t rank niggas at this age. I’m too busy trying to unpack the old bags so I have a free hand to carry the new bags I collect.
I went to California for my birthday. I thought of you because we went there together. On my dime and your promises of paying me back. I went to some of the same exact places we went. I stood where we stood. This was at no point on purpose but I was eager to recreate memories and pitch you out of my head. You’re everywhere. You in the house I live in. You are in my pictures, all over my cloud and in my videos. My mom still asks and talks about you. I get sick when I hear your name. I could VOMIT at the idea of my desperation. Yeah, let’s get back to desperate me and my flaws – I’ve been too desperate for love, even when I didn’t think I was. I prayed all over, up and down our relationship so I trusted my decisions with you much more because I felt like I was being led in your direction. I now know it wasn’t for marriage and life together. It was to truly shine a light on me and expose me to myself, yet again but maybe for the last time. I used to introduce you as my partner. You didn’t understand it at first. I get why that is now. We were never partners. I was being used. Just like I was with the non-relationship before you. Just like I was with everyone before that. Everyone uses me for their own pleasure – most times it’s for sex, sometimes for money and other times it’s for simple support, emotionally and otherwise.
You, my nigga, were the culmination of EVERYONE wrapped up in one person who wasn’t tall enough for me to wear my heels around. I didn’t care; I stopped wearing tall shoes. It was that simple. I changed, little by little, for you and you never noticed. I threw away what you told me to throw away, despite you physically hanging onto the white woman of your dreams, that you once told me was crazy. Today, I just wanted to know why she was better than me. But she wasn’t and I guess that was a question that didn’t even deserve to be spoken because how dare I ever believe that was ever the case. It had nothing to do with ME. That was your shit. Not mine. I’ve internalized it all. I am good at pretending to myself that the relationship I am occupying space in is healthy and good. The reality is often that I’m dying a slow, loving death.
I sit in scattered pieces wondering why yaw enjoy breaking me so much. What is it about me that niggas want to grab me and throw me as hard as they can against a concrete wall???? The hurt that exists inside of me is an inferno that continues to be added to instead of putting out. I was in a good head space when I met you. Looking back, you lied to me then too. I came to you but you pretended like you had been wanting to come to me and didn’t know how. You were such a liar.
I was abusive. More flaws about me. I hit you. I hit my ex. I hit the ex before that. I’m abusive. It’s part of the reason I don’t really ever want to be in another relationship. I can’t take people saying things and talking to me in a certain way. It causes me to see red and next thing I know, I’m all over the place with raging fists. That’s not right. It’s not right to hit a man. I acknowledge that. I need anger management. But I also need the kind of man that doesn’t call me bitches, hoes, sluts, tramps, and a host of other colorful names. A couple of you guys were good for that name calling shit. Emotionally and mentally abusing me is the quickest way to get these paws. #noLie It might not be right and again, I admit that. But I assure you I don’t walk in the door throwing punches. The day I was called everything but Kendria or Januarie still surprises me that I didn’t just shy of remove the skin off of your face, to be honest. I was called a hoe, a slut, told that I was a better woman back in the day than I was now. I was told that I was laying next to you thinking of “sucking other niggas dicks.” That lets me know that I was exhausted from that relationship because I didn’t do anything but take those gut shots and try not to let it hurt as bad as it did. A slut? A hoe? Sucking other niggas dicks? You were all over all my social media. I told everyone that I could about you. I thought of you in Light and Height, not low and dirty. How dare you say these things to me? The woman that tried to get pregnant but unfortunately was already broken from past relationship mistakes to do so, thank the Lord. The woman that wanted to marry you? The woman that flew you across the country and back? The woman that gave you a place to stay when you needed it? She’s a slut? A whore? The woman you spent the whole relationship lying and misleading? Remember when you told me I hit you and made your watch fly off and get lost. I believed that. I bought into that stock and the market crashed in on my face when I discovered your watch had actually been pawned. I paid $25 not to let that watch be sold to Pawn America. And even when I sent it to Sarasota, Florida to its new owner, I felt even more hurt. How will I ever trust someone to buy them a gift again? When does this shit leave my system? Why do yaw get to leave me like this and not care about how it affects my future????
To that point, how dare you suggest I’m anything other than your Queen of perfection. I told you my secrets and just like the men before you, you used them against me. The only thing you didn’t do, which you still may have and I just don’t know, is tell my mother private things I told you. My other exes did that. They told her I was gay. I slept with women. You didn’t do that but you definitely let me have it about women. You also suggested I was gay and that I never liked men, to begin with. I never wanted you because I wanted a woman. These things, though hellaUntrueAF, hurt me to my bones. I still feel them. That disdain and scowl that someone I loved so much and so openly (a first) talked to me like I was a hoodrat on the street.
But so what right? I should be used to it. I was in an emotionally abusive relationship before. The one that left me in Detroit talked to me like I was the wackest woman alive and as if he regretted ever meeting me. Do you niggas know what I’ve built myself up from? Do yaw know how much nigga shit I had bagged up and hanging off the side of my back? Did you know I had an abortion to hurt an ex? Yep, I sure did. It’s why I can’t have kids. I had an abortion for the sole purpose of hurting the man that hurt me so much prior to it. With that went my ability to procreate ever again. Folks want to know why I don’t want or have kids: that’s it. I tricked myself into believing I didn’t want what I knew I couldn’t have because I killed the opportunity. That’s how much hurt lives in me. That’s why I don’t want to live in this state anymore. I’ve literally been hurting because of my affiliations with men and the choices I’ve made as a result since I was 13. Longer than that if you count the useless pieces of shit who molested me as a child. I hope and pray that retribution found it’s way to them. The one thing I know to be certain is I don’t have to be front row to see you suffer for what I feel like you did to me but it always happens. Karma doesn’t forget.
I am abusive. I am in counseling. I working through my issues. I am trying to be better, do better, get better and HEAL from all these years of madness. I pray for you. . . all of you. I want so badly to believe that there was something about me that you actually did love but man, I’m far away from that. Every time I think I do believe it, I remember other shit that swears to me love couldn’t exist for this to be true. I don’t wish ill will on you. I don’t want harm for you. I don’t even want someone to leave you in the shattered pieces that I was left in. I blame myself for my broken pieces. I never save myself when given the opportunity. I always choose love – the love of YOU – not me. And that’s been my grandest life mistake. Choosing delusions of nigga granduer over me.
I’m still angry. You ruined every single trip I had. Every one of them. Every time I returned home, I came home to some shit. Some arguing. Some man who didn’t trust me to be out of his eyesight when everything I was doing was for US. I have lost a lot. But I’ve gained an even clearer understanding of exactly who I am and the shit I need to confront. I probably won’t believe in love again until I believe that I deserve it. Part of me thinks I don’t. I’m broken and infertile. I’m tired and low on steam. I don’t want to compromise ME for love. I want love to see me and want me; not want to change me completely and turn me into a Stepford and then walk off into the sunset when it doesn’t work for them. On tv, they come crying and running back with gifts and new, improved personalities, ready to win her back. In real life, you niggas catch a lifeboat and don’t even turn around to watch me drown. Maybe you hope I’ll get eaten by a shark.
But I have news.
I didn’t. I didn’t get eaten. I made it to shore and I can’t even swim. Water has never scared me and maybe that’s why I nosedive in, ready to swim laps with you. The unfortunate truth is I end up swimming those laps alone. The fun part is watching your ex who mistreated you go find the woman of his dreams and treat her properly. It’s a low blow for self-esteem to be honest. I’ve lived that life too. If I could have predicted that I would end up how and where I am right now where men and love are concerned, I highly doubt any of us would have met. These lessons would have been better learned from conversations and books instead of living through them. But I survived.
The end of me.
I survived the end of me repeatedly. Devon. Damon. Randy. And the non-ex Diesel. Naw I ain’t fucking changing names to protect the guilty and unbothered. I also will NEVER date another man who is not tall and whose name starts with a D. But –
guess what???!!! I didn’t DIE my niggas. I DID NOT ETERNALLY DIE!!!!!
Each one of you, be it on purpose or otherwise, killed me.
I’ve died four times since I was 22. I’m 39. I’m not dying anymore until God says so. Who made you niggas God??? Me?
I believe indeed it was me.
I made you God. And you killed me and laughed while driving off the parking lot.
Hell yeah, we park cars.
But the good thing that I got from reaching out to you today, attempting to do the unnecessary, is your response reminded me that I was never enough for you. Or maybe too much. I just wasn’t what you needed and wanted. I took all these pictures in one relationship – I may have mentioned this in a previous blog. I took them so that one day I could look back and see what loving you looked like on ME.
But don’t forget – I’m friends with photographers so I will never stay looking like that. I’m perfect for me. Even. In. My. Flaws.
I love me. I will graduate with my Bachelor’s next year and be able to work all over the country and the world to be honest. I am a DOPE ass writer. I love with all of me and although I see it as as flaw, it’s still a pretty cool thing. Most people don’t love with half of who they are.
I love who I am and what I stand for. I know what I deserve and although I’ve often accepted less in hopes that I could make you niggas see the light in me and respect it, I always knew that I didn’t deserve the shit that was happening to me. And yaw didn’t deserve my light. I didn’t deserve to not be trusted. I didn’t deserve to walk home from Guion Road. I didn’t deserve to walk back in Detroit. I didn’t deserve to be cussed out on Christmas. Or to be relegated to being SEX only. I didn’t deserve your pressure. Your hurt. You disrespect. Your lies. Your cheating. Your white or black women. I didn’t deserve YOU.
The foreshadowing music is different these days.
I know who I am. And whether you saw it or not, I am dope. I got shit to work on DEFINITELY, but I AM working on it – not trying or hoping or planning to – I AM!! And that just makes me even doper.
Shame on all of you for walking past The Color Purple and not acknowledging what you saw. Shame on your blindness.
The only thing I left to say is I’m still fucking here bitches.
I’m still here. You didn’t kill me good enough.
I’ll let the music take it from here . . .
“I don’t need you to love me
I don’t need you to love
I’ve got my sister, I can feel her now
She may not be here, but she’s still mine
I know she still love me
Got my children, I can’t hold them now
They may not be here, but they still mine
They know I still love them
Got my house, it still keep the cold out
Got my chair when my body can’t hold out
Got my hands doing good like they s’posed to
Showing my heart to the folks that I’m close to
Got my eyes though they don’t see as far now
They see more ’bout how things really are now
I’m gonna take a deep breath
Gonna hold my head up
Gonna put my shoulders back
I’m gonna flirt with somebody
When they walk by
I’m gonna sing out
I believe I have inside of me
Everything that I need to live a bountiful life
And all the love alive in me
I’ll stand as tall as the tallest tree
And I’m thankful for every day that I’m given
Both the easy and hard ones I’m livin’
But most of all, I’m thankful for
Lovin’ who I really am
Yes, I’m beautiful
And I’m here
PS: My Yoast SEO details that my readability needs improving. Fuck improving for you. Down to the wire my G.
September 27th wasn’t the day I got quietly engaged or destination married. And it wasn’t sad. Matter a fact, creating those imaginary thoughts in this blog series made me feel goofy in a sense. I really do love, love and I take it for granted as much as it takes me. I grew up lacking an emotional male connection. There is no denying the effects it has on your growing up when one tries to give a love to someone they’ve never properly received it from. This isn’t to take away from the stepfather I had; he was a great provider. But our reality is my pre-teen and teen years were spent arguing about who spoke to who and not about emotional paternal guidance. It’s unfortunate but hey, what can you do? You do your best with what you know and I suspect my stepdad is no different.
What I know about love and loving men comes from what I have collected from my attempts at loving. I have pieced together what I THINK is good love – albeit healthy love – based on what I have done right and wrong in past relationships. The biggest problem with this is I’m picking up individual needs and applying them to other individuals, with other fucking needs!!! It’s not fair or right and it’s not how love -healthy love – really works.
I have struggled to understand how I could be attracting the type of men that I do when I don’t do the shit that they don’t. What I experienced in this last relationship was nothing like what I felt I was giving. I gave honesty – I received lies. I gave I threw away memories in the trash that I had kept for years – he kept his white woman friend on the side doing who knows what. To me, on the surface (which is basically where I have been), this is a no-brainer. Why would these things happen to me if these aren’t the types of things I’ am doing? How could I attract them if I wasn’t doing them? Is it karma?
“..but love, it is YOU that I take for granted.
Curse you to be damned for what a human being has done when it was ‘we’ who spoke French first.”
Maybe it’s my loaded karma. Love owes me an ass whooping for some of my not-blogged-about shit so there’s that. But what I also have come to understand is it the surface things that I didn’t realize I was putting so much stock into don’t matter. My stable job or my new(er) truck or how many times I can fly to New York in a year won’t count in the preliminary hearing.
What brings these particular moths to my flame is the energy of my inability to offer proper love. I am attracting at the level I am LOVING; not at the level I am in life.
Until now, I haven’t known this. I hadn’t ever questioned HOW I give my love. I have loved at the top of my game every single time. I’ve given all of me with each trip down the hopeful road to forever but it’s been a point of foolishness at times. Everyone doesn’t get all of you. People are supposed to work for your heart and the love you give out. You can’t be so hopeful that you give away all of your goods (and I’m not talking about sex at all) too quickly. You need to be able to reel yourself back when the time presents that necessary, which it will more often than not.
Otherwise, you will constantly sink in the pitfalls of the wrong men. I thought I knew this. Shiiiiit, by this relationship, I thought I was great at this. Part of my actionable-love was being a giver but you’re not supposed to do that. You can’t go around giving and giving – the only thing you’ll do is end up with a bunch of taking/taken ass men in your past. The majority of these men won’t help develop and deepen your understanding of love. They will keep you operating at a lower level. Sometimes that level will be beneath where you are in life otherwise.
If you learn to love through your experiences, then who you are experiencing love with matters a great deal.
I’m not sure how those of us who missed that father experience (or even a supplemental male role model) are supposed to properly learn to love the opposite sex (granted that’s what we are attracted to). It’s the same for heterosexual men who lack mothers; how are they to know how to care for a woman? Date a guy with mother issues and you will find he is just as volatile and emotionally inconsistent as women with father troubles. Then there are the people who grew up with no parents.
All these single people learning through DIY methods on each other.
Are our mothers (fathers) supposed to provide sufficient love from both sides of the perspective when the other is not available? Being the ‘mother and the father’ is more than showing up to sports games and cooking dinner and cleaning and providing. It’s also loving, teaching and guiding this young person who will eventually be an older person. They will live and love based on the knowledge they obtained at home. In the event this information is not properly passed on to you, where does it derive from? Aside from immediate counseling or intentionally seeking a mentor of the opposite sex, how do you learn to love who you will love?
When is the last time you were in a relationship consciously loving someone badly? And “love” doesn’t just mean how you show affection or support. It’s also how you deal with opposition within the relationship, how you communicate, what you hold important. . . it’s a listing of traits and ideas. I’ve looked at love with such high regard that I never stopped to question if I was giving it defectively.
I saw that Will Smith posted this today about Jada Pinkett and love:
I’ve never thought of love in such a grand way when it comes to giving it. Until now. I’ve always assumed that the energy I give off through my love was not just enough but right! Despite the notion that I don’t operate out of ego in certain situations, there are countless others of which I do.
And maybe that’s the key to learning how to love properly. The right person will challenge your love in a such a way that won’t make you question yourself but will reveal the needs for growth. You have to be able and willing to do the necessary examinations on yourself. Our ego tells us if the other person isn’t meeting our current demand of the month, then we don’t have to meet theirs. Highe- self tells us that it doesn’t matter what they aren’t doing. Besides, these aren’t demands; they are ways to elevate. If we take Will Smith’s perspective into account, then that means the other person is not operating from ego in suggestion they make or needs that require addressing. They understand that the growth of you, as you should be not as they would have you, is the growth of all things attached to you. But that takes a special type of person. One that is crafted especially for your individuality and I’m not sure if you get one or more…
…but I can say I’ve had one. Unfortunately, he wasn’t my forever, although still a special and necessary person. We were mirrors of each other in a number of ways. We each gave what we had to give.
You can’t get someone to challenge your love until you are ready to receive that challenge. I’m guessing the more you transcend, the more you open yourself up to others who have peaked to that higher level of self as well. Ultimately this should lead to your one person if the tale of a one and one only exists. If not, then at least the pool feels more like the waters you think you should be swimming in.
By the time I met XXXXX, my idea of love had derived from all the wrong people. Even if you take the best parts of the wrong situations you can’t get a healthy idea of how to love on an elevated level.
Assessing how you love means crashing headfirst back into your past and finding out who you took your lessons from. Who made you believe X = Y? Were they ever logical? What percentage of you is loving from an absence: father, brother, dominate male figure? What makes you believe you give healthy love and how can you validate those beliefs?
There are plenty other questions one could ask themselves in an effort to find out how they give what they hope to receive. I found myself asking a ton of them on September 27th. I didn’t get it that day, but I eventually understood that I’m loving at a lower level while thinking my affection style is as advanced as I am with the rest of life.
This doesn’t mean I’m less deserving of trustworthy, good treatment but it does mean that what I am pulling in won’t get higher than what I’m putting out.
I questioned myself for weeks trying to understand why I kept seeing signs telling me it’s me. And this may not even be all of it. It’s a huge revelation nonetheless. XXXXX doesn’t feel like a mistake. He feels like a culmination of all the lessons I needed to learn collectively. My reflection in his eyes wasn’t always heels and pretty dresses and I saw it for myself. We were a beautiful but explosive situation that could have been but ….
is what it is.
If you are not ready to see yourself through love’s eyes, then you will not attract someone that will make you. You will keep getting duds and thinking everyone is shitting on you until you advance to your personal next level. I never met anyone that challenged how I gave my love. I guess you could say I’ve collected hella good and bad ideas and called them the right way. But they were too often based on faulty people and situations, acts of survival and loss of self. I’m a whole different woman today than that the girl that collected her ideas of love.
As mad as might be for a long time coming about things that happened, I also must give myself space to grow. That means recognizing self not as a victim but how I contributed to our demise. I pulled in a certain type of energy (man) because I was at a particular level of lovING. My hurt can’t make me see our failures to each other as something that overrides our successes. We gave birth to a newness in each other that I don’t think can be denied. Our relationship turned our skin inside out so that we could both see how much ego we were operating from. There was a genuine love created but it couldn’t be sustained at the levels were both on. He was the first person to do many things, most of all being the first to make me look at myself.
Our loss should be so great that causes us to look inward in an effort to eradicate the possibility of this ever happening again.
September 27th wasn’t spent in the white vacation secrets of Santorini, Greece or engaging in Puerta Vallarta by way of cruise ship. It was a slow day, full of TV, cleaning, and self-observation. We had only recently stopped talking to each other and it all felt fresh again. But – we tried.
I pray we both learned from it all . . .
If Will Smith is right, then many of us have had it all wrong including me. Love means trusting in who you fell in love with on a vibration so high that you understand their natural evolution is a prerequisite to you getting what you need in the relationship. It’s not wishing them into your fantasies-come-alive. Love doesn’t envy the yester-you; instead, it will cherish your right now and be inspired for who you will grow into. Love means knowing how to chin check your ego because that hoe will have you single AF and running through I Wish I Never Met You music.