I try not to be a baby about life. Shit happens. Some people say disasters come in threes; others say in sevens. My mishaps come in cycles. When I have one thing go majorly wrong, I can look forward to days…weeks…sometimes months on end where nothing seems to go right and everything that can suck will suck. Majorly.
I don’t trip about it. What goes up must come down. My time spent on the bottom is always followed by an upswing.
But I do have to deal with it.
Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final
If you ever want to lose faith in men and women’s ability to have a debate without looking like fools, you should join Twitter. Every day some dim-witted individual shares a (seemingly innocent) opinion about members of the opposite sex that eventually turns into a Niagara Falls of tweets about how folks on the other side of the gender line are trifling, overly-complicated, immature, sensitive, and totally obtuse when it comes to interacting with you.
It makes great fodder for writers.
A fellow blogger and much more accomplished writer than myself, Jozen Cummings, posted a piece on his blog today (www.untiligetmarried.com) that addresses one of the cornerstone queries of this debate: Why can’t women match their panties and bras? The link to this post immediately spawned responses from women, most of whom took the opportunity to brag about how their undies always match.
Lemme tell you something. Any woman who says her bra and panties always match is either a bald-headed lie or she’s way better at math than I am.
As a junior in high school, I was introduced to a famous logic problem known as Prisoner’s Dilemma. Two criminals have been hauled in for interrogation, but the police don’t have enough evidence to convict either of them. They are separated and both given the same options: testify against your partner or remain silent. If both prisoners confess, they both get a 3 year sentence. If they both plead the 5th, they each get 1 year for the minor charges that the district attorney can prove. But if one rats out their partner and that partner remains silent, the silent parter gets 10 years and the cooperator gets off with no jail time. Given these options, it’s best for both to remain silent, but the result of this game is always the same: the allure of getting off Scott free always prompts at least one of the partners to talk, thinking that the other will remain loyal. If you happen to stick to your moral code as a criminal and decide not to snitch, you’ll only do it the first time you play the game, as you’ll undoubtedly end up with a partner that sends you up the river.
When I think about my future as a writer, this game is what comes to mind. The way I see it, I have two options: be a Black writer, or a writer who happens to be Black. On the surface, those two descriptions might not seem different, but they are so distinguishable that making the “wrong” choice could sentence me to a life of literary failure…or at the very least dig a professional hole I’ll have to climb out of with a best seller.
Some people are always staring into funhouse mirrors, seeing a distorted image that becomes so regular to them that they assume its reflection is reality. The haze around their vision is so opaque that they don’t even notice what is glaringly obvious to the people around them.
These people are usually women. The men they love are usually manning the fog machine.
Make no mistake. This is not a sermon preached from the pulpit of innocence. I’ve been that woman. I know her so well that she’s inspiring the main character in what will eventually become that book. As I was trying to imagine the chapter that would eventually lead her to hit rock bottom, I had to accept that her story was more fact than fiction. That it was a story I’d heard many of my friends narrate. It was one written in my diaries long before it got drafted here. While you read the story of the moment that begins her spiral down to oblivion, if your monitor becomes a mirror, I apologize. But understand that you’re not the only one who’s ever stared into a funhouse mirror. This fictional account is as much my misery as it is your own.
I held a one-way ticket in my hand while stared into my bathroom mirror. The tears that stained the face staring back at me had become so commonplace that it was hard to remember what my smiling reflection looked like. I’d cried many days and nights over the man I loved. You would think that packing up my life to be with him, that shortening the distance between us, would make me happy.
A Facebook relationship status of “It’s Complicated” would be an understatement.
We met when I was in Chicago visiting my family 18 months ago and, thanks to the advent of the Internet, managed to fall in love despite the distance. Now I was leaving my family, a job I loved, a house I’d purchased on my own, and everything I called my life to start over again with him.
Brave. Admirable.
The dumbest shit I’d ever done in my life.
My relationship had all the red flags for failure; at the time I was just too blind to see the signs.
Not all of my friends had met him, but those that had didn’t think we were a good match. He was blue collar; I was white collar. I was financially stable; he lived check to check. I was college degree; he was GED. The friends that could see beyond our perceived incompatibilty simply didn’t like him. Nobody could put their finger on why, but no one seemed to have a good word to say about him. No one except that friend who tells you what you want to hear, of course. She was the one I hung all my hopes on when she said, “Girl, fuck them bitches. They just mad ‘cause you got somebody and they bitter and single. That’s YOUR man; ain’t nobody gotta like him but YOU.”
It wasn’t until later that I learned that the friend who compels you to stay in a bad situation doesn’t do so because she’s your friend. She doesn’t do it because she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. She does it because she’s a fraud. Friends who don’t want to hurt you stay silent; this bitch is a just a dirty fucking liar who could care less about you and probably says the things she needs to say to your face while she’s laughing at you behind your back.
There were, of course, warning signs beyond how outsiders weighed in our our relationship. He seemed content to work a job that he didn’t like and was going nowhere. In fact, he thought holding down any job at all made him a good man. Inversely, he never seemed comfortable with the idea that I wasn’t comfortable with “good enough.” He wondered why I invested time and money into getting a Masters degree before we met. He questioned why I devoted so much time to my job; I was, after all, “just a teacher.” When I told him that I had dreams of starting a business, he responded, “Yeah, good luck with that, baby,” condescending smile and all.
He never seemed as committed to us as I did. When I talked about our future, he never seemed to have much to say. I was the first to say “I love you,” and when he finally did say it back, it felt more like obligation than assurance. Our communication was always one-sided. I was always the one to call. I was always the one sending “good morning” text messages. I have to give him credit; he always responded…when he had the time. I understood, though, that he had a busy schedule, and I didn’t want to be the nagging girlfriend who fussed every time he failed to return a call or a text. He had a life before we met, and he had responsibilities that required his attention outside of our relationship.
Like his wife.
Right. His wife. The woman he stood before God with and promised to love, honor, and cherish until death did them part. The mother of his child. The keeper of his home, the woman who shared his last name.
I was leaving my entire life behind to love a married, ain’t-shit man.
I had one friend who was brave enough to tell me the truth. One friend who dared to risk our friendship to tell me I was being an idiot. One friend who loved me enough to put my well-being first, even when I didn’t. It was her voice screaming in my head while I watched a fresh stream of tears emerge from my reddened eyes.
That man gave her everything, he can’t even give you a text message, and yo’ stupid ass is about to give him your LIFE. You deserve more than this. You deserve better than him. It’s time to make a choice. Who do you love—him or you? I’m telling you now: if this is any indication of how things are gonna be with y’all, then you can’t love both of y’all at the same time.
The voice in my head was right. It was time to make a choice. Either I loved me, or I loved him. But if I loved him enough, maybe he would love me enough for the both of us.
Right?
When I instructed readers of The Swill to pester me when they needed a new post, I hardly expected anyone to actually DO it. I mean, who needs to read my ramblings? Apparently it’s time to accept that this thing I do is not just for me; people want to get into my head as much as I want to get out of it. I’ll stop berating my “talent” and start living with the fact that people enjoy watching me purge my thoughts as much as I need to write them. LOVE to Kalinda and Mona for demanding that I stay on my shit.
I remember the first time a guy called me a bitch. I was in high school. I can’t remember specifically what I’d done to incite this boy’s anger, but I remember my reaction vividly. The adrenaline felt like battery acid in my veins. I wanted to punch him with all the might in my pudgy little body. I wanted to think of a name I could call him that would make him just as angry. I wanted to damage his sense of self with the same venom he’d thrown at me. In my mind I threw his body into a wall of lockers with so much force that Professor Xavier would’ve mistaken me for one of his mutant prodigies.
What did I really do? Go home and cry to Emma.
“Please take some time and write a post on The Swill today. This being the last day of the year and all…may as well close it out with a post. THANKS, from your loyal readers.”
This was the text I got from Nicoya as I scrambled aimlessly around my kitchen avoiding the task of grocery shopping. It still chills me to the bone to think I have anything that I could call a “loyal reader,” so getting a text like this was the last thing I expected today. She’s right. I have been neglecting The Swill. I’m sorry. I’m ending this year with the same promise I make every year: to blog more consistently. This year, though, I want it to be more than a resolution. It’s a goal. A personal challenge. And I want your help. If you enjoy my digital rants and ramblings, demand that I get cracking when you see a lull. Tweet me. Text me. Call if you feel brave. I’ve said before that writing is my therapy. I need this, and I kinda dig that y’all want it from me.
Thanks, Mama Nikki. The next post’s for you.
Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final
Rainer Maria Rilke (via talknerdytome)
“No feeling is final” <—adding this to tomorrow morning’s meditation
(via jalylah)
NOTE: If you don’t get that title, you might wanna read my December 10 post, “The Case for Hedonism.” You don’t HAVE to…but you should.
There was a point in the day yesterday, long before the sky saw the light of the sun, when I was sitting on a bathroom floor unconscious and covered vomit, blood, and glass.
It was one of the best nights of my life.
I’m going to get to the details of how I ended up in such a state, I promise. But first I need to thank my good friend Christina for giving me a totally new outlook on life. Christina (who I know is reading this): you’re a hero to me in so many ways. I learned so much about the woman you have become this weekend, and that woman impressed me at every turn. Thank you for giving me permission to live recklessly once in a while. I needed someone that I love and respect to grant me that freedom, and I’m glad it was you. Oh yeah…and thanks for peeling my sticky ass up off that floor and getting me safely to my hotel room too.
Ok, enough sap. I know why you came here. Let’s get dirty.
