There seems to be a hesitation in me to writing this, and that surprises me. As many of you have noted, I will say what I say unapologetically, and time to time, I may share a few selective personal truths. That isn’t because I ain’t nevuh scurred; it’s more that I really don’t care what y’all think. I do thank you for reading my thoughts, and I hope you enjoy them, but I honestly DGAF about someone’s opinions about my life. People only know what you let them know, and moreover, why would you care about the thoughts of someone who has no vested interest in the responsibilities of your life?
Therefore, the hesitation in writing this is unfamiliar to me, and I surmise it is because I don’t want anyone out there to take my words and attempt to fit them into your lives. You’re not me; my man isn’t your man. Our stories do not align so do not force a narrative. Before I go any further, let me state that at this moment, I’m not sure exactly where my ramblings will take and/or if I will post it. So if you are reading this, I apologize if it lacks rhyme or reason. The words that follow are free-flowing and are about me and the past eight weeks to five months and beyond of my life. When you’re changing, you don’t usually notice until you look back, but I fear internal change so deeply that the transition I’m ongoing has me aware of every second. And if I have to offer a thesis about the current stage in my journey…I got it bad y’all.
I knew myself. I knew who I was. I may have a few rough edges, but the reason my relationships/situationships/encounters had never worked out was not my fault. It was always the man’s. Had he just done this, had this, earned this, we would have made it to the promised land. Because you see I am the fucking table. If I took a man’s seat away, he obviously did not deserve it. Never had it occurred to me or had I ever cared that maybe my table wasn’t deserving.
This man. Several men, through callous actions, hurtful words or a battle of wills, have tried to cripple me and bring me to my knees emotionally. They wanted me prostate knowing they were ill-equipped or uninterested in carrying my burden. My ego would laugh and overcome this false reality, and as years passed with disappointment after disappointment, my heart walled itself in with dealbreakers and standards and checklists and Beyonce lyrics. Occassionally a man would graze my heart, and his D would activate my pleasure principle. However, my soul had hidden itself so deeply and cleverly that even I was unaware she had gone undercover.
Until this man. He has made my soul crawl out from its hiding place. Ladies and sirs, if I could take you step by step to how he has done this to me, I would. I am a woman of logic given to occasional bursts of emotion, but he is taking who I thought I was and is showing me who I could be. Please don’t misunderstand me or malign my words by believing he’s trying to change me. He isn’t. I want to be a better woman for him. He has a way of taking my bullshit (and I have a lot), and not swallowing it or serving it back to me, but revealing it to me and making me want to address it.
I have these urges to please him. I want to learn what will make him happy. What does he need? And if you knew me personally, you’d know this shit is unnatural for me. My fear rises up, and I think I’m in a hostage situation. Have I been African-brainwashed? What was in that jollof? So my black woman “Hell Nah’s” start rising up, my “This ninja too good to be true. What he hiding?” insecurities start creeping in, and my “Who is this new bitch liking his photos” stalking tendencies start appearing. So I turn to my sister circle because your girls will gather you. But your sisters have suffered heartache and disappointments, and unfortunately, some allow their unaddressed pain to do the speaking.
But I wanted my power back. I needed to control. This man was after something I didn’t know I had nor did I know if he deserved to have it. So I listened to my friends’ “advice” and I let my ego reign. Who the fuck was he anyway? What was he actually bringing to my table? Where was he when he wasn’t here? I’m the prize; he needs to earn me. And on and on. Tsk tsk. After getting in your head and telling you to leave your man, your friends leave and text the low-life negro they’re pretending to be over. And now I’m alone. In case, some of you haven’t learned yet: the ego is a horrible cuddler.
The womanist in me winces at my admitting this, but the best advice I’ve received about my relationship has come from a few good men I know. More than that, I realized that I was talking to persons about my relationship except the person I was in the relationship with. And when I got down off my ego, he was right there, waiting. A girlfriend of mine read something to me in the middle of one of my emotional tantrums, and it was “The work that need to be done is better done with the person you’re doing the work for.” How simple yet enlightening is that?! God bless the mental therapists in my life. (He knows what He does!) The only opinions, feelings, thoughts, actions, cares, suspicions, et cetera, that matter are those which belong to him and me. This is him and me. This is ours. No one else’s. If it lives. If it dies. If it soars. If it crashes. You all are only spectators. I don’t have children so outside of my mom and immediate family, I have never felt more protective over anything as I do this relationship.
This man is my omnipresent menstrual cramp, and he intimidates me. He stimulates me. I want his happy as much as mine. I want to cook for him. I may even like it. I want his name on the lease next to mine. He found my soul. And my fear does not come from his not deserving it. I’m terrified that my soul may be lacking.
I’ve had many men I wanted to fight. This is the only one I’ve ever been willing to fight for.
Today’s Soundtrack: Nina Simone – Be My Husband