3.3. Then and Now: A Reflection of My Reflection


Like everyone else, I was born quite unaware. Eager to get here, I was born premature to someone who admittedly engaged in…let’s just say some “less than motherly habits.” With a ventricular septal defect (a hole in my heart), my battle started pretty early on. Though it is literal, I can’t help but feel like that hole represented something lacking in me from day one…a piece of me left in another world…wherever my soul originated from.

20140106_153042 Never comfortable in my skin, I was self conscious from my first memories. I knew we didn’t have much…a truth no child should know so early on. My sister and I got our heads buzzed as kids because of a lice outbreak. It happens. Some parents just don’t have the patience to comb through the locks. I can still remember walking down the stairs at the museum and a woman telling my mother, “your son is adorable.” Apparently, I made a cute boy but an unattractive little girl because I didn’t have long flowing hair. I didn’t wear frilly dresses but instead lived in sweaters and jeans that were never long enough. The standards were set quickly and by the time this picture was taken…I was already failing.

While being a pretty little girl didn’t work for me…so was my transition into weirdness. Being odd suited me and though it didn’t make the years any better or merciful, it gave me something to cling to. An identity. Even if it was a strange one. By this time, we were moving around a lot. I can’t even keep track of all the people we lived with for short periods of time but I know it was a time that gave us an intense feeling of detachment. Don’t get comfortable because you’re not going to stay long. Don’t get attached because you’ll never be as important. When you’re inconvenient, people will leave you. An internal void, evidently unattractive and unwanted…it wasn’t easy. 20140106_153114

20140106_153053Fourth grade was the first time I became aware of death. This was a type of leaving I could accept though the thought of it sucked. But it seemed easier to understand since the person who left didn’t do it intentionally. By this time, I knew I was the “ugly kid.” Children can be cruel and they were. My clothes screamed how unimportant I was despite my house being filled with thirteen animals (that upkeep isn’t cheap), and shelves upon shelves of porcelain dolls and expensive figurines. My childhood home was a shrine to all that was materialistic. I was no doll and showed no signs of growing beauty. I wasn’t like the other kids. I could feel it. My mind ran with vivid stories and games propelling me into a fictitious world of happiness and appreciation. I admired what others had and pretended, in the confines of some random inch of space, that I had it all. I was forced to be a dreamer. Reality was an ugly world.


I searched for God. I went to Spanish service at a catholic church with desperation in my heart. That hole was growing and it haunted me. The practices that were happening behind closed doors were eating my soul and gave me nightmares that seeped into daydreams. My imagination was being tainted and violence soon took hold of my stories. “Please make me beautiful, God. So they will love me. Anyone to love me.” Love me enough to rescue me from the terrors that occurred in a closet, on railroad tracks at 2am, in a room with so many witnesses and no allies. But God did not hear me and it all continued. Alien. Ugly. Unwanted. Forsaken. The forecast was bleak.


 The teen years set in. This is the inevitable time of self-loathing, poor self-esteem, and massive self-deprecation. To say I bashed myself would be an understatement. I wasn’t developed like the other girls. Thirteen and I wasn’t a “real girl” because I hadn’t started menstruating. This was the start of my ghost-writing. I admired many and yet, was left unseen. But I made for a good friend. One that could get the girl for you. Because, somehow, I knew what to say. Knocks on my door made me feel important. Knocks from boys I crushed on…asking me to write another poem for their latest conquest. And I did it. Because being useful was better than nothing at all. I was a dork. A nerd. A bookworm. Basic. Average. Below average. Ordinary. I was everything that can crush a young girl. Yes, I read a lot but damn it just think I’m pretty. Please. See something great in me. Please think I’m beautiful. Please care.

20140106_152940Maybe setting would do the trick. Maybe if I started over…someone would appreciate me in a way I hoped. Location changed but the story remained the same. I was the secret friend to some…helping them get the girl…useful but unseen. Even worse, I was seen and unwanted. What personality would I take on? Who would I become so people would accept me. I tried many and all of them failed. So, I did the next best thing. I settled. At 16, I dated a 24 year old because he showed me attention and he liked me and he said I was pretty and it was all I wanted. Hindsight says I just allowed earlier abuse to repeat itself…to allow the word “love” to mask the hurt and damage that was being done. But hell, to be beautiful was worth it to me. At 16, beautiful was the only label I could dream about. The only one I could never truly attain. But damn if I didn’t try.

20140106_152849And then something happened. I relocated again and was still seen as a nobody. This was expected. What wasn’t was the type of attention I got. I would never be the “girlfriend” but I could be the secret. The one you wanted to know on Friday at 1am. I was the girl who visited old friends back home, friends who expressed my ugliness dead on…only to have them ask for physical engagements. My body was just flesh to satisfy a primal hunger. Can’t lie…I basked in being wanted for a bit. But lust is not love. It’s not even as nice as like. It’s cheap. It’s disposable. It’s short-lived.


I didn’t want to be seen. I wished for invisibility.  I was born broken, my flesh is tired, and my heart aches. My mind cannot handle any more lies. My soul wants to quit.

My high school years consisted of three high schools, seven homes, very few lasting friendships, a sickening eating disorder, a short lived relationship with a man far too old for me, a miscarriage, a stolen identity, and one hell of a culture shock. It all added to my personal disgust…I hated who I was.

20140106_152903Old habits die hard. The few relationships I’ve had in my life have been that of an abusive nature, whether physical/mental/emotional, all the while…I questioned my worth. Why couldn’t I do better? Where was my unconditional? The one that would look at me and love me and know me and see me and mean it. And not leave. He didn’t exist.

I stood in the mirror and despised the reflection I’d been running from since day one. I pulled a sharpie from the drawer and drew on that mirror. I added all of the details that I thought would make me lovable. I colored over the flaws and morphed what was wrong into what I thought others would accept as right. By the end of it…the mirror was a picture perfect image of something…someone. I was somewhere in there. I was certain. I just couldn’t see it. I lost myself and for the time being, I thought that was the right thing to do. I’m an alien and I need to fit in to this world. The only way to do that would be to put on the costume and play the part. 20140106_153009

But I was never a good actress. Slowly but surely, my sadness seeped through and I hated the picture I painted. I hated that fake bitch. I hated the bullshit smiles. I hated the loss of voice. The loss of self. The death of the creative mind and heart. I lashed out and became a beast. Having an opinion meant I was argumentative. My creative mind was run by the devil. My heart was stone and my soul never existed. I was broken glass…unfixable. I hated the world that didn’t want me. And all of the occupants in it.

PreggoMy father loved my mind. Nico loved my soul. They both had to leave. I will be reunited with them some day. But until then, I remain with the one that loves my heart.

I spent my ENTIRE life wanting to be beautiful. Wanting to be physically desired, craved, needed, pursued. Ironically, that is all anyone seems to want from me as I near 30. Now, I would give anything to have someone knock down doors to talk to me…to engage in conversation that lasts all night. To be enthralled by laughter and dialogue that stimulates the mind and the soul. Yes, I want to be seen as a beauty. But more so…I want the words of my heart, the creativity of my mind, the passion of my soul…I want these things to be my beauty. I want to be defined by the iceberg that lay beneath the surface. Waiting…hoping…dreaming…wondering…

Will that hole in my heart ever be filled.CAM02045

I walk away from the mirror. I’m tired of seeing my reflection in this pool of tears. I’m tired of seeing the caricature I have become in an attempt to be loved. I avoid the waters that scream a truth I cannot hear. Not anymore. Maybe, on another day, I will look and see something amazing. Until then, I close the door and live in shadows.


But the light touches my skin and I think…the hole in my heart was filled. Just not in the way I’d anticipated.

In a way that has been so much greater.


2.46. The Wounded Soul – My Proudest Failure

This post is not about the many known names who have died over the course of this year from apparent suicide. Their deaths are sad and a loss to the world but there is nothing that can be done for them.  Their chances have ended. It’s sad but what can you do about it now? This is not about the unknowns who are gone from this world. Their story is no different. This is about the ones we can save. 

When I was 26, after my son was born, I suffered from postpartum depression while simultaneously suffering from an infection, which caused me to lose part of my right breast. The fake glue that was holding my doomed marriage together melted away. My world crumbled very quickly. I recall sitting in a bathroom and penning a letter to my child in which I apologized for failing him, for not being strong enough to have the desire to continue. I remember calling a crisis hotline while sitting on the curb of a dark street and telling some stranger I was a horrible piece of shit because I had a child but I wanted to die. I remember going to a hospital and asking for an evaluation. I sat in a cold, bare room, and waited for someone to tell me I was insane. After talking with Tom, he informed me I was suffering from PTSD, from events earlier in my life,  and Postpartum. When I said I wanted to die, he explained, I was simply asking to sleep…for rest…escape from pain I could not seem to get away from. I was released and attempted to pull myself out of that darkness. 

When I was eighteen, after being caught in the act, I admitted to battling Bulimia. It was a slow way out but I often hoped I would just become extremely frail and collapse and that same sleep would come. My mother told me to get over it. 

When I was 13, my father found me in our trailer in Clintondale, New York. I’d swallowed a ton of his painkillers and anything else I could find in the medicine cabinet. I was ashamed of my life. I was scared of being a nothing. I wanted to quit. 

When I was 11, I was admitted to a mental health ward, against my will (and my parents) for a mere 16 hours (a lifetime to an 11 year old btw). I’d gone in after a referral from a childhood therapist. Because I wouldn’t discuss things that were happening but implicated myself in several acts of self-harm, I was held for evaluation. I can still remember the screams and belligerent rants of those held in rooms next to me. After those 16 hours, I conned my way out of that hospital, claiming it was all an act and absolutely nothing was wrong with my home life. I learned how to lie on that day. 

When I was 5, a sibling found me on the ledge of our apartment window. When asked why I was up there, I said I wanted to die. My mother beat the ever-living piss out of me and sent me to bed. 

I have tried to die, thought of dying, hoped for dying…TOO MANY times in my life. I’ve purposefully put myself in dangerous situations, in the hopes that I would find release. Through those years and failed attempts…I never found it. 

I’m not telling you this because I want pity. Because I want you to think I’m epic and strong for “surviving.” I don’t know why I wanted to die from such a young age. I don’t know why I wasn’t “built” to better deal with the hardships of life. I don’t know why the unknown seemed so much better. 

What I do know are two things. 

  1. I was already dead. My body didn’t have to perish. TRULY, I believe I was a walking tomb. My son gave me my soul. I still struggle. I still panic. I’m still a hot mess. But I have never hoped for another breath the way I do now…as I have my son in my life. 
  2. Someday, I will die. I will not try. It will be against my will. And I will not want it to happen. I will feel pain as it all slips away because I will not see the tomorrows of my child, his children, the life I will miss. Someday, I will not have a choice. 

All of that being said…

I AM NOT AN EXPERT but I know the helplessness. I know the desperation. I know that feelings of sad hope that the damn phone will ring and someone…ANYONE will pull me back from the ledge and say, “I care about you. Please don’t go.” We all want to know that someone wants us to stay. That someone NEEDS us to stay. That our fire lights another persons world. We all need a reason to have no desire to step on that ledge. It’s ALL about love. 

The trauma that happened in my life, very early on, stunted my growth in MANY ways (so the doctors say). There are many times that I am stuck back in that mind frame of a child and I am terrified. I am frail. I am lost. It’s a fight to not go back there. To train my brain that I’m not reliving those traumas. That things are not repeating themselves. That I am capable of dealing with it IF they are. 

I am telling you all of this because we all know someone who struggles. Who is fighting. Who may be too quiet. May say the wrong things. May lash out at the smallest occurrence. May come off so angry. May push people away. May be an emotional punching bag. May live a lifestyle that is reckless. May be unaware that they are begging for help. May be pleading for rescue in their eyes but not their words. 

If you are that person…tell someone. ANYONE. Talk until your blue in the face. But keep talking. If you’re talking…you aren’t dead. AND THAT IS BEAUTIFUL. If you know someone like that…listen. Listen and really hear. You don’t need to fix it all. Just listen. Sometimes, that is all a wounded soul needs. 

Dear Suicide – I am proud to have failed you. 

Sincerely not yours…this girl. 

2.39. The Dying Writer

To say I have writers block is an understatement. Considering participating in JunoWriMo and Camp NaNoWriMo and my brain is mush. STUCK on the piece I finished for last years session…should I rewrite it? Should I start something new? Should I work on the one I didn’t complete? Are any of them good ideas? Why do they all somehow find the same lingering piece…too many branches off of one seed. Questioning if there is a point. If I will ever write something worth…something. Playing music, reading, sitting in silence…hoping for a muse. And finding nothing. No inspiration. Nothing that sparks a fire in my fingers to get out…anything.

This paragraph was a damn struggle.

2.37. In All Honesty

Spring is near…hell it’s Kansas so Spring may show up in August for all we know, but the overall symbolism of the season has set into full blast…kinda. Actually, it should be the opposite…the beginning of Winter. When life is ending, things die, everything is cold, quiet, and gloomy.

People say divorce is comparable to a death. And it is. The death of something you thought would last forever. Now, don’t have me mistaken with someone else; I chose to go through with my divorce…I asked for it. But I imagined it would be a rebirth. An opportunity for two miserable people to find their happiness again. What has manifested is a full blown war…a spiteful display of tyranny and a chaotic concert with nothing but hate blasting through the speakers.


I recently attended a class called FOCIS. Focus On Children In Separation. Sadly, that hasn’t been the case in the demise of my union. It has been an icy exchange. Something embedded with vengeance. Something VERY hard to deal with.

Before I go any further, let me make it very clear that I have no clue what I’m doing. That I’m making tons of mistakes. I am emotionally screwed right now. I have no idea how to have friendships, family ties, interactions with the adult species. The epitome of my understanding is with that of a three year old (my son) and even then…I get lost sometimes and just wish he would understand that I want to cry, to hide, to fade and not deal with the agony of breathing. But he will not understand my pain. He shouldn’t have to. He didn’t choose this. He sure as shit didn’t choose me.

During that FOCIS class, the instructor went over the 5 stages of grief, first really introduced by Elsabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying.”

  1. Denial and Isolation
  2. Anger
  3. Bargaining
  4. Depression/Guilt
  5. Acceptance

According to the instructor, the journey through these stages…on average…can be between 18 months and 4 years. 4 YEARS!!!! I slip into each one of these stages, depending on the day.

I have isolated myself despite playing the open book. I have walked away from friendships without so much as a tear. Because these people will leave sooner or later. It always happens. It always will happen. So fuck it. There is no use in holding on to people who will throw me away like garbage.

I become so angry, it’s sickening. I hate people who are happy. I hate people who complain about petty shit. I hate people who have it all figured out. I hate people who have no emotional understanding. I hate people who assume I should just deal. I hate people who pass judgement on my every fucking move. I hate people who think, for one second, they could deal with this pain. I hate people who have never been single a day in their adult life telling me to not feel completely lost. I hate people who have no courage to be alone telling me to stay strong…ALONE. I hate people who use that bullshit line, “you think you’re the only one in the world who…” No shit I’m not the only one going through shit. But I’m living my life. Is a rape victim supposed to think, “well, someone else went through this and worse so I should just get over it.” UM, NO! I hate the bullshit optimism and then the continuous “whatever” mentality when everything doesn’t go as fucking wonderfully as you’ve tried to convince me it would. You were wrong. Accept it. Admit that being a part of my life was a mistake and walk away. I’m giving you the option. Because I hate, more than anything, anyone who will stay in my life and is miserable because of that connection. Just walk.

I have bargained. I will do anything. I will die if it means peace for my son. For people around me. I will shut up and take it. I will forget. I will forgive. I will pretend to be happy when I’m not. I will do whatever…if only…

I have fallen into depression. I feel guilt every fucking day for existing. For just being alive. Wouldn’t people be so much better off if I were gone? Wouldn’t they all just be happier if I never existed? I have cried myself to sleep and screamed to a God I don’t believe in. I have begged for mercy. I have prayed on the phone. I have called hotlines. I have puked out the remnants of an empty bottle. I have lost myself in the pure feeling of being a mistake. I have been ashamed of my feelings because I have a child and I should never think of my own end. What kind of mother am I if I don’t want to jump out of bed every day to look at my beautiful boy? I feel guilt that he got such a pathetic ass excuse of a mother as me. I feel guilt that I am not better. That I don’t even know how to be better.

Acceptance is supposed to be that one when things make sense and there is a sense of peace and clarity. But in my acceptance, I have come to an understanding that none of this pain will EVER go away. My life is meant to be shit. And it will never change. It will always be this hard. It will always be this dark. It will always hurt this much.

Feel free to have a rolling of the eyes session, a “this bitch swears” moment…I seriously don’t fucking care. These are my emotions. These are my thoughts. This is my life. It is not and does not have to be a part of yours.

In all honesty, there is only ONE thing I am certain about…just one…but it is the most important thing for me to know – I love my son. I love my baby boy with every ounce of my being. I do not care if not one single person on this planet cares about me as long as my son knows I love him and I live ONLY for him.

In all honesty, my son is the ONLY thing I’ve done right in my life. The ONLY thing I am proud to be a part of. The ONLY reason I have the tiniest glimmer of hope in my heart that this life can be beautiful. As hard as the days get, I know this life has possibility…for happiness, for love, for laughter, for growth, for beauty…ONLY because he is in it.

I am a flawed human being. I am struggling to find peace in this battle. I am lost, scared, uncertain, feeling broken…

BUT I am willing to continue my journey, no matter what, because my son will always know I kept going…despite it all…FOR HIM. Here’s to healing, to growing, to figuring me out. To fixing me. One stage at a time.

2.35. Humbled But Happy

 It’s all about POV. 

I’ve spent the past year or so thinking…he has a home, he has a relationship, he has a great paying job, he has vehicles that work, he has family that lives in this state, he has everything I don’t. How did this happen? What’s the point of me trying…

I have a one bedroom, a car that doesn’t work, a job that pays fair but nowhere near what I realistically need, no family in this state, and no one that cares about me on a romantic/relationship level.

In speaking to a friend today, reflecting on the situation, recognizing how much I’ve been smiling lately…

He has stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. And is still a miserable, bitter, angry person. And that saddens me.

On the other hand, I have my son. I have genuine people in my life. I have a clear head and an open heart. I have so much more than I could have ever hoped for. I’m not to my destination but I’m definitely on my way.

This life is about your POV. I may have “nothing,” to many but my “nothing” is absolutely everything to me. And I’m happy.

Can’t say that about the other side. And with no ill will do I hope he gets there. I hope he learns to enjoy life a little more, smile a little more, appreciate a little more. Because the stuff doesn’t matter. The stuff will all go away.

In losing all of the “stuff,” I’ve gained my life back. Knowing just how hard these past two years have been…I wouldn’t change it. Not at all.

My POV is not about what I have or don’t. It’s about cherishing every single awesome moment with my child, every personal accomplishment (no matter how big or small), knowing genuine gratitude for beautiful friends and family, finding peace in myself, spiritual calm, and learning about the ability to take life as it comes.

It’s not going to be perfect here on out. That’s not the really real world. But damn if I don’t feel optimistic about tomorrow. Because each day has grown to be better than so many of my yesterdays.

It’s all about your POV. Do you have the right one?

2.34. Sister Sister

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you one thing. To tell you I am grateful. To know you. To call you my friend. My family. My crutch. My mirror. My reminder.

Of what forgiveness is. Second chances. Redemption. Unconditional. Truth.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say that I know we wasted too much time in this life. We let years fly and missed out; caught up in ourselves…in the darkness of mistakes and stupidity…in the whispering of others…and we lost sight…

We crossed lines and fought wars against each other – bloodshed being our intent. We didn’t care and could have stayed on the battlefield until the onset of our own demise.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you that I know we both miss him. We’d bring him back if we could. We’d give it all up to hear his voice again. To have our second chances. But he left us for a reason. He was tired. Tired of waiting on us to figure our shit out. He knew we were stubborn and self-absorbed. And he did the one thing he knew would wake us up…he walked away.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say that he left us with a void on purpose. Because he knew only we could love each other they way he loved us. He made room for us to need each other again. To remind us that we are stronger than our demons. That we are soldiers on the same team. Fighting the same war. A war we can, and will, win together.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you that I see you. I see the real you. I see the woman that works so hard to  provide. I see the little girl that just wanted to be heard. I hear the young poet who lost her voice and came back screaming. I hear the songstress who sings the tears of her heart. I know the woman who is scared to fail, to disappoint, to be lost. I see behind the quiet, the cold, the show, the mask. I see you. I see you. I.See.You.

And you are a beautiful soul.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say that you’ve made mistakes. You are human. You are not your yesterday. You are human. You have room to grow and you are doing so. You are human. You are worthy. You are beautiful. You are strong. You are kind. You are intelligent. You are a person worth knowing.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you that I understand. Even when there is silence. Even when we disagree. I understand. Because no one knows our battle but us. No one knows what we’ve seen, heard and felt. But I am here. I am always here. I am never, ever going to leave you. I am never, ever going to walk away. We will not fixate on those who chose to disappear. We tried. And that’s all we can do. But it is you and I.

I couldn’t wish for a better person to stand beside.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say I am grateful we got a second chance. To remind you that Daddy loved you. That Daddy loves you still. That your children have every reason to be proud of you. That my son loves you. That I love you.

Are you there, sis?

I ask but I know, in my heart, I don’t have to.

Because I know you are. You are there. And I am here. For you.


2.32. We Are An Angry People

We are an angry people

Overpowered by the necessity to grow with the propensity to thrash in oceans of muck we created. Erratic manifestations overflowing from pores of the poor onto the feet of oblivious caricatures strolling through the scene.

I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead…

But very much alive in thought and ideas. Continuously moving and flowing, contaminating the sparkling water that caresses the tips of lips and coagulates before the throat has any idea dysfunction has seeped in and claimed a home.

A sanction in this new body, this new place…where we can be any fucking thing we want to be. Taught to morph and manipulate through the cracks until you believe we are everything and nothing you want us to be.

Quiet and easily unseen; we are those shadows. Domineering and self assured; easily played and often easily assumed. Smart enough to enter a circle of false prophets and million dollar penguins…done without a second thought. Dumb enough so you’ll reveal your secrets to semi-deaf, but not really, ears…always.

We are an angry people.

But quietly waiting for our moment


When chains will be launched and blood will be shed. When tears will cleanse away oceans of blood. Yours and yours again. So giving…the foolish tend to be.

We are an angry people.

Lost in the memories of who we were. Who we thought we should have been and who we can’t seem to explain. BUT we fight. We fight on, no matter the personal anguish, because we are cold. We will turn off switches and lash them against your back in the same notion. Not two breaths or two beats will pass in hesitation because we can give the pain we know all too well.

We laugh when they cry and sulk and crumble. Because we have lived that life. We have seen that road. Fuck, we paved it. We know the feeling…

Mother, where did you go?

Father, why did you go?

Liars and thieves sculpted from first occupancy…created as soldiers to enable, to secure, to pawn, to prostitute, to manipulate, to convey, to sway, to torture, to shatter…………………………..

We are an angry fucking people.

Tired of broken promises. Lies upon lies upon lies upon…silk bed sheets where more false promises are molded, pushed, prodded, molested, raped, skinned, burned, pressed, slapped, punched, shunned, scoured, dragged, beaten, bruised, hung to dry until the next time.

We recall the baggage, the pain of yesteryear because it’s simpler, more familiar, than your smiles and whimsical moments.

Your happiness scares us. Terrifies us. Instills the deepest, truest sense of fear in us.

We are an angry people. Hoping to get out of the darkness, hoping to taste life for the first time before it’s over.

But trembling with fear at the prospect.

2.31. Random Guy Message #402

2/11 –

Guy: Hey I’m B****

Guy: I would really like to talk and see what happens 🙂

Me: If we don’t talk, that should tell you exactly what’s going to happen

Guy: Ouch. Thanks for the honesty! (He doesn’t mean that).

2/17 –

Guy: You always this mean?

2/18 –

Me: When did honesty equate to being mean?

Guy: When its not said in a sweet way 🙂

Guy: You want to talk or not?

Me: I’ll write that down.

Me: Didn’t my previous message make it clear I didn’t?

Guy: Nope (I think he’s slow)

Me: Wow, you don’t follow along well, do you? Nope, not remotely interested.

Guy: Right on

2/27 –

Guy: Change your mind yet? 🙂

Me: No, and this is getting pretty old. I guess you like blocks, huh

Guy: I don’t know….never taken a black girl out.

Guy: Would like to though

Me: Do you actually read profiles? I’m not black. I’m Puerto Rican.

Guy: I saw that. You asked

Me: That doesn’t answer my question. If you saw that then that means you can read and if you can read then you would know I’m not black. So wanting to take a black girl out…you’re barking up the wrong tree.

Guy: Okay let me rephrase that. I have never taken any girl that wasn’t caucasian, but I would like to

Me: And that’s just great. It’s just not going to happen with me.

Guy: What do you have to loose by talking to me?

Me: My time, which is precious to me.
Listen, you’re probably a real gem. A catch. Prince Charming to some chick. You’re just not what I want. Not only am I not physically attracted to you but the extent of this conversation tells me that I would annihilate you. It’s nothing personal. I just know what I want and what I don’t want. I’m not here to fill your curiosity for what it’s like to take out a non-white girl. Good luck in finding that.

Me: Now I see why you are single. Later

OMG! Thank you sooooo much. I just got schooled as to why I’m not in a relationship. Because I won’t talk to fuglies who have brown girl fetishes/can’t read/and are thirsty as a motherfucker.

Guess I’ll be single forever. Gladly.

2.29. The Stars Shine

This post gives me great joy to write. But it also has a deep rooted past. And so, we travel back to the first year I moved to Kansas.

Working for an in-home mental health care facility, I spent hours upon hours with a new set of people while our clients slept soundlessly in their beds. Between bed rotations, medicine distribution, and breathing checks…the staff would hang out in the living room and chit chat or play hours of card games. 

J and I sat in the living room for our first overnight shift together. We had eight hours to burn before our clients had to be woken for their daily activities…all we had was time to burn. He told me he’d had one girlfriend but that was it. And without skipping a beat, he divulged everything about his deepest secrets. He was gay. But his family had raised him Baptist and his father was a preacher; a man respected in the community for his devotion to God. J had tried being with a girl to “fix” himself. But it hadn’t worked. 

“So, have you come out to your family?”

J looked puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

He explained that he knew his feelings were wrong. There was no reason in coming out because he would never live that sinful life. He would never betray his God or his family. He would not burn in hell for the lust of the body. 

“So, you’re just going to be alone forever?”

He laughed at my “ignorance,” and explained that he wasn’t alone because he had Gods love. 

“But wouldn’t your God want you to be happy?”

He said he was but his eyes said otherwise. 

Fast forward more than a decade.

An attractive, Jesus loving hipster enters my world. I immediately lean on him for all of my Godly questions. But the world that we live in can’t understand why someone like him and someone like me would ever really talk. So the rumors started. I was trying to tempt him. I wanted to bring him over to the dark side. We were probably having secret kissing sessions when no one was looking.

And it pissed me off. Because no one knew the conversations we’d had. No one knew that we stood in a parking lot at 4am talking about his love for God. No one knew that he’d revealed, he too, had felt things for the same sex but couldn’t act upon them because of his love for his Lord. No one knew that I cried for this boy and told him the story of J. That my heart broke to see someone so amazing trapped by their own love…only to be left deprived of love.

A distance built between us and I will admit that I grew to dislike him immensely. I felt betrayed. How could he open his world to me in such a way and yet distance himself from me as if I were a fucking leper? I hadn’t judged him or told him what he felt was wrong. I had embraced him and he’d turned the other cheek.

I had a moment when I thought he wanted me to shun him for his revelations. When he wanted me to be like everyone else. That would have been easier. But I hadn’t and instead…I’d been thrown away like garbage. What a friendship, I thought.

The boy moved away. And I shouldn’t care.

But I am beyond happy for this boy. I have learned that in his move…the star found his puzzle piece, has grown even closer to his God in his new love, and has learned to be honest with himself and the world he aspired to change. I watch from a distance and I am elated to see pictures and posts of pure, genuine love. My tears were not in vain. Everything turned out the way it should have and someone who is truly a gift to this world now knows it’s possible. To love with your whole heart AND to be loved wholeheartedly.

When he became a star

2.23. Random Guy (A Convo via Facebook)

The following is an actual conversation that has recently occurred via Facebook. Anyone that knows me knows that I do not collect friends on Facebook. All of my friends are people I’ve personally met over the years, a rare set of gamers, and some artistic contacts. I’ve met a lot of people in my life so I don’t have a problem accepting an add. But if I come to find out that I don’t, in fact, know this person in any way…I delete.

I’ve had a multitude of experiences in which someone claims to know a family member or friend of mine and inevitably attempts to extract information or deliver sexual advances. Either way, I’m not interested and so I stay on guard when randoms appear. Call me a bitch for this convo, call me rude. I am protective of my world and those I allow in it. I will never apologize for that. Now, without further ado…

Random Guy

Hello  how are? I’m ***** and you are? (My FB has my name on it. Asking who I am is asinine). 


You don’t know who I am but you sent me an add on fb?
Random Guy
Nope I don’t kno you, but I was hoping I could get to kno you I mean that is the point of FB right? Loll to stay in touch wit who you kno and to network and meet wit the ppl you don’t .. not bein a smart ass just bein Real think about it every friend you have today started off as a stranger at some point or another .. now wit that bein said I don’t wanna waste yo time or be thirsty I just simply want to kno you  I apologize got the kinda lengthy message (I hate people who cannot spell a word as simple as k.n.o.w. Seriously, it’s four letters. He doesn’t want to waste my time or be thirsty…we shall see.)
Everyone I have on my facebook, I’ve met in person before friending them on this social network. Not to be a smart ass. I don’t use fb as a dating site.
Random Guy
Loll who said anything about dating you? ok so I’m not someone u met in person but that don’t mean I’m not someone you could meet .. I’m dye the amount of thirst you receive from dudes on here is annoying asf and I don’t wanna be part of that group loll I just seen someone I found interesting and instead of judging as book by it’s cover I decided to add you and introduce myself as I would in person (He found me interesting…really? Based on a picture, I’m interesting. Honesty, people, try it some time). 
Okay, nice. Thanks. (This is me, not being interesting or interested). 
Random Guy
Wuss the worst that can happen , I turn out to be cooler than you expect and we actually have a friendship? Would u at least like to kno what I’m about I’m not like everyone else .. (Doesn’t get the hint. Thirsty much)?
What response are you wanting cuz to be honest, now the long ass tirades are just annoying. (My version of honesty). 
Random Guy
I apologize for the long messages, just wanted you to get to kno me before u count me out not looking for any response So can u just have a conversation wit me and see where it goes? (Do people try this hard for a new “friendship?” Damn). 
Nowhere right now. I’m going to bed.
Random Guy
Goodnight ..


Random Guy

Goodmornin  .. how are you today?
good (Still not interested). 
Random Guy
What u got up for today?
relaxing at home. (I.E Noneyadamnbusiness.com). 
Random Guy
Yeah I feel you I’m of work today so I’ll prolly finish my song I been working on hopefully they don’t call me into the office loll how’s your Lil Mann? (This was clever in dropping the music/my career info. But I don’t care. A guy asking how my son is, a guy I don’t know from Adam…officially is in the ‘ya gone’ category. Guys think this will make a woman swoon or become more talkative. What it really says is, “you think my son is bait”). 
He’s fine.
Random Guy
So tell me a bit about you? (Reminder: he added me. Why am I filling out the questionnaire? I don’t even feel like talking). 
My fb says it all. (Leave me alone!!!!)
Random Guy
I wanted you to tell me instead of snooping all they to page (Did that sentence make sense? No, not really). 
This is not intriguing to me by any means. How is it exactly that you found my page? (We have two mutual friends, I’ve already checked. They are both females I went to college with). 
Random Guy
Yo page popped up you seemed cool so I added you .. I ain’t tryna holla at you if you let yo guard down you would see that I’m just a cool cat tryna get to kno u (Tryna is not a fucking word! I just want to put that out there). 
My page popped up? Right. See, when I dont trust someone because its obvious they are full of shit on their intentions, then I keep my guard up. How about you just hit delete and scope out someone else. (I.E You are coming off so damn thirsty right now and it’s seriously unbecoming). 
Random Guy
Actually yes yo page popped up in the ppl you may kno suggestion box .. I added you .. you ont kno shit about me to tell me I’m full of anything .. yeah you cute but you not all that to just be rude to someone like that my intentions were as stated previously now whether you believe that is not my problem but gettin wit you is and was not My intentions at all like I said to be friend someone you have to meet them first but you have a nice day Ms. ***** (He sounds mad that our friendship is over. I feel bad. Oh wait, I don’t. Why is me being cute relevant? Why is it an assumption that I think I’m all that because I don’t want to get to know this random guy who can’t speak properly? I’m crying on the inside from his painful words against me…)
Who claimed to be all that? I dont want to know you. Period. Get over it.
If me saying I’m not interested in getting to know someone makes me a rude bitch…then a rude bitch is what I shall be. With joy and glee in my cold, black, dead little heart.
Wah wah wah, cry me a river.