Drop of Possibility

with a corner of sweet red wine left in her wine glass on the end table, she sat in a slightly oversized racerback tank, leopard print bra, hot pink lace hipsters, and fuzzy leopard slipper socks. the only thing put together on her was her hair: pulled back and neatly gathered into a glittered gold rectangle hair clip - very Chistmasy.


she sat indian styled on her plush California king bed with feet intertwined like a pretzel and tucked underneath her, all while pounding against the keys of her laptop. thinking aloud through her fingers, she couldn't for the life of her, even years later, figure out what was it about her and about them that made him venture off.


by all means, he had it all; at least all of what the average man she thought desired. she was the refreshing image of what a woman was to look and sound like: well put together even on her bad days in fitted jeans, collegiate tees and hoodies with clean furry boots or designer clogs. she handled business sometimes better than a man without negating the "womanly duties" bestowed upon her when her father's sperm decided she'd be born with a split versus a pole.


she'd given him everything: hot, home cooked meals where she'd slave over hot pots and pans served with ice cold drinks and napkins folded cleanly under his plate - served to him. she never called him into the kitchen to retrieve his meals. she always waltz her smooth brown flesh into whatever room he was in and served him. she washed clothes, sheets, carpets, and backs if need be. she was the listening ear he'd said he never had, the friend he needed and the lover he prayed for. she did it all. and not to mention, she was a whole theatrical act in the bedroom, shower, living room, and kitchen (when not cooking of course). whatever he wanted or needed, he had.


but all wasn't enough. as if more could be sought and found. different, yes. more, absolutely not.


and here she was, years down the line, trying to decipher what was it that made him do that to them, and to her.


she questioned her own thoughts on the fact that such questions were even being posed. it didn't matter, but, it did matter. no one likes or wants or desires to be wronged. even more so, no one wants to be hurt and to live to speak on it and relive the pain when the hurt has been instilled upon them by one who was their lover. their partner. and in some cases, the key to their future - or so they thought.


her love was and still is ingenious. craved and desired by the minions who crossed her path. damn near perfect, yet, she had not been able to wrap her head around the sheer selfishness and stupidity in the decisions that were made on his behalf that affected and tainted her view of love and relationships.  and she knew it was all out of stupidity and self-centeredness, but her being a woman, it made no sense to her. she knew it wasn't her. couldn't have been. especially not when you get the whole shebang. she knew she wasn't the average woman with average wants and needs or even an average attitude or personality.


she just could never wrap her head around any of it. she knew she probably would never be able to come to grips with the situation. and yet, she'd provided chance upon chance being hopeful and convincing herself that there was enough faith to try. she was glad she'd finally left well enough alone as she realized that even glasses half full of hope grow to be half empty. and eventually, the half empty can barely spare a drop of possibility. 


closing her laptop just as she heard his keys jingling in the door, she looked towards the door of their bedroom as he and his deep dark brown eyes met with hers. they smiled as he made his way over to her and placed several sets of soft kisses upon her lips. she realized then that there was a reason for all of the past shenanigans: so she could see what was sitting and waiting in front of her. so she could walk away from what use to be and what could have been. so she could be loved by who wanted to love her all along. the faith she'd given then to one who didn't deserve it, was the same faith she used to walk out on and grab hold of the love she needed all along.

***

In Dedication to All of Your Sauciness

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::::::::::::::DEAR SELF::::::::::::::

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I raise this imaginary glass to you because yes, you are the shit. Regardless if anyone says it to you, or even if they don't. You know, and you have the right to stare at yourself in any mirror that offers you a reflection of the true you, so that you can deem it necessary if need be that "yes, I am the shiz-nit."


Yes girl, we've said it hundreds, if not thousands of times before: you know you did the best, was the best, and gave your best. And lets not forget, you forfeited us so that he could co-exist with you without feeling as though he'd lost any bit of his masculinity. But yet, our femininity, our woman-ness, didn't matter? Bits and pieces of you died so that he could live. Yet, after you weathered all storms, monsoons, tornados, hurricanes, tsunami's, and blizzards that came swerving into your  personal space, you still had the strength to resuscitate yourself, so that you could keep it moving.


In spite of him, and in spite of what wars were waged against your heart's desire, your strength continues to amaze me. Your perseverance, and ability to let go and live, leaves me speechless. I can't be jealous of myself, but I damn sure can admire myself.


You know, there aren't many like you walking this Earth anymore. Endangered species if I may. You are preyed on by the wild and ravaged, but prayed for and protected by the best.  And yet, you continuously revamp, update, change, alter, grow - become someone new, whether by choice or by force. And to do it so gracefully and without anger, scorn, or bitterness is one of your greatest assets.


So as you waltz bravely and beautifully into a new chapter, a new abyss, domain, a new corridor of your life, I lift this fictitious glass in rejoicement and sincere love to the person that you are today and the person you're becoming. Your load may be heavy and it may not go where and how you desire it to, just recall, you are the shit!




cc: You

Shacking Up

For some, it works wonders. For others, it's a deal breaker. For me, never again.
We moved expecting that life would only get better. Yeah, we expected and anticipated hard times, but long as we had each other, life was headed for All-Graveyland.

At least that's what we thought.

Before I knew it, good times and laughter were soon out the window and nonstop hard times were waltzing through the door. From infidelity and lost of trust to reduced work hours and not so amicable break-ups, I tell you, this wasn't what I signed up for. But then again, when shacking up, this is exactly what I signed up for.

Three and a half years, three break-ups, hundreds of sleepless nights, screaming fits with wall shattering glasses later, I've finally come to make the decision not to ever, ever, ever, shack up again. Til' death do me part, if no ring, vows, and marriage certificate, Theresa'll be living alone.

And this is no laughing matter. This is the real deal.

A co-worker and I had this very same conversation while at work at the end of our shift as the boys were on their way to sleep. Granted it's totally understood that not all men and women are like me and him, and in some situations, it works. But in others, it can be a total diaster (hence my case). And because of this, I'd never suggest or push for a dating couple to move in and live together. There's too much messyness that comes along it. Yes, it would be grand to learn a partner's habits before marrying. And yes, it's nice to have someone to fall asleep and wake up next to at night and in the morning. And it's even sweeter to have someone to spend off-days cozied next to while watching reruns of your favorite shows and movies. Yes, these things are fabolous. And there's nothing like it...

But...

Of course there's the flip side to it too. There's also the emotional inability to realize that something's wrong in your relationship because you're spazing about the dishes piling up in the sink, his sticky socks clinging to your lace Victoria Secret hiphuggers, and lets not forget about the overflowing clothes hampers that need to be washed while the over-stuffer roaster's cooking. It's easier to spot shit from a distance than if it's already in your personal space. It's easier to forget about yourself when you're sharing corridors with your partner. And once we forget about ourselves, and become blind to the foolishness that may be happening, a relationship's approval rating plummets and home becomes hell, catching ablaze.

So while I my spend days and nights piecing a new life together, I reflect on such a decision that I'll go to lengths if need be to share my story with others in hope that they can prevent themselves from experiencing what I battled through and finally escaped. Often, after we've successfully taken 10 steps forward, we have to take double those steps back to check ourselves, our lives, and our circles. And one thing I've realized during my ongoing reality check, shacking up, is the one thing I promise myself that I'll never do again.

The love I can handle, the messyness I can't.

Better & More

"Being at a place where you no longer care is never a good place to be, but, it's often the best place because that's where we put ourselves first."

These words I posted on Twitter when it finally hit me that the situation I'd once again found myself in, I was in, but no longer cared about it or anything but me. And I was and am ok with such feelings. It doesn't bother me.


I always talk about self-worth, self-love, and how we, especially us women, deserve better, more - the best. But we also know that to get such things, a demand is created. Just like closed mouths don't get fed, a heart's desire is never satisfied if we don't pursue its wants and sometimes, its needs.


The steps to a better life, to the lives we want for ourselves always began with us. Point blank. There's no other place, no better place than there to began.


For four years, we tried endlessly to make us work. Call it forcing, contrived, or imaginary, we fought in our own ways, for our own reasons or motives, to make that thing work. One may have felt or thought they did more, experienced more or less pain, gave more of themselves for something that they wished and prayed for some sort of positive return. But oftentimes, God doesn't give us what we want or what we think we should have because it's not meant for us to have. This is a realization that never quite hit me until I decided I was finally done. After countless attempts to work, I caved, and gave into myself. Decided that I was and am too good of a woman to allow someone to use me as target practice. To brandish my heart with actions that left it heaving for air on those nights when the "I'm sorry" and "It was a mistake" weren't enough. Granted, I know he would beg to differ - these are my thoughts and feelings. I'd reached a point when thinking and whispering to myself that I deserve better and more, needed to be known all across the board. Subtle voice undertones and text rants about what I thought I deserved, no longer worked; I knew I deserved better and more, and was going to go to whatever lengths necessary to make sure I received them. And it didn't matter how anyone perceived it - as long as it was known.


Because of then and those moments that I spent alone with myself and with my heart and its contents spilled out ahead of me, I've found myself beginning again.  And as difficult of a decision this has been, I realize it's the best one for me. A chapter has been closed in my life, for new ones to have the opportunity to begin and the option to end. And I welcome them and their many facets with open arms. I welcome my life's forthcoming chapters with an endearing, understanding type of love that only I can comprehend. No amount of love or life songs can adequately describe just how I feel or what exactly lies in my heart. But I know I deserve better and more. And I commend myself on giving me to opportunity to live and the option to experience myself, by myself, and alone in my own skin.

Jill Scott, Hear My Call

I know I've posted this video on a past blog piece, but this is poignant and important :)

Works in Progress

She came in, initially cheerful and jolly, her usual buoyant self. But as soon as she sat her food on the counter, slid her feet from her boots, and dropped her bag onto the floor, it were as if she was dropping a load she’d been carrying for too long. At the thump of her bag, the tears fell and her spirit seemingly began to speak for her. In control? Not this time.

From her lips came the explanations, experiences, and words that I’d been too fearful to share myself. All there was to do was to nod in agreement. This wasn’t one of those moments that demanded that I hold her and allow her tears to soak my shoulder and her cries to be muffled by chiffon shirts and pearl necklaces. No, it wasn’t one of those moments. This was a grown up moment: let her tears fall and her breasts catch them and let her be frustrated. Let her realize she’s worthy of more and of better things, better experiences and better moments. But in order to get better we have to suffer a bit. Learn, a bit. Be upset and scared, a bit. To be frustrated and angry, lost and dazed, a bit. To wonder and question self worth when self worth has been shattered to bits and pieces like broken glass on concrete floors. Yet, life begs of us, challenges us, to pick up the pieces and create a new canvas. It was one of those moments. It was a time to let her be her. To let her see who she’s grown and evolved into. Let the little girl, naïve and boisterous, clueless and inexperienced, be laid to rest.

I stopped me so he could be. So that he could find his niche in the world as it exists. So I cradled his dreams in my bosom like an expecting mother cradles her belly to let her creation knew she is here, to protect its existence. To ensure that it’s grand entrance is loud and clear, safe and protected, nurtured and loved unconditionally.

This here is the solo that most women have sang at some point in their lives. And we, now full and grown women, now realize how much had been postponed so that we too could sing this song.

It’s a surprise that I still have my sanity. Life took left turns when it should have yielded to oncoming traffic, forthcoming problems, and preconceived notions. Yet, I stayed. And so did she. We felt that the cause was worthy of an ongoing fight. But what to do when the battle is not worth guns then roses, not worth tears then sweat dripping and pore opening make-up sex therapy? What to do then? What to do when he breathing makes your skin crawl and your eyes flutter in frustration, when to hear his keys jingle at the door and you instantly become a full blown pragmatist, expecting the worst when you know you deserve the best? What is a woman to do then?

We stayed. But because we stayed and fought and battled out relationships that had ended months and sometimes years before we’d caught up to the heart of the matter, when the end finally drew near, we shielded our hearts, our eyes, our very existence, yet, we still didn’t know what was coming to us.

So now, we face each day, as works in progress.

We wake each morning feeling better than its predecessor. We allow our laughter to travel from the pit of our bellies to the nape of our necks so that the world may hear us, so that our presence here is known and forever etched into what used to be. We fight now and we fight daily and constantly and notwithstanding help, to decide what is best for us; trying our damnest to figure out the matters of our hearts and not that of others.

We once again are blank canvases waiting to be splurged on, to have tales written onto and into us so that the draft may be torn to shreds and required to begin anew. We go into each day, alone and bare, naked and new, ready and waiting and wanting new experiences. New ideas and thoughts that allow us to say “I have” instead of wanting, dreaming, or thinking of things we want to do. We do now – for us and therefore, for our futures, for what’s to become, for what is to be excluded so that better may be included. 

The journey for sure has not been the most adventurous; nor has it been the best, what we wished and anticipated. But it’s been a journey that has warranted us to give thanks and to mature, to understand and comprehend, to work beyond and towards – to be grateful for who and what we have become. And for these adventures, we understand that with each day we are given another chance to live and to do better, to become women we weren’t the previous day, the more we understand we are nothing more than works in progress. Anxious and awaiting canvases, drafts – waiting for new experiences to rip us open so that life may sew us up again and place it all on repeat.