I look in his eyes and I swear
I think I may hate him for real
He ate all my chips
He's relentlessly rude
And he never asks me how I feel.
I be like, "Hey, didn't you say
that you had somewhere to be?"
He be like, "No." But he did.
He'd just rather stay home and annoy me.
Oh yes he lies.
And he thinks I don't know.
He thinks I'm too dumb to tell.
When really I don't want to be alone
So I'm willing to ride his lies straight
to hell.
A hell where the bills are late,
but he don't care.
He doesn't know how to provide.
I get stressed and I sink into my feelings.
He pulls me out.
He doesn't allow me to hide.
Because misery loves a friend,
someone cute to starve with and such.
But hungry and struggling are two different things
and balancing both is becoming too much.
I NEED MY SPACE
That's what I think as he watches cable splashed from next door.
I NEED MY SPACE
I repeat to myself as I pick up his clothes off the floor.
I NEED MY SPACE
I whisper as I watch him nap in my bed.
I NEED MY SPACE
I scream out loud as he lies to mess with my head.
Silence is golden.
Our future is black.
Honest to God, I think he likes it like that.
And I must too
This is a truth that hards to receive
Because if I didn't
I'd stop complaining
ad simply get up and leave.
Monday, May 28, 2018
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Positively Negative
I find myself desperately trying to hide how negative I am at church so that I can make friends. It has become clear to me that my sweet, pure, and dare I say beautiful form of pessimism clashes with clean, innocent, dare I say naive Christian optimism.
My friend Kyndra, who invited me to this church in the first place, did something that I would never do which is invite someone that I sort of know into a personal space. People know that she invited me, so I have tasked myself with trying to be on my best behavior. For me, I am seeing that this includes not being too honest. My honestly comes from a negative place and as you probably well know, negativity is a virus that spreads through the garden and murders all the roses. I don't want to kill her super sweet, warm, welcoming, and unrealistically encouraging and hopeful friends. I don't want to be the weed in an otherwise healthy flower bed.
Talking to the women in the church is the hardest. They are so nice, yet it is hard not to scream, "What a load!" whenever they speak. A couple of Sundays ago I stood with a tight, manufactured smile as a young woman with a cool, funky haircut named Paula spoke excitedly about how her ex finally deciding to get into church. For her, this was a milestone met on their way to getting back together, becoming "equally yoked" and jumping the broom. I smiled hard as her other friend, we will call her Peggy, listened along excitedly, praising God for the miracle of getting a young Black man into church. That is a miracle, I won't disagree with that.
When Paula finally took a breath, I asked, "What if none of this sticks with him? Are you prepared for that?"
I instantly regretted it. The power drained out of her eyes as if I had unintentionally turned off the lamp in her brain. "What?" she asked confused.
"Holly wants to know if you'd be okay if you two don't get married," Peggy chimed in. That is not what I wanted to know at all.
Paula inhaled, her power coming back on. "That is okay. I am more concerned with him getting saved."
I nodded, smiling so hard at this point that my cheeks were burning. I wanted to tell her that the whole thing smelled like a boy lie. I wanted to tell her that I could see this young man going as far as he felt he needed to before she agreed to sleep with him again. Then he would vanish from the church so fast it would be like he was never there. But that, good friends, would have been the type of honest negativity that makes it so no one wants to talk to you after service. I like after service talks.
As I have said before, I am trying to build a relationship with God and get better with changing my way of thinking. My current thinking is a hard skin to shed, seeing that I credit it with saving me from some decisions that could have been devastating. But being negative can be exhausting and preventative. Maybe one day I too can experience the joy of just knowing without a doubt that things are going to work out. Faith, it's what's for dinner.
Until I get to that point, it is all tight smiles and nods from the peanut gallery, secretly taking solace in being positive that negativity is the way for me, at least for now.
My friend Kyndra, who invited me to this church in the first place, did something that I would never do which is invite someone that I sort of know into a personal space. People know that she invited me, so I have tasked myself with trying to be on my best behavior. For me, I am seeing that this includes not being too honest. My honestly comes from a negative place and as you probably well know, negativity is a virus that spreads through the garden and murders all the roses. I don't want to kill her super sweet, warm, welcoming, and unrealistically encouraging and hopeful friends. I don't want to be the weed in an otherwise healthy flower bed.
Talking to the women in the church is the hardest. They are so nice, yet it is hard not to scream, "What a load!" whenever they speak. A couple of Sundays ago I stood with a tight, manufactured smile as a young woman with a cool, funky haircut named Paula spoke excitedly about how her ex finally deciding to get into church. For her, this was a milestone met on their way to getting back together, becoming "equally yoked" and jumping the broom. I smiled hard as her other friend, we will call her Peggy, listened along excitedly, praising God for the miracle of getting a young Black man into church. That is a miracle, I won't disagree with that.
When Paula finally took a breath, I asked, "What if none of this sticks with him? Are you prepared for that?"
I instantly regretted it. The power drained out of her eyes as if I had unintentionally turned off the lamp in her brain. "What?" she asked confused.
"Holly wants to know if you'd be okay if you two don't get married," Peggy chimed in. That is not what I wanted to know at all.
Paula inhaled, her power coming back on. "That is okay. I am more concerned with him getting saved."
I nodded, smiling so hard at this point that my cheeks were burning. I wanted to tell her that the whole thing smelled like a boy lie. I wanted to tell her that I could see this young man going as far as he felt he needed to before she agreed to sleep with him again. Then he would vanish from the church so fast it would be like he was never there. But that, good friends, would have been the type of honest negativity that makes it so no one wants to talk to you after service. I like after service talks.
As I have said before, I am trying to build a relationship with God and get better with changing my way of thinking. My current thinking is a hard skin to shed, seeing that I credit it with saving me from some decisions that could have been devastating. But being negative can be exhausting and preventative. Maybe one day I too can experience the joy of just knowing without a doubt that things are going to work out. Faith, it's what's for dinner.
Until I get to that point, it is all tight smiles and nods from the peanut gallery, secretly taking solace in being positive that negativity is the way for me, at least for now.
Monday, May 21, 2018
Plans
Over the weekend, my mentor asked me what my plans are.
She told me that your 20s are for making mistakes and that by your 30s you should have a plan. Spoiler Alert: I'm 33.
I was mildly annoyed because I got the feeling that she felt that I don't have a plan for my life. Like I'm not awake nights, very aware that I am 7 years from 40, and that I have wasted so much time thinking about going to grad school that I could have had a Ph.D in something by now. I told her that I do have a plan and I do...I think. But in the event that that this "plan" falls through, your guess is as good as mine as to where I am going to end up. My crystal ball is showing me a grocery cart full of my journals and a makeshift bed under a bridge. And I hate the outdoors, so that would really suck!
In my 20s, I read an article that advised young college grads to say that they worked well under pressure in job interviews. The article suggested that potential employers like that. So I began to say that in interviews and, sure enough, I got two internships. I guess I have been saying that lie so long that I actually began to believe it honey, because I don't work at all under pressure. Just typing about the anxiety related to the very sad, possibly impending, horrifying possibility that my plans may fall all the way through is making me want to crawl unto a ball, sucking my thumb.
In my 20s, I thought I was mortified that I wouldn't become a great writer. 30 was the deadline. Now that I am over 30 writing a blog that no one reads, I realize now that I wasn't mortified, I was concerned. What I am feeling today, right now as I type, THIS is mortified!
When I was a little kid, I couldn't tell certain animals apart. I just couldn't see the difference between a monkey, a gorilla, an ape, and an orangutan. As an adult, I seem to have the same issue. I just can't comprehend the difference between a goal, a wish, a dream, and a plan. Life has taught me the correlation between employment and shelter thought, and I think that should show for something.
What is the plan for the rest of my day? I was going to make some tea then take a nap before Judge Judy came on, but I think my plan should probably be planning out the rest of my life. 40 will get here quicker than 30 did, and I would like to spend the big 4-0 in my house with my man, not on the curb with a tin can. The scary thing: the choice is mine based on my plan. Again, MORTIFIED.
She told me that your 20s are for making mistakes and that by your 30s you should have a plan. Spoiler Alert: I'm 33.
I was mildly annoyed because I got the feeling that she felt that I don't have a plan for my life. Like I'm not awake nights, very aware that I am 7 years from 40, and that I have wasted so much time thinking about going to grad school that I could have had a Ph.D in something by now. I told her that I do have a plan and I do...I think. But in the event that that this "plan" falls through, your guess is as good as mine as to where I am going to end up. My crystal ball is showing me a grocery cart full of my journals and a makeshift bed under a bridge. And I hate the outdoors, so that would really suck!
In my 20s, I read an article that advised young college grads to say that they worked well under pressure in job interviews. The article suggested that potential employers like that. So I began to say that in interviews and, sure enough, I got two internships. I guess I have been saying that lie so long that I actually began to believe it honey, because I don't work at all under pressure. Just typing about the anxiety related to the very sad, possibly impending, horrifying possibility that my plans may fall all the way through is making me want to crawl unto a ball, sucking my thumb.
In my 20s, I thought I was mortified that I wouldn't become a great writer. 30 was the deadline. Now that I am over 30 writing a blog that no one reads, I realize now that I wasn't mortified, I was concerned. What I am feeling today, right now as I type, THIS is mortified!
When I was a little kid, I couldn't tell certain animals apart. I just couldn't see the difference between a monkey, a gorilla, an ape, and an orangutan. As an adult, I seem to have the same issue. I just can't comprehend the difference between a goal, a wish, a dream, and a plan. Life has taught me the correlation between employment and shelter thought, and I think that should show for something.
What is the plan for the rest of my day? I was going to make some tea then take a nap before Judge Judy came on, but I think my plan should probably be planning out the rest of my life. 40 will get here quicker than 30 did, and I would like to spend the big 4-0 in my house with my man, not on the curb with a tin can. The scary thing: the choice is mine based on my plan. Again, MORTIFIED.
Friday, May 11, 2018
Baggage Lady
My friend told me last night during one of our you-can-do-it-girl emotional support calls that she is choosing not to date because she is working on her baggage. It was the first comment I had heard in a long time that had rendered me speechless.
First off, I had no idea that people were still working on baggage out here. From my passenger seat, it looks like everyone is just running wild while walking calmly, eager to put their emotional ish on the next love or like or one night stand or even co-worker. I thought that we had all realized that we all have our crosses to bear- bad credit, mental health issues, addictions, poor attitudes- and that the next person that we link up with will have theirs as well. I thought that we had all spent our money on concert tickets and expensive camera gear that we don't know how to use so we can't afford therapy. So, we all decided to be honest and let our partners know that we had issues. They would tell us their issues. Then we would decide if it was worth it. And no, no one told me this. I just assumed all this as I strolled through my Instagram feed and realized that all of my newly engaged friends are some of the most screwed up people in my life.
I am the proof that working on baggage doesn't work! About a million years ago after breaking off a hard, three-day renothingship with a loser, I dedicated A YEAR to getting rid of my emotional baggage. I considered it the year that I was dedicating to Aphrodite to get myself in emotional order.
"You are 27-years-old, you don't have a year to give away!" Jamaica had screamed in my ear when I told her about my plans to change my life, purging myself of the baggage I had inhaled from that loser. Looking back, she was absolutely correct. That was the last year that I was able to look thick and not huge in jeans. That could have been the year that I got some really good, womanhood creating baggage...or I could have fallen in love. Who knows? The point is, one year, two years, ten years- there is no amount of time that is suitable for working on baggage. Because if you take the time you need, which is A LIFETIME, you will be the most emotionally healthy, lonely, 100-year-old on Plenty of Fish, and who really wants that?
I'm an over-eater that is afraid of doctors. I have a positively negative attitude and I live for gossip like a man going to the electric chair lives for his last meal. BAGGAGE. And when life was happening to me, when I was negotiating payment arrangements and bartering unused fragrances with neighbors to bum their WiFi, my baggage was right their, growing leaps and bounds and keeping me warm in my crap hole apartment as I experimented with holding a lighter to my face as an alternative to turning my heat on. You say baggage, but that sounds like a good ride or die friend to me.
"I think it is great that you are working on you!" I told my friend. She was excited I was on board. I decided not to tell her how ridiculous she was being. Receiving a negative response after being honest and open is an experience that can create baggage.
First off, I had no idea that people were still working on baggage out here. From my passenger seat, it looks like everyone is just running wild while walking calmly, eager to put their emotional ish on the next love or like or one night stand or even co-worker. I thought that we had all realized that we all have our crosses to bear- bad credit, mental health issues, addictions, poor attitudes- and that the next person that we link up with will have theirs as well. I thought that we had all spent our money on concert tickets and expensive camera gear that we don't know how to use so we can't afford therapy. So, we all decided to be honest and let our partners know that we had issues. They would tell us their issues. Then we would decide if it was worth it. And no, no one told me this. I just assumed all this as I strolled through my Instagram feed and realized that all of my newly engaged friends are some of the most screwed up people in my life.
I am the proof that working on baggage doesn't work! About a million years ago after breaking off a hard, three-day renothingship with a loser, I dedicated A YEAR to getting rid of my emotional baggage. I considered it the year that I was dedicating to Aphrodite to get myself in emotional order.
"You are 27-years-old, you don't have a year to give away!" Jamaica had screamed in my ear when I told her about my plans to change my life, purging myself of the baggage I had inhaled from that loser. Looking back, she was absolutely correct. That was the last year that I was able to look thick and not huge in jeans. That could have been the year that I got some really good, womanhood creating baggage...or I could have fallen in love. Who knows? The point is, one year, two years, ten years- there is no amount of time that is suitable for working on baggage. Because if you take the time you need, which is A LIFETIME, you will be the most emotionally healthy, lonely, 100-year-old on Plenty of Fish, and who really wants that?
I'm an over-eater that is afraid of doctors. I have a positively negative attitude and I live for gossip like a man going to the electric chair lives for his last meal. BAGGAGE. And when life was happening to me, when I was negotiating payment arrangements and bartering unused fragrances with neighbors to bum their WiFi, my baggage was right their, growing leaps and bounds and keeping me warm in my crap hole apartment as I experimented with holding a lighter to my face as an alternative to turning my heat on. You say baggage, but that sounds like a good ride or die friend to me.
"I think it is great that you are working on you!" I told my friend. She was excited I was on board. I decided not to tell her how ridiculous she was being. Receiving a negative response after being honest and open is an experience that can create baggage.
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