The Session

Today, I had my therapy session, and thank God! I had to unload and let someone know how I am honestly feeling. We covered everything, from my being stressed out to my friendships. She said she could tell something was up with me, which was reassuring and more helpful than someone telling me I am acting weird. The session must have been just what I needed because afterwards I took a long, hard nap and for the first time all week, I felt rested. Of all the great things I have ever done, getting a therapist stands out as one of my greatest decisions, and if I were queen of the world, I would make it mandatory that everyone get a therapist. There is nothing like someone with no skin in the game helping you figure things out. I'm really excited for my next session and enjoying some good sleep. 

Moody

P had the nerve to tell me that lately I've been moody. Moody and rude. Well, I'm sorry, but I am beyond over it! Everything has been getting on my nerves of late. I've been beefin' with my brother. I'm always hungry yet losing no weight. Every time I get over one obstacle, I look ahead, and there are ten obstacles left. I'm sleepy. I've had a bad cough. I'm broke. I'm so exhausted and frustrated by my job search that I won't even go into it. I'm concerned about premature aging. I can't seem to drink enough water. I cry at the drop of a hat. I'm scared for the world. My niece now has tantrums that consist of endless screaming. Not crying, screaming. It's all just too much, so yes, I've been a touch snappy. Am I not allowed that? I guess not 🫤

Priorities

Call me a big baby, but for once, before I leave this planet, I would like to be prioritized by someone. These guys I have been talking to have jobs and kids and parents and house plants so I am last with them. My friends only call me on their way to a date or in the line at Wendy's. I'm just a good laugh on the way to doing more important things. People respond to my texts when they f*$cking feel like it. The world is on fire and I am the lady people push to the side so they can loot TVs. This used to make me sad. Then it made me angry. Now it's just a fact. The sky is blue. Pu**y is pink. I am ignored. I've heard of disregarded middle-aged women buying prioritization from YNs from TikTok. I'm not mad at it for those women that want it, but can't someone prioritize me without my having to take off my underwear? It's looking more and more like the answer is no. Oh well. You can't get your way all the time. 

Scared Stiff

So, what we know for sure is that God doesn't put us through anything we can't handle. I then deduce from this that there is a reason for everything we endure. I am choosing to believe that God is going to petrify me so thoroughly with life stuff that at some point I won't be able to be scared ever again. That day, however, was not the other day.

Sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, I am scared. Very scared. I'm so scared that I was not even having my usual pity party I'm-so-alone-in-this thoughts. I'm was just sitting here calmly, scared.

Waiting to be called for my appointment, I thought about a big museum, the types they show in movies. I envisioned children on a field trip being led through a dinosaur exhibit until they make it to me. I am frozen, immortalized in a maxi dress and ballet flats, sitting against a piece of wall from my room. 

"This is Holly Clay from 2024. As you can see, she has been fully preserved. The pressures of going through life a lone and panicked literally left her scared stiff. Her family donated her body to science as a warning to future generations about going into middle age un-partnered."

The kids and their teachers would take pictures before moving on to a display called "Obsolete", where they would get to play in a pool of old phone books. 

At some point once I got home after my visit, I found myself hysterical. What else is new? I called my doctor, some friends, my mentor. Just when I thought I couldn't feel more alone, another situation proves me wrong. I didn't feel like I had anyone in the world. After three hours of tears, I finally went to sleep. My headache was splitting. I can't say I'm trying to be strong because I don't think I have any strength left. I'm totally pooped. As my medical team told me, I need to pray. More shit storms are on the way; this is the dinosaur in the room. 

Depressed

I am depressed. 

This really shouldn't be news, because I am pretty sure that I have been functionally depressed my entire life. I remember being so, so sad all the way back in kindergarten and just being told that I was overly sensitive. I remember sitting at the club in college, wanting to cry for seemingly no reason, and being told I was just a drag and a downer. However, this depression feels different. 

I trace this surge in my unhappiess to the beginning of the New Year when I decided to go on this diet. Well, what was supposed to be a positive move to improve my health has plunged me into all day, every day negativitity. And as you have probably guessed, it is not going well. I am pretty sure that I have not lost so much as an ounce. This of course makes me feel like a failure, which is not exactly good for my already plummiting morale. Quite honestly, I am about two seconds from giving up completely. It is too much. It is a trial. And I am not good at trials that are too much. Anyway, I will never be as small as I always dreamed of' anyway; small enough to where a bikini to the grocery store or nab my dream man, so what's the point? Oh, I forgot. Life. 

Wow, I really must be depressed. I don't even feel like whining anymore. Okay then, until next time. 

Rona Stress

I know that we all have experienced varying levels of stress and even mania during this seemingly never ending quarantine. Who didn't see the live videos in the beginning of folks fighting over toilet paper and cleaning wipes? At that point, I was waking up in the middle of the night and disinfecting the door knobs and toilet seats. Now, with threats of a third wave of crazy infection numbers on the rise (How did I miss the second wave?), I find that my Rona stress has increased to new heights of nutty. 

A friend of mine got Rona earlier this summer. His roommate gave it to him and the other three boys that live in their apartment. He didn't get outrageously ill. He didn't end up having to go to the hospital or anything like that. But he has lost his ability to taste and smell. I hear that this is a common symptom. But his roommates have gotten there senses back and he has not. It has been over a month. 

After hearing this, I found myself licking seasonings off of my hands to make sure that I could taste them. This was followed by a banana, blueberries, a teaspoon of BBQ sauce, and a protein shake. Once I was sure that my sense of taste was in order, I found myself nose first in the dryer sheets, trying to make sure that I smelled those. Then I sprayed Lysol and perfume to smell them until I almost made myself puke! 

This is life in RonaWorld. You either have spazz outs like me or you go to bars without your mask on as if it is 2019 and you can still party like it's 1999. Some people fall in the middle. All of us are over it. 

Well. Until next time. Those jalepenos in the fridge aren't going to lick themselves. 

The Douche Dynamic

My college homecoming just happened. I wasn't there and I am very sad about it. That whole weekend, I had to watch the play-by-play of all the fun events on Instagram. It sucked. But one IG story that caught my attention was that of Brandon Thomas, a guy who was a senior when I was a freshman. It was about his making amends with his college girlfriend after over 15 years of feeling guilty.
To understand the significance of this, you have to understand Brandon. He is cute and charismatic, but is best known for his outrageous social media posts about women and dating. One of my personal favorites is one where he goes in on a date because she had the audacity to order a desert on their first dinner outing. But that is only one of many posts that discuss how women are just out to get him for his money and clout and blah blah blah.
So, Brandon goes to homecoming and runs into Shanna, his girlfriend from freshman year. He was in love with her, but said he was being a "f*ck boy" and the relationship didn't work out. The very next man that Shanna got with, she married and is still married to today. He had the opportunity to talk to her, and she forgave him for whatever it was he did to end their young relationship.
As young adults, most of us didn't have instructions on how to date properly. Everything we learned was from rap songs and bad advice drunk family members gave us; movies and what our dumb friends told us. All we knew was that we should do the least possible to hurt the person we cared about, and 9 times out of 10, we ended of doing the opposite. Man, there is know hurt worse than the hurt caused by some who didn't know better; someone who had your heart and didn't know what to do with it. But what I have learned with age is that you should do right by folks not just because it is the right thing to do, but because doing bad by folks sticks in your system as well. You feel worse about the situation the older you get and the better your understanding of what a douche you were becomes.
Brandon had the taste of douche in his mouth for 15 years while the ex love of his life had moved on and married. For 15 years he wondered what if while she went on with her life. I think everyone has a Brandon chapter in their book. This whole thing made me wonder how easy dating would be if we didn't carry around regrets from past relationships. Most of us will never know. I know I won't after the Dreads situation. I guess all any of us can do is try to do better.

The Dating Game

One of my good friends is interested in dating a man that she kind of already dated. You see, they were seeing each other and it seemed to be going well until the mother of his child moved in with him. I'm not sure why, but she swore that he swore up and down that there was no funny business. She just needed a place to stay. Obviously, this put their budding relationship in the freezer. 

Now, after a few months, things are starting to pick up again for them...slowly, and my friend doesn't get it. He has said that he likes her and that he is interested in her, but he doesn't speak to her unless she initiates conversation first. This is leaving her to wonder where he stands. 

"Sadly, I don't think he is interested," I tell her. No girl enjoys having to tell their friend this, especially when she is awesome. "Think of your previous relationships. Weren't those guys intentional about showing you how they felt?"

"That's true," she said, processing the statement. 

But as you know, when there is one friend speaking truth into a friend's ear, there is another speaking nonsense. Another friend of hers advised her to just be cute and ignore him and not be so available, you know, play games. We are in our mid 30s. When do we become too old to play games?!

Even as a child, I didn't like games. I preferred sitting in the corner, eating a snack and reading a book. I didn't participate in game playing when it was age appropriate for me to. I remember watching my peers running with balls and chasing each other down. Even then, I didn't think it should be that hard to win. 

My opinion has not changed much, especially when the view to 40 from where I am sitting is clear as a bell. At this age, it is not only immature to play games, but also a COMPLETE waste of time. I suggested to my friend, who is two years older than me, that she sit down with him, tell him how she feels, see what he says, and then move on accordingly from there. If he is not interested, she will know, and can them move on to the awesome brotha that is worth her time. 

I understand that this is easier said than done. I think that we avoid being grownups when it comes to relationships because no one wants to have the hard conversations. They usually come with emotional owies that we just don't want to take on. So, instead, we do the dating version of tag, one-upping each other with disrespect and cruelty until one of us taps out or gets tired. Apparently, this is cool, even in our 30s. I hate to see what dating in our 40s is going to look like. I'm not optimistic. 

Behind-Your-Back Talk

What do you do when a friend tells you that another friend has been talking ish about you?
I swear, female friendships are constantly evolving. They also never change. The "she was talking about you" routine has been going on since I was in grade school. But back then, I feel like spilling the beans on behind-your-back talk was done out of boredom and messiness. When this happens when you are in your 30s, you can't help but feel like there is some malicious intent. I think that Friend A told me about the behind-the-back talk to warn me about Friend B, who she is no longer friends with. But it low-key hurt my feelings.
I know, I know. All the things I have said about friends in the past, I have a lot of nerve being butt hurt. But shocker, I is.
"For me, the story isn't that Friend B was talking about you," my friend Tay said during our volunteer meeting. "It's that she felt comfortable talking about you to Friend A, which makes me wonder what Friend A says about you too."
Mic drop. Good point. Good point that I'd rather not think about. I really, really like Friend A. She has shown up for me in some very important ways over the years.
Unfortunately, this spilled tea has left some small, sticky stains on my friendships. But what can you do at 34 but wipe up the tea and keep going?

No Letting Go

These boys I went to school with have a podcast. It's called The Art of Letting Go. I was hesitant to even listen to it because, like most Black women, my defenses go up when it smells like someone is even thinking about telling me to get over something. After listening to about two of their episodes, I realized something profound: in my whole life, I don't think I have ever let go of anything. I mean nothing. Not even a little. I am not a forgiver. I am not a forgetter. I hold on to old hurts like a pit bull does a meat bone. Perhaps this is why I have not experienced some of the reoccurring themes of their show such as peace and growth and happiness.
I have a full well of negative experiences that I have collected over the years that have come together to develop a Chinese wok worth of thick, dark pains and disappointments. These yuckies are on reserve for me 24/7, providing me with the comfort and support that I need to get through a day. I pull from this wok whenever I need affirmation that life sucks, that people suck, and that it will all be not okay in the end. These gritty ideas settle like grease in a coffee can (was my grandma the only one that collected old grease in a coffee can?). At the top, you can find all that good new-new negativity like the resentment I feel for my mom dying and the anger I have towards men for rejecting me  my whole, whole life. And, at the bottom, you can find those sweet, structural throwback miseries from back in the day, like being called fat by girls I wished were my friends or being mad at myself for not passing a spelling test. All this icky fills me up like a big bowl of hot beef stew on a cold night. I couldn't imagine letting any of it go. It has become my defense, my support, my man. Letting any of it go would be like removing limbs or kicking the chair from under me. What would fill me in its place?
"God's love," my new church friend Jalissa suggested at church on Sunday. Oh my God! I hadn't even thought about God! Jalissa painted a beautiful picture of God's love coming in like a sweet ray of light and cleansing me, activating the pieces of him that are already in me and leading me into a new life of grace and fulfillment. Oh man, it sounded awesome. Too bad I don't have the strong faith needed to buy into it. But I'm working on it. Sigh. No I'm not.
Later, my pain painted of picture of what it would be like not to have it as back up even for a minute. I'd be emotionally nude. Everyone would see me. I'd be raw. And who needs that?
So, unfortunately, right now, when it comes to relinquishing old sadnesses, I'm like your boy Wayne Wonder: there's no letting go.

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.

Loss

I guess I am lucky. When I was growing up, I had a lot of women that dropped bars into my life as to how to conduct myself as a young woman. A teacher in middle school, Ms. Ross, told me to never leave home without a pantyliner in my purse. My grandma told me that clear nail polish stops runs in your stockings. My middle school bus driver told me that hand soap from the soap dispenser in the ladies room can double as a deodorant if you put it under your arms, and my mom told me that table salt gets period blood out of your underwear. One of the editors at Upscale Magazine, where I interned after college, told me that potato chips and sugary snacks will give you parasites. All facts. However, while all these priceless pieces of information were being dished out, no one told me how to deal with loss. Inevitable, random loss. Someone dying in your life is way more plausible then you randomly needing a pantyliner. It is guaranteed! Yet no one said a peep.
Over the past two years, my grandma has died, my mom has died and my ex-boyfriend from high school has died. Most recently, one of my BESTEST friends from college died, and I just feel ill-equipped as to how to deal with all of this loss emotionally. I find myself trying to sleep off the shock and hurt of it all, but how long of a nap do you have to take to get over the fact that there are people you've loved your life that are never coming back?
And it is not just death. I have also been mourning some of my friendships of late. People have friend-dumped me with no explanation, leaving just as big of a hole in my life as those people I loved that are now six feet under.
Perhaps the elders in my life didn't tell me how to deal with loss because it is almost impossible to put into words. Maybe they didn't tell me because they knew that grieving differs for everyone; what worked for them may not work for me. Either way, I don't have tools. Let's just file this under that grownup stuff that no one wants to address like heartbreak or student load debt. Man, if only dealing with loss could be as easy as cleaning period panties.

The Grieving Posts 3: Men and Mourning

I never wanted to be that woman who felt like she needed a man. Let me just say ladies, you don't know how much you need one until someone close to you dies. I realized this at my grandmother's funeral earlier last year. After the ceremony, my uncle cursed me out for no reason while my other uncle just sat there with his ankles crossed like nothing was happening. It was then that I realized it would have been great if I'd had a beau to beat the crap out of both of them.

Now on to my mother's passing. As I wrote my thank you cards, helped plan her wake, and waded through all the family stuff that comes with the passing of a parent, all I could think of was how much I wished I had a man in my life to hug me through all of it. I was surrounded by my mourning siblings and my aunt and other women that cared for me and that were providing me with love and support. Didn't matter. All I wanted was a strong hug from a strong man. I know. I'm pathetic. 

The funny thing is that I was talking to someone at the time. We had only been talking for a second when this happened, so I didn't want to come off as too needy. A parent passing is a huge thing to deal with when you first meet someone. So I simply asked him if he minded coming over to give me a hug. He said he wasn't coming over unless I could promise him sex. Needless to say, I ended up hugging myself to sleep. #whataloser

So when my homecoming came I want you to believe me when I tell you that I was collecting man hugs from my old classmates like they were going out of style. And no, that that was not enough. Man hugs are like Pringles: you can't have just one. 

"I know what you mean," Dizzle said when I told her how I was feeling. "Sometimes you just want to be held."

"Yeah, but I feel bad because the women in my life give me so much support and love that it could literally lift me off the ground," I whined, lying across the hotel room bed. 

"It's not the same," she said. She was right. It's not. 

So now we are six months in and still, no hugs. I actually hurt my shoulder trying to give myself a bear hug about three months ago. I feel like a woman with strength of character would use this time to exercise or learn to cook or pray or do something productive. I'm yearning for a hug from a man I don't have. It's so sad I almost hate to write it. But don't worry. In writing these posts, I am trying to take control of the wheel and turn things around. I mean, I was very close to picking up a Steve Harvey book the other day and, I think that we can all agree that, once that happens, I can throw in the towel. #toostressedtothinklikeaman

The Grieving Posts 1: Mood Swings

I have been having some major mood swings lately. As my true readers know, I am not that emotionally stable as it is. I am assuming that all of this is connected to the fact that my mom died in August and I have not even begun to deal with it. I am pretty much refusing to cry and acting like everything is business as usual. I am fully aware that this is not healthy, but I decided that this was the best way to proceed when I woke up the day after she died and realized that the world had had the nerve to go on.
Not long after her death, I reached out to a friend of mine who is a shrink. I hit her up about what I have been experiencing and the mental health fat that she gave me to chew on was the equivalent of you can't out pizza The Hut. 😕You would be giving me the same face if you knew the HOURS of advice I have poured into this girl since I was 19. Here is my advice to you: make your core strong, so when shit happens, you can look within yourself and self-soothe. As you well know, my core is about as strong as damp Ramen noodles, so I'm screwed.
I don't know if you have experienced the passing of a parent, but I will explain to you how it feels to me: like I have forgotten something. Like I left something. Like I can't find something. It dawned on me recently that this must be what true incompleteness feels like. Is this going to be the way that I am going to feel the rest of my life? Like something is missing?
I don't know. For now, my moods are just 'a swingin'. I have flashes of sadness mixed with long periods of tiredness and irritation. I have great anxiety when it comes to me having to leave my house. I don't know what that's about.
Sadly, I am fully aware that this is just the beginning. This sucks because I am about at the end of my last good nerve.

Joel Says Hi

With the cold weather comes loneliness, and with loneliness comes a short memory. This is the only reason I can think of that Joel would text me.
I may not have told you about Joel because I was so humiliated. And I have told you all some pretty humiliating things, so that should tell you how humiliating this was. To make a long story short he stood me up for a date we had, leaving me crying in front of the train station in a brand new maxi dress waiting on him to show. After an hour and a half of waiting for him and not being able to reach him, I just sat on the bench in front of the train station, crying, IN THE RAIN! And no, this isn't a scene from a bad romantic comedy. This was me last spring! I was embarrassed because I didn't pick up that he was a dirtbag when we first met. I was embarrassed because I waited so long on him when it was clear after five minutes that he wasn't coming, and I was embarrassed that, again, I found myself crying over something stupid that a guy did to me. On top of that, I looked hella, hella cute. So I felt like everyone that passed me could tell that the only reason why someone as day-date adorable as me was crying was because I had been ditched. Again, humiliating.
So, being the emotional eater that I am, I gathered my purse and my emotions and crossed the street to the pizza place where my date was to have taken place. There I ordered a pizza while trying not to cry in front of the cashier.
"Do you want a cupcake?" the cashier asked. I frowned. I am a cupcake fan, but the cupcakes behind the glass at that place looked funky. And by funky, I mean vegan. I told her no and was about to sit down and wait for my pizza when I remembered that there was a new cupcake place around the corner.
So, emotionally beaten in cheap, wet shoes, I made my way to the new hipster cupcake shop that offers free wifi and cool seating. I walked in to be greeted by the curious stares of couples which, of course, made me feel more like crap.
I ordered my cupcakes but couldn't find my debit card, which I knew I'd just had because I paid for my pizza. I just couldn't keep it together. I started sobbing as I frantically searched my purse, and I have to say, I had never seen so many people look so uncomfortable at once.
Once I got my cupcakes and pizza, I stood across from the train station, waiting on my Lyft. And can we just say thank God for Lyft and Uber! They have helped me to escape a lot of horrid situations that I otherwise would have had to sit through.
The Lyft pulled up in front of the train station instead of where I was. I didn't want to go back over there because it was embarrassing but I did, ready to go home. Just as I was about to open the door the community wine-o approaches me out of nowhere. She had on a dress that reminded me of Joseph's technicolor dream coat.
"Hey big mama!" she shouted in front of the train station. Everyone stopped to stare. "Let me get a piece of that pizza. I'm hungry!"
I sighed, moving as close to her as her funk would allow and whispered, "Ma'am, I was ditched for a date today."
She nodded and opened my Lyft door for me, allowing me to get in. And that, friends, is what makes this story fantastic.
I came home and shared my food with my aunt and brother and later confided in my brother what happened. He looked at me confused. I was confused too.
But not as confused as I was today when Joel texted me, talking about how he missed my face and voice. Boy bye.
You will be happy to know that I didn't respond. Let this story prepare you. If the cuff texts haven't come yet, they are coming. Stand strong, and remember why you don't talk to the person to begin with.

Bad Dad

When I had lunch with my Dad when he was here, we talked about my half brothers and sisters. There are five or six of us in all. My dad is married, and has been for 18 years, and has a 17-year-old son, a junior, named Robert.
So I ask him over gumbo if his son is going to college. He doesn't know. Eyebrow raise. And so I ask if he and his son are close, seeing that they live in the same house. The answer is no. And I am like, how is that possible? He says that he is about as close to the son with his wife that lives in his house as he is to me. Not good. We text occasionally and he visits every two or three years. I ask him how this is even possible, and he says that it is because he is a bad father.
Bad Father. He said it nonchalantly, like he was saying his name. He went on to add that he works a lot and that none of his kids were planned.
This did not hurt my feelings. I was happy to hear him say these things. When I was kid, I figured he wasn't around because of something I did when I was too young to remember. When I was a preteen, I convinced myself that my mom had done something to make him go away. Now I see that his absence was no fault of mine or my mom's, and that is not only refreshing, but a big relief.
Before he left, he said he wanted to come back in November. I said OK, but I am not holding my breath on him coming. He may or may not. I just have to accept him for what he is.

Relatioship Status

He who shall not be named is in a relationship. Thanks Facebook! I could have gone forever without knowing that. Since there is a status change, I am assuming that it will only be a matter of time before the vacation and dinner pics bombard my news feed! Ugh! I miss him. And yes, I am aware that I am stupid.

Getting Over The Hump

If summer is the time for amore, than fall must be the time for recovery. I know that fall is not officially here, but it is August and right around the corner, and tons of my gal pals are finding themselves no longer love stoned and crashing into recovery mode.
My grandma used to say that everything has a season, but must it be fall? Fall when you already feel sad because the weather is changing and dreary outside and the sweaters and gloves you need aren't on sale yet. Winter would even be better because I would be preoccupied with planning my birthday party and Christmas shopping- there would literally be no time to mourn!
I listen to my friends talk about their emotions, and I feel like the emotions elder, seeing that P stuck a knife in my summer happy with his ish. I am here to tell you, nothing is worse than trying to get over someone in the summer because your attitude is all messed up when there is so much fun stuff to get into!
Let's face it: there is never a good time to get your heart broken and have to fix it. All you can ask for, whether sunny or cloudy day, is the energy to get over the hump and on to the next good thing. Sigh.

Heart Skip

I was checking my email and saw that P was available on my Yahoo chat and it made my heart skip a beat. I miss him. I was thinking about him just yesterday, and not about what a MAJOR asshole he is, but about how he is doing. What he is doing. So afraid that I may chat him and not ready to deal with a new wave of sadness when he didn't' chat me back or chatted me something rude, I decided to blog about it. Smiles, what would I do without this outlet? The old question: how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop? The new question: how long does it take you to get over someone that was never into you? Hopefully, there is some sweet treat on a stick at the end of my rainbow when I come to the answer.

The Rebuild

I am not sure if I told you this or not, but shortly, after a guy "friend" disrespected me, he texted, not told me but texted me that he didn't think we should talk anymore and it hurt my feelings. Funny, he has said some out of line ish to me but what hurt most is that he may never offend me again. Pathetic.
The tip of the iceberg was in Miami, when, while trying to express my emotions to my bestie Haynes, I broke down in tears on Lexington in front of a very busy Victoria's Secret. That was two weeks ago.
So, what have I been doing since then? Trying to put myself back together. The whole thing has been an adventure. It's not like when my gay boyfriend dumped me in high school, when I got cornrolls and spent my days and nights listening to Lauren Hill. This go 'round, I can not stop the poetry from flowing as Bush and Nirvana are on replay.
Am I all better? No. But I don't feel like trash anymore, and I can go for hours without replaying the situation and texts and conversations and the expressions of people wondering why an obese Black woman was crying in public. The goal is to heal without letting this take me over, further tainting my view of men. It's going better than expected, but give me a month, assuming that is all I will need. Give me a month.