This is what makes us girls

“This is what makes us girls, We all look for heaven and we put our love first, Somethin’ that we’d die for, it’s our curse, Don’t cry about it, don’t cry about it, This is what makes us girls, We all stick together cause we put our love first, Don’t cry about him, don’t cry about him, It’s all gonna happen”-

I thought something was wrong with me because I want to be single. Not that I’m opposed to dating, but for the first time in my life I want everything to be all about me. I’m at a peculiar crossroad where I don’t care about anyone’s experiences, thoughts, opinions, cares, concerns: especially if your idea of courting is to dump all your worries on my shoulders to cushion and clarify. I don’t really care about your life.

And as contrary to my character as this may sound, for the first time in my life the world has to revolve around me. It has to. 2012 has been a whirlwind, life decided to show its true colors in hazes of furious red or depressing black, and as I wade through those colors and the effects on my every day I don’t have time to also dissect and decipher your rainbow.

Therein lies the problem. There’s this guy, a nice guy, a super nice guy, who likes me. We’ve been talking for a short while and now have settled into a routine that is unsatisfying. Because I run hot and cold, you have to catch me right at boiling to hold my interest. That’s when I think about letting you in; I test you to see if you can handle my rare emotional discrepancies; I make an effort to fit you in to my routine. Once you miss that limited span of time, I completely lose interest. It’s not even that you’re in the “friend-zone”; you’re more a non-MFing factor. He’s there now, even though he doesn’t know it… yet.

Here’s what I want. I want that incessant need to chat/spend time uncovering, revealing, and indulging in the company of someone who holds your attention. I need to feel special every day. Not all day. But every day I need something new to make me feel desired, wanted. I want the freedom to be my own person and keep my schedule, for him to do the same, relishing the moments where our time collides. I need the passion that spins my head, gives me googly-eyes mimicking those emoticons, has me talking about you in wonderment to anyone who will listen, where I find that song that represents you and listen to it when I miss you. I want that chemistry that has me day-dreaming of straddling you in your car, making out in parking lots, laying my head on your shoulder, your fingers ruffling my hair, the warmth of your arm around my waist.

None of those previously listed desires do I find in Mr. Recent. He has mentioned that he’s shy, perhaps jaded from a past relationship, passive in his pursuit. So I took the direct approach, told him that I want to have fun, be flirted with, kissed with intensity. Spend time with me, I said. Joke with me, laugh with me, talk to me like you’ve fantasied about me naked, I mentioned casually when asked what I’m looking for. I tried to be as clear as possible as to my expectations.

I feel like this is my fault. I’m looking to relive something I’ve never had, the experience where dating is fun and nonchalant: the mutually beneficial liaison that is neither serious nor flippant. Every relationship I’ve spent the whole time getting lost in a “him” because I either didn’t know who I was or didn’t like my reflection at the time. And “he” would either derail my plans or distract from my failures. I’m no longer standing on the diving board ready to drown in the ambitions of another “him” to avoid the mirror showing my faults.

Finally though, I like everything on the outside, and it’s the inside that needs work. The progress proves that the two are meshing together nicely.

So I have to let him go. Because he’s not what I want. And I can’t be what he needs. Before he’s too invested, before emotions are involved, before he makes declarations that unveil his intentions we will part ways.

I have to thank @jozenc’s piece today on UntilIGetMarried.com, especially the line: “I was crazy for thinking a man like me is something she wanted simply because she was a woman.” He wrote a piece that made it seem normal for wanting to choose singleness over someone who is great, just because you can, because that’s the place you’re at right now. It has nothing to do with the guy. It’s simply a decision to be alone. And there’s nothing wrong with that. And there’s nothing wrong with me. Sometimes you need to hear that.

Lost & Found

“Come upstairs and I’ll show you where all my, Where my demons hide from you, Just look at who I have become, I am so ashamed you were the one that made me feel the way I do, You broke me, And taught me, To truly hate myself, Unfold me, And teach me, How to be like somebody else, You’re lost and found, Fallen out, Broken down”—Lianne La Havas

I don’t even know why I’m writing all of this. It just seems that with every pound lost, my whole body wants to be lighter. My spirit cries: “Give Me Free!” I don’t want to gain again. And it’s not because I love food. It’s because food makes me unattractive. A state of being invisible where you’re hurt by actions, not words—sticks and stones and all that other playground logic.

Sometimes I even wondered if I pushed them to cruelty. Something innate, generational: a particular scent that entices men who create victims. Watching my mother fight nightly with the Millionaire, verbal to physical altercations where bruised bodies connected with broken windows. Those same hands: a different color, wrapped around my sister’s throat. Bones that shatter. Marks that fade.

And here I am grateful that the ones of many never hit me. Never challenged me with their fists. Because I fight back. But only so hard. Something about a balled hand, even in jest will sound the alarm, a battle cry of a wounded warrior.

I hate saying that I’m a product of divorce, paltry words to describe the relationship of my biological parents and what ultimately led to their separation: a confluence of fucked up and power lust. A prodigy of their regrets as I created my own.

I don’t have a lot of my memories—too much blockage, too much repression—I do know happiness wasn’t a central theme in my household.  Knowing them, happiness isn’t their strong suit no matter who’s around. Something is always wrong: not enough money, not enough time, not enough energy/resources/opportunity, life is hard; too many directions pulling them away from each other. They have perfectly perfected the imbalance of wanting to live and needing to be needed.

While they stayed together, they stayed together. One minute they’re fighting, knocking over dishes, knocking each other around. The next moment I’m tracing the shattered window pane, slivers of glass cutting my fingers, my mother making coffee like nothing ever happened.

And that’s still how we live, treading over troubles, burdened by the past, unwilling to acknowledge the thunder claps, the announcement of an upending storm. When walking in the forest you can either choose to hear the crunching of leaves under your boots or tune your mind for approaching predators.

The lack of openness, of narration, led me to eat what I feel. Any time something was wrong or something hurt me only the scale reflected my struggle. Now with this weight loss I’ve had to let a lot of things go in order to rediscover my body before blemish. I’ve had to concede to a negative perception of self worth and beauty. Had to stop seeking to fill internal voids by helping others, by being for others what no one has been to me; dawning a cape at the mere hint of distress, when really I stand in need of a champion.

You have to be a part of your own rescue.

Life aint no crystal stair, yet here I am spending my days cleaning dust off the speckled glass peering into the artfully positioned, broken pieces underneath. The storage unit under the staircase locking away all of the damage from view.

I have such a forgiving heart. More of a talent really. It took me such a long time to forgive the Millionaire and after that it became so freeing. Ah, release.

But I have the worst time forgiving myself. I hold. I harbor. It’s always my fault. Let me hide it away in some shelving unit underneath the companionway, these instances which have disfigured: Erik’s mask a band-aid.

I have a hard time saying that the mistakes in life are really the experiences that help you grow. I even go so far as to blame myself for the evil in others. As if I could have prevented certain occurrences and those that I couldn’t I deserved.

I remember the day MYD raped me. I remember we were cuddling and he wanted to have sex. I remember saying no. I remember turning away only to have him pin me down. I remember my hands held over my head, my face turned away, tears streaming down cheeks, thinking about black chalkboards. I can still hear his final huff, the weight on top of me, the pressure of his hands on my wrist loosening as he used that connection to push off me. I muttered: “Are you happy now?” Still facing the wall, turning my body to match the position of my face. I remember his sigh. How he said “you shouldn’t cry so much, if you don’t stop crying I will leave”. The stream never ceasing, he got up and left. No goodbye, no apology. Ever.

I wished it away. Pretended it never happened. Willed myself not to remember the next time I welcomed him in my arms. Because it wasn’t the first time. And if it happens more than once, you deserve it right? You ask for it. I always thought if it happened again I would be a fighter, I would stick up for myself. In the height of that incident, numbed by recollections of a certain foster home, of a specific closet, of other nightly visits where I turned my face away. Flashbacks that freeze my body at the peak of warmth. Images that shadow my steps though I can’t place the imprint in the sand.

It seems I always fight for the underdog but never for myself. The odd hound barking on the heels of every failed relationship. See I tend to pick men that latch on to my kindness, that leech off my nurturing spirit while trying everything in their power to break me. And I’m ashamed to say that I let them. Something in me for so long screamed that I deserved it. I couldn’t see that it was deplorable treatment.

I spent so much of my youth being angry, hateful, hurting others in response to my own internal turmoil that I would stride toward the path of abuser in order not to be a casualty again. Growing up, I transformed the lashing into self-loathing, an air of meekness to atone for my sins. Ordered a new welcome mat across my body for anyone to wipe their feet, working so hard to heal them in supplication that I ignored the need for my own recovery.

I have to be my own hero now. I can’t take on your burdens. My shoulders are far too weighed down.

This is the first time I’ve ever said this. The mess of my brother’s death has turned me into a cesspool. And now it’s so clear. Clearer than it’s ever been before. Right now, this moment, it has to be all about me.

I’m not asking you to carry my baggage, or even help me unpack. Even a career porter wouldn’t know what to do with all of the suitcases I lug. Over time I will push you away, claim self preservation. In reality do you really want to see how far down the rabbit hole goes? Yea, I didn’t think so. Listen when I say I’m broken, believe it. At least you know where my demons hide.

1+1

“Baby we aint nothing but love, and darling you got enough for the both of us, Make love to me…when my days look low, pull me in close and don’t let me go. Make love to me…so that when the worlds at war, let our love heal us all, Help me let down my guard, make love to me…”– Beyonce  

I notice a man’s hands first. Imagine them drumming on my shoulders, the repeat sensation of thunk thunk thunk, the security of being clutched in the crook of his arm, the casual claim carved in this natural position. I fabricate the slide of his palm on my thigh, back and forth, the rhythm, the steady rub of infatuated appendages, watching t.v. my legs in his lap. Nestling. A nest built on the splinters embedded in the wings of failed relationships past, swaddled with the cloudy mucus-like hope of the moment the rib finds its way back to the cage; the sound structure completed. The melody of songbirds chirping of full circled unity, one and one, a cord braided, unbreakable.

I can feel the crinkles in the cup of his hand as he clasps tightly onto mine, intermittent thumb swipes on fragile L-shaped flesh. Unaware-awareness, the taps tingle messages of thought, of me. Clear! The wipe of his thumb jolts me back, reconnecting our lifeline from the pause where I felt his absence even as he stands near. Tactile feedback erasing the alley where my mind wandered, the dark and desolate place of female insecurity: where the women are cuter, the wine wetter from prolonged exposure to the vine.

His hands clap to clear the hollow of my doubt, reuniting the spark of two bodies in confinement. The strength of his grasp changes the question mark punctuating a suffocated breath, to the easy exhaled period of his presence before me, forcing me from the recesses of my mind, the Disney world where fantasy ignores reality.

Intimately aware am I of the calluses at the distal end of each arm, the road map of his life. How hard he works, the dedication to tomorrow’s promise, pain withstood: welcomed as it molded the appendages, formed him into the man with head held high though shoulders are weighted. Nightly, hands outstretched to relieve a small portion of his burden, body knelt in full submission, rubbing oil on the harden cracks, his helpless chuckle whispers that they will only resurface at dawn. Continuous movement a plea that maybe my ministrations will ease the tension in the crimped crease; the problems that upset, at least for a moment enjoy soft strokes of pillow-cushioned comfort, worry free smeared in the furrow, kneading the belief that everything will be alright, smoothing over the speed bumps, the obstacles of his day, pleating my trust in the capability of those hands.

What I like best about his hands is they’re not romantic. They don’t hand me wilted flowers to profess things he may not mean, or leave me Hallmark cards with words that he wouldn’t express. Yet I explicitly understand the letters his fingers sign when words escape the breach in our entangled digits. My body the sonograph translating the sounds his hands make when he holds me close, emitting blueprint sonnets, love words cast in clay, jars collected on the tracks of my veins.

Each 4 on 4 reunion replete when the thumbs intertwine and join the fold. All the books in all the world couldn’t communicate the assurance of the meeting of two hands.

Don’t pay attention if you catch me starring, I was just trying to map the moments of my life. Of you. Who I think you are. All lounging unbeknownst in your hands.