Hold Me Back

Everything takes time, but this shit came fast, Niggas standin’ in line, they wanna hold me back, I multiplied my hustle, stimulated my mind, Motivated my niggas and we’ll never divide, NO! These niggas won’t hold me back, These hoes won’t hold me back.— Rick Ross

Before I’m 25…

My 25th birthday is around the corner. If you would have told me I was going to make it past 16, I never would have believed you. I normally don’t make bucket lists, because I tend to do what I want to do—graduate from college (5 year anniversary), check. Travel around the world—all the continents save 2, check. Fall in love (though I didn’t plan to fall out of love), check.

A friend told me that I fully invest with no fear. I agree. When I’m on the hunt, when I want something, when I’m in the mood to accomplish, I go. I’m focused, I’m determined.

As a child of abuse, drugs, neglect, foster homes, trauma, I realized at an early age that no one will look out for you. So look out for yourself, and look out for others along the way. That’s me. That’s what I do.

My drive is what got me through college, trust me. I’m not the smartest or the most diligent (i.e. I procrastinate). But I work hard. After college when I was able to check the box and hand my mother my diploma, I can’t lie and tell you I thought things would be different. I definitely thought employers would be hammering down my door. Clearly that wasn’t the case. So I got a little defeated and even more complacent.

But now I’m back, and before 25 I have a few goals to achieve.

1. I want to own my domain name and have business cards—my writing is my passion and I have to start taking it seriously.

2. I want 3 writing mentors: I need a critic, an encourager, and a sponsor who opens doors.

3. I want writing to be an occupation—whether it’s writing for livingsocial or a newspaper—I want to make some form of money from my writing.

4. I want to go back to school. I think I would be a great nurse. I’m caring, not squeamish, and I’m cool under pressure. So I need to have applied to nursing school by 25.

5. I want to play a more active role in my nieces and nephews lives. If you know me, then putting this at #5 and not #1 is a major for me. I feel that I am active, but I want to be present.

6. TeamBeachBody—I’ve been the same weight since high school, and rotund all my life. And though I’m comfortable, I would like everything to be tighter and more toned. Hence the reason I joined MyFitnessPal, the jogging, and the vegan lifestyle change.

7. Pursue Plus-Size Modeling—I’ll never be a single digit size but even at my current weight I’m still beautiful and very photogenic. So why not give it, a shot? It could be another added source of income or open more doors for my writing.

8. I want to write for well-known blogs—J, from Up4Discussion.org, has a vision and in a few years his blog is going to be big. In the interim I’d like to see if I could write for other publications like Essence.

9. Performing at an open mic—I’m not shy, and I don’t have stage fright. Where my trepidation lays is in being vulnerable in front of an audience. So if I perform my writing at an open mic not only will I gain more of a following (and some feedback), but I’ll also discover that just because it’s deep for me doesn’t mean it’s that deep for everyone.

10. Read my library books. I love the written word and I love the library. Where I fail is actually reading the books I check out from the library. So I end up paying massive late fees as I scramble to read through the pile I brought home. I check out books repeatedly, and still return them without reading a single page. Whether it’s making time for me or prioritizing my time, I want to develop the habit of reading what I checked out, when I check it out the first time.

A lot of these goals are things I say or think daily—but sometimes when you write it plain you make it more meaningful.

And the countdown begins…

Dream a little Dream

Dream a Little Dream

“Say nighty-night and kiss me, Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me, While I’m alone and blue as can be, Dream a little dream of me.”

I dreamed an interesting dream last night. From first to final rem I lived this story until the alarm beckoned my rising. It started with my role as the token black character on Will & Grace, the scene opening in a bedroom with bunk beds. Jack was on the bottom, and I was on the top of one set, and Karen was lying on the bottom of another. It was late, and our very cute, very drunk black next-door-neighbor walked in and lied down next to Karen. Though I was crushing on Mr. Dude, Karen’s willing body was ready to win him for the night. Jack and I roll over on our adjacent bunk beds, feigning sleep. Grace walks in and looks at the make-out scene with Mr. Dude and Karen then yells: I thought JL declared Mr. Dude a “no-fly zone”? My pretense of sleep in shambles as I pop up declaring that it’s fine for Mr. Dude to sleep with whoever he wants especially since he didn’t know I like him. Of course, Mr. Dude sits up all drunkenly confused, now that his conquest is out of reach. I gather my things and walk off in a huff.

Not sure if he follows me out, but we somehow end up at a lake house or on a lake shore where we talk… and talk… and talk some more. We talked our way through the weekend and into bed. Waking up Sunday morning in his bed, I find out he lives in a dorm-style row house with hordes of other D-9 Greek women flocking about. We are all getting ready for a frat-type BBQ. I lay on the couch, while he bustles about on the phone, watching the procession of sorors in their various degrees of summer BBQ attire. In a very me-like fashion, I become self-conscious of this array of beautiful women filing around an equally gorgeous man. I look down into my hands only to mutter helplessly about how I won’t get too attached, how I won’t smother him, how I’ll figure out my place and try to be content with it.

Mr. Dude catches on to the despondent ramblings in the midst of his phone call, hand over speaker he asks me if I’m ok. Sheepishly, I look up and state boldly I don’t know why I am here. He gets it, ends his call, sits next to me on the couch to say: JL, I like you, I want to spend more time with you. Like a child who chases the ice cream truck on a hot day, I couldn’t contain my excitement. I leap into his arms.

Next image is us getting out of the car at the party. On the sidewalk I reach over and hug him, mumbling how I want to be affectionate. Instead of his lips, he tilts his chin allowing me to nuzzle the underside of his jaw and kiss on his neck. I leave his embrace to walk in the house, glance over my shoulder at his puzzled expression.

I wake up.

I’ve spent the whole morning trying to analyze this dream. I’m still not sure of its meaning. The intriguing part, is that I was very ME in this dream. Normally I’m a cross between the girl I desire to be and the representative I pretend to be. But here my subconscious was telling me that this notion of ‘hating to love myself, and loving to hate myself’ is impossible to escape even in sleep. It’s weird to see your internal insecurities dramatized in your dreams.

Then I started thinking about how the men in my life fell into the role of lover, instead of auditioning for the part. Somehow or another I grew on them and they gave me a try. But I was never chosen or sought out or pursued.

Then I remembered how I dreamed of MYD, his arrival and his departure. I dreamed of C, his presence and his purpose. Now as the remnants of my love for C are stuffed into a black hole at the back of my closet, I dream of this new man. Low cut Caesar, NY accent, resembles one of my Twitter followers who I met briefly at a Happy Hour.

Though I meet Mr. Dude, and have him for a weekend: I wonder now if he will follow me into the house.

Nothing Left to Say

 “You touched my heart And were so giving Spare it so free You threw me in it I fell so deep I could not see my life Without you in it And all I could do for you I should’ve done before (now) In tears we stand here There’s nothing left to say.” Mint Condition

There are over 200,000 words in the English dictionary, so it’s safe to say with that many words I may live to regret a few. When a relationship ends we definitely exhaust our vocabulary to understand it, explain it, rationalize it, and then move on from it. Even worse we expand on the inarticulate words that make us more animal than human. Spinning in circles, the rotation makes us nauseous, until there’s nothing left to say.

You will always wonder if you used the right ones not only to express yourself, but to make sure that the other party can identify with your feelings. That in essence is all you’re left with, a rolling ball of tattered emotions: Rags that once again must become silken robes if you’re ever going to move on to the next one.

Reversing tongue to teeth, I’d take back the stories that made him seem less than my idea of great to others. Once released it’s inevitable that the words will live durably in the minds of faithful listeners, making me own them more than sorrowful sobs desperate for relief. For a few endless months, he was the sunlight in which I perpetually basked. And I was happy. I can try in every language I know to make others understand what he meant to me, but I’ve already shuttered their ears with my side of sorry; so blocked they can’t hear the good hidden in the spaces, masked behind the periods, and lounging in the commas.

I know what I’m not supposed to say: I’m not supposed to say I miss him. I’m not supposed to say that seeing him again, for whatever shallow reason he concocted, reopened the hand stitched seam over a mending heart. That hearing his voice reminded me of the countless stories he told to wake me up and entertain a constantly fluxing mind. But all I can think is that he’s a really great guy, and I hope the next girl appreciates him.

I’m not supposed to romanticize the past and change the ending… but I’d be a fool to make light of what all this meant. Of what it all means. The haunting, melancholy, agony of an Adele song timbered with the sweet notes of the end to a true love story… I really have to stop listening to her.

Of the thousand entries that I’ve written or thought of or dreamed of, I can only say good bye with the lyrics of a song. “This will be my last confession, I love you never felt like any blessing. I was a heavy heart to carry.” Sometimes 200,000 words just aren’t enough to make it last.