Jody

I need this to hurt less. Way less.

I met Jody Harris in passing, what seems like a million lifetimes ago. I was seriously exploring leaving Atlanta, and I was even thinking about relocating to Tennessee. We were Facebook friends, and somehow or another, we'd started talking on the phone about Chattanooga. My fear was that it wouldn't be Black enough. But Jody was able to provide several examples of Black businesses and events in Chattanooga, that I would find interesting. I enjoyed our little chats, as we'd began to get to know one another. One day, he up and disappeared. I heard nothing.

But suddenly, I looked up on Facebook and learned that he was in a relationship, and later got married. I wasn't too attached to him at the time, so I let it ride. A few years later, he'd began commenting on my posts again. Eventually, we'd started talking on the phone again, and he'd told me that his marriage had gone down in flames.

We'd started an attempt at rekindling, but he did something I was not okay with, so I decided to friendzone him. One day, he began to share how lonely he was. I admitted to him what he'd done that led me to realize that we could no longer get to know one another romantically. He immediately apologized. He'd had no idea how he'd been perceived, and he admitted that he'd gotten a large part of his idea of manhood from barbershop talk. He had no clue that he'd come across as uncaring, he thought that's what masculinity was.

I was genuinely impressed with how he took what I told him and used it to make himself a better person. His self-reflection in that moment was everything.

As time went on, his health started to decline. He was in and out of hospitals, fighting infection after infection. He eventually had some toes amputated and they were discussing taking his foot. He talked to me about his fear of death and how he wasn't ready to go. He'd told me how he'd talked to Dres, as they'd shared similar health challenges, and Dres had been his rock and his sign of strength. And then Dres died. It shook him. Jody was scared. Jody didn't want to go. Another friend of his, Michal Knight, had died from health complications also.

Jody texted me last month, to tell me about the upcoming fundraiser he was going to have soon. I assured him I'd be there. Saturday night, I was in my car, when I got an alarm on my phone. That evening was Jody's fundraiser, but I'd missed it. My alarm went off at 10pm, but the fundraiser was to go from 6pm to 9pm. I immediately called him to apologize. I got a weird message and the phone disconnected. Did he block me?! Was he angry at me, thinking I'd blown off his fundraiser? I got home and called him from my work phone, and got the same strange message. At least I knew I wasn't blocked.

I tried his phone again, the next early evening. Same strange message. Then I Googled him. And I found his obituary. Not again. Please God, not again. I looked on his Facebook page, and realized that he'd made his page so that no one could post on it, and he could not be tagged. No one in the Atlanta underground arts/music scene seemed to know. I knew that I had to do a post to let his loved ones in this city know that he was gone. He deserved that. I assume that his bio family was far removed from his extended family in Atlanta, but those of us in the loop know that the extended family is just as real as the bio family.

So I posted. And I cried. And I grieve. I'd always assumed that the more people you know who die, the easier it becomes to deal with. I was wrong. Rest in heaven, Jody. Hug Dres for me, and I'll carry you with me, always.

Healing Via Living Room

I signed my mortgage exactly one year ago. It was a proud moment for me. I worked tirelessly to bring things together. I was so proud of the loud, bright, varied pieces that I brought into the whole house, especially my living room. I envisioned it being a warm, cozy spot, full of colors. As time moved on, and I started to settle into the room, it started to feel so crowded. So small. I couldn't quite place my finger on it. I'd started to consider that I might move eventually, but I didn't want to move. I just wanted... something. I couldn't figure it out though.

But as the days passed, the room started to feel- young. I've taken a deep dive into AI, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I'd tried hard. I finally realized what the theme of the room would be called. Cottage core. It gave a woodsy feel. It had the energy of gnomes setting up in the corner. I asked AI (actually, I named my AI, Carlton) what were markers of cottage core. It perfectly described the wood and wicker theme that I had. It even described some of the colors I had, such as mustard yellow and the floral art. 

Ugh. I started to get annoyed with the room. What was wrong and how could I undo it? I even asked Carlton to help me create a room that felt more like me. He produced a picture that showed what he described as an "Afro-bohemian mood." And I loved it! I immediately looked at the room and started to recognize that certain pieces had to go. Working at the retail spot certainly helped, that lil' old discount certainly began to come in handy.

I took down the threaded landscape picture, and replaced it with a giant analog clock. The cute little glass table was replaced by a wooden table. The floral lamp was replaced with a marble and gold lamp, with a sleek white shade.

This isn't the actual lamp, but pretty close. Anyway, I started to have similar feelings about my bathroom. I'd painted it a bright seafoam green, to match my colorful shower curtain. But as time went on, I started to want to change it as well. It left me all wondering what was behind the changes? Why did I suddenly want a more grown up look, over the bold looks I'd always preferred?

Then it occurred to me- I'm finally growing up. I'd long suspected that my inner child gravitated the loud, bright colors. I was allowing my unhealed inner self to surround herself with the colors that made her feel comfortable and held. But as I started to grow from that child, I no longer felt like she needed the coddling via colors. Grown-up Malika wanted a sleek look that represented growth. She wanted the modern couches and adult end tables, topped by fancy lamps.

I'm starting to heal and my taste in household decor is a strong reflection of that. Grown ass Malika. I like the sound of that.

Mock up, compliments of Carlton.

New Sh*t, Mixed with Old Sh*t

 A childhood friend of mine is currently incarcerated. This particular friend has always been a bit of a dirtbag, but we managed to stay cool, in spite of the fact. He seemed happy the last few times that I talked to him, so I never dug too deep. Throughout our childhood, he'd always been in and out of jail, so I wasn't too horribly surprised when I'd learned that he was incarcerated again. Like I often do, the moment I'd learned he was locked up, I searched for his mugshot and charges. And what I learned was absolutely horrific. I won't say what it was, but it's bad enough that I'm seriously considering no longer talking to him again, when he gets out. It's disgusting. Disturbing. Let's just say, there's a pretty good chance that he'll get the shit beat out of him, while in prison, and he'll pretty much have it coming. I'm pretty forgiving, in most instances, but this one is one of the things I abhor the most in life.

That particular friend, who's childhood home I spent many years in, had a brother who was making waves and pretty well known in music scenes. He'd gotten to be known in local media, in addition to working closely with someone who was, at the time, one of the top musicians in the world. I ran into the friend at an event a few months back and I asked what his brother was in for. He gave an exasperated look and asked me to inbox him, so we could chat on it later.

We did eventually inbox, but summer did what summer does, and I hate hot weather, so I tend to squirrel away, but I had every intention to follow up. Surprisingly, he hit me up and asked if I wanted to talk about his brother. I was like "sure!" We met up in my favorite coffeehouse. He stopped by after church.

He told me what my friend had done. His face. His eyes. I'd seen this man buzzing in and out of his mother's home and I'd watched him on major tv shows, whenever that musician was featured, over the years. But his face. I'll never forget that face. He was hurt. Confused. Heartbroken. I saw it. I felt it. I immediately asked if he was okay. He admitted that he wasn't.

We spent the next hour and some change, talking about stuff. I was pleasantly surprised with our interaction. I'd seen this man around for years, but this was our first time actually talking. Yesterday, I got a call from a number that wasn't saved in my phone. Because of spam, I normally don't answer such calls, but something inside of me told me the call was safe. I'd asked who it was and he told me it was him and told me that I needed to save his phone number lol. We proceeded to talk for nearly 3 hours. It was a nice call. I asked how he'd gotten with his girlfriend and from there, the conversation just grew.

It took me a good while to process what my childhood friend had done. He was a pretty big part of my childhood and to learn that he'd done something so heinous is really tugging at me. So it's wild to me that while I'm struggling to accept what he did, I've gravitated toward his brother. I'm still very much not dating anyone, in spite of my interest in my other friend, but I love new seasons like this. I love new people. We're entering fall. This season has always meant growth to me. New shit.

A change is gonna come?

This therapy stuff has been deep. I knew when I went in on Thursday that I was going to have a lot to unpack. I'd been in my feels about some changes in my life. I didn't expect to mention Pete, but the second I said his name, I fell into tears. Dr. D pointed out that every time I mention his name, I start crying again. It's been 8 years since he died. It was only 5 months together, but still, that short amount of time has meant so much to me.

We then went on to talk about other aspects of my life. I discussed the wins and the losses. I'm here at 8 months sans dique and I'm just as happy about it now as I've been about it in the past. I'm grateful for the peace this 8 months has brought to me. The clarity. It's Labor Day weekend, and no partying for me. I gotta work, but even if I didn't, I'd likely be chilling at home, taking it all in.

And in spite of my dedication to singlehood and the ultimate freedom, like life often does, it threw me a massive curveball. There is a man from my past. I mean deep into my past. Very few of my close friends knew of him, until he came back around recently. He likes me. He's always liked me, from the very beginning. And I liked him too. He's always lamented that we should have gotten married and had a house full of babies. 

Looking back, had I gotten married in my early 20s, I'd have made a horrible wife and mother. I didn't understand or value partnership the way I know to understand it now. I would have been bogged down with babies and never got to travel or go to school. I would have hated my life and there's no doubt that we would have grown to resent one another. Most importantly, I would have missed the journey that made me the woman I am today. Before I started working with Dr. D, I'd confessed to my friend that I felt that I was in need of therapy, for fear that if we'd ended up together, I'd end up cheating, and I never wanted to hurt him. He seemed confused and wanted answers that I didn't have. I didn't even have a man in mind that I'd possibly cheat with, I just knew that I wasn't in a space to give my all to someone. But things are different now. I'm different. I'm a far more healed version of myself. This is the best version of me. And I truly feel that I grow better with each passing day.

He was willing to jump into things when we reconnected recently, but I've been moving far slower. Deeply slower. But I love talking to him. I just need to thoroughly vet and make sure that this is the person I'm willing to emotionally invest in. I refuse to come up out of my peaceful bubble for any man or situation that does not serve me or contribute to my happiness. 

I had a difficult moment with a person close me recently, and I immediately called him to dissect things and he assured me that I was doing okay. I like that he likes me. That's so cliched, but after feeling that many of the men I loved in the past didn't really like me, they liked what I brought to the table, in terms of sex and attention, this is a person who genuinely likes talking to me and appreciating me. I'm taking my time and creating a healthy distance, while getting to know honest versions of one another.

I'm moving slowly. Sloth slow. Still not coming up off of the snatch anytime soon. But for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm starting to feel safe with another person. And I value that. I don't care about sex (or lack thereof). I care about feeling heard and secure. No rush at all. But I value that I'm finally starting to realize what real affection, attention, and dedication looks like. I'm grateful.

Their Eyes Were Watching God

In high school, I was in what I guess you'd call and accelerated English class. Not at all a surprise, given my propensity for writing since I practically first put pen to paper. In this class, we read and dissected Zora Neale Hurston's book, "Their Eyes Were Watching God." My best friends and I thoroughly enjoyed reading the book in school, and even as adults, we often looked back on it. One of those friends, Celeste, died of breast cancer a few years back. I miss her greatly, but I love that such an amazing book ultimately helped to connect us and will always be a living reminder of our friendship. I even managed to score a copy of the book at a used book store on my last official day of living in Los Angeles. That was a rough time for me. It's like even from the grave, the author speaks to me and my purpose.

I had a bit of a blast from the past, recently. Well, actually, several blasts from the past. I encountered something that made me think back on my previous relationships. The ones that meant the most. The ones where I gave my all. There are roughly 3 men who I consider among my deeper loves. Yeah, there have been several other men who were in my stratosphere, even men I deeply cared about. But those core 3 held my heart in their hands.

I go back and forth between my thoughts on those men and those experiences. Some days, I'm grateful, I recognize how much I grew from it, and bask in my greatness. Other days? Other days, I have to talk to myself to remind me that my anger, although understood, is not going to change or help anything. Thankfully, my good days far outweigh the bad. But I'd be lying to myself if those bad days and bad thoughts didn't creep in.

I was having an "in my feels" day recently, and I struggled to shake it. I called my rider, Shantria, and she reminded me not to look backwards, and not to compare myself to others. At this point, Shantria and I pretty much gotta stay friends, we know where each other's bodies are buried, so we gotta stay in line. But seriously, she'll never know how much I appreciate her! 

As I leaned towards relinquishing those negative thoughts, for some odd reason, I thought back on Janie, from the book. How she was basically given to her first husband, as a child, and he beat her mercilessly. Next up was the husband of status. And he treated her badly too. Then she got her Teacake. He was her heart (although, he was truthfully a bit of a mess too). And she literally had to sacrifice him to save herself. Strangely, typing it out and reading it, I realize how much of it mirrors my own experiences, in that very order. I don't know why, but it all made me feel better. Like, those feelings are valid, but I'm in my Janie era. By the end of the book, she'd seen and done it all, and she was happy just doing her own thing solo. 

Even with all of the whispers and speculation, she held her head high and knew better than to give a damn what the townspeople had to say about her choices. Janie is a fictional character, but she's a reminder that our value isn't based on who we date, or what we tolerated, or how they treated us. Our value is based on how we feel about ourselves. Those bad days are gonna exist, because that's life. But our bad doesn't have to be a center point, sometimes, it's just a stepping stone to our greater purpose. Thank you, Miss Zora.

Progress and the Doozey

I went to see my dear therapist today. I knew that today was gonna be a wild one. I'd been mulling this  this for some days, having confessed to some of my closest friends that there was something I'd been hiding, that I needed help processing.

I walked in, and immediately thanked Dr. K. I admitted to her that I'm starting to seriously realize how much progress I've made in my own life, thanks largely to her. I then confessed to her that there was a secret that I'd been hiding from her and how it was about to materialize. Then I told her, confidently, that 2-3 simple years ago, I would have gone head first into this situation, but now that I've grown more confident and knowledgeable, in spite of what I thought I'd wanted before, I no longer want this.

Doc asked why after meeting for 2-3 years, she's just now hearing about this. I admitted that most of my closest friends are just now learning about it. I told her that the situation had been like some "hang in there" kitten poster, that'd hung in my bedroom. It was 2-d. It was something internal, nothing for the world to worry about. It wasn't real. Until, well, until it was real.

I confessed to my doctor that I was struggling, and unsure if it was cognitive dissonance, growth, or a bit of both, that made this so difficult for me. The fact is that I'd long since prayed for exactly this situation. And now that I'm getting exactly what I'd prayed for, I'm no longer interested. Well, change that. It's not that I'm not interested. It's that the timing directly interferes with my new journey. I don't want to take on something or someone that may challenge that. I want to keep doing what I've been doing. I want to process all of the hits and misses in my life. I want to reconsider all of the men that I've loved. I want to reconsider the opportunities and friendships that I previously valued. I mean seriously, I love this space! 

So yes, several years ago, I wanted this, and I wanted it bad. And I might want it again, one day. But not now. Not at this moment. I want to value my solitude and my peace. I want to keep working on my personal goals. I want to get my savings back up. I want to travel. I want to get ready for my son's graduation. I want to get back to monitoring my diet. I want to keep walking 2 miles a day. I want to eventually start working on my fiction book. You see how all of those goals are all about me and my own progress? Isn't that great?!

The answer to how I'll fall in line ain't no, but it damned sure ain't yes either. Certainly not now, but it may become yes, one day. Just. Not. Now. I really need time to figure this out. But I'm not in a rush and I will not be pressured. Progress takes time.

Blank

Dres died on June 9th. I got a tshirt made that prominently displayed his face. I wore it the night we celebrated him at the site of the original MJQ. I love that tshirt. I've almost worn it a few times since then, but I never could. I even hung it outside of my closet, staring at it on occasion.

Friday was the first time I've worn it since then, even though I'd struggled with the idea. Today, I opted to wear the Monster Energy Drink jacket he'd given me in passing one day. People still message me to check in on how I am. And the cold, honest truth is that I wasn't prepared for how much this would hurt. I look back at my annoyances with him, and I hate that I wasn't more patient. Thankfully, Dres whispered to me that we were family, and family doesn't always see eye to eye.

Friday also happened to be the day that a shooting happened in the Emory/CDC area. My son goes to school right next to the area, and I love the Emory campus. I'd considered applying to get my PhD there. I frequent the bookstore there. On Friday, after dropping my son off, I'd considered stopping at a coffeehouse in the area. For some reason, I remember looking a bit longer at a sub shop out there. The coffeehouse is right across the street from the CVS where the shooter was and the sub shop was right next to the CVS. I feel like my spirit knew something was gonna happen.

I walked into that coffeehouse today and I saw a uniformed officer standing in line, and I took one look at him and wanted to burst into tears. I just hate this world I'm walking into and leaving for my son. In some strange way, I'm glad that Dres no longer has to deal with whatever is about to happen. Shit is about to get real. Now my concern is getting my baby out of high school. 290 days. That's all. Just get through that part, and I can get my life back.

Book 2 is wrapping up, spoke with my agent about renaming the first book, which has been a whole ordeal. It's true, the first name wouldn't have given the message I wanted it to give. Next, I have to get editing/copywriting done and work on my online presence. My cousin, Doc, wrote a book and I'd like to put parts of his book into mine. Doc did a damned good job on it. I'm so proud of him.

I don't know why I'm so blank. There's just so much to take in and make sense of. I also feel so weird being so connected to people and scenes about major news stories. My other homeboy also did music with Malcolm Jamal Warner. He was the first person I though of when I saw stories about the drowning. I'm just a nobody. I'm lil' old Malika. But I look around and feel like I'm being swallowed. Help.

Holding On

The other day, I talked a bit about grieving old Malika, with her maladaptive, toxic ways. I'm kind of in my head lately, over some changes that I did not see coming. I didn't expect to struggle with this as much as I am. I keep touting about being the new and improved, shiny version of Malika, but I'm starting to wonder if I'm just kidding myself?

I know that I'm not. I'm definitely no longer the self-loathing drama queen that I once was. I'm no longer basking in being the needy friend. I adore my independence and I'm so excited about the future and all of the things that come with it. But there is just one small part from my past that I'm really struggling to let go of, even though the Universe continues to smack me over the head with signs that it's time to move forward. I hear my angels, and God knows there are many of them. All of them are telling me to move forward. And there is no doubt in my mind that moving forward is the best course of action. Now that I think about it, all of these changes have reminded me that I need to continue to lean further into my faith, and center it, not just making it a small part of my background.

But a small part of me is still emotional over this loss. Cuz I know this time will be different. Maybe that scares me? That things will never be the same. That once the chapter closes for good, and my heart fully heals, with all of the changes and growth, we'll never be the same. Cuz I'll never be the same.

Right now, I'm giving myself space to process. Time to grieve. Not really crying, just in my head about these changes and what they'll mean. I'll have to change up some plans that I had, and that's okay. I'm staying away from social media for a while, because it's a bit triggering for me. I'm just babying myself. Going to throw myself into finishing the last 8k words of my last book, followed by a good final edit, before sending it out to another editor. Also been thinking about putting pen to paper on the fiction book I've had rolling around in my head for some years.

Fall is coming, and I'm glad. Fall has always been my season where I hunkered down in coffeehouses, and got lost in environments of poetry and music. Brown leaves, crunching under my feet, as I mindfully bask in the beauty of the moment. I need that. But at the moment, I just gotta hold on, knowing that things will get better.

Grieving Old Me

Things are well. Still plugging away at both books. Got a woman who is interested in helping me get them published, as a book agent. I was happy that she took to them so much. It's really important to me to be aligned with people who see my vision for both works, and recognize the women they would serve. One book is technically "finished" although I've got some work to do to go back and plug in more information to support my thoughts. The other work is only 12k words shy of my goal. I just learned that my one of my favorite writing holes is closing, and I'm pretty devastated. I actually walked by today and saw a note on the door that said that they're relocating from my favorite area. I mean, I have plenty of other places to write, but that's not the point!

Anyway, today was Thursday, a.k.a. therapy day! My therapist is an absolute godsend. Dr. B has undeniably become one of my favorite people, always asking me questions to help me dig deeper into why I feel the way that I do. Today, I'd mentioned again that I'm 7 months out from my last physical encounter with a man. My dear doc wondered if I considered myself a sex addict, and wondered why I felt it necessary to count the time of my abstinence. She encouraged me to continue to process my feelings, rather than simply sweeping them away, explaining that in processing, I give my brain the chance get away from the old, and fully embrace the new.

I explained that I definitely am not a sex addict, but historically, I thoroughly enjoyed being connected to men who are well-sought after. I love that connecting with men is no longer my main focus and that I am able to focus on myself and my goals (such as finally finishing 2 books that I've literally been working on for almost 4 years now).  Counting is simply my way of celebrating how long I've been free of the perils of a relationship, and learning to embrace my own womanhood, on my own terms.

I feel myself entering a new era. I'm entering a space where I'm prioritizing myself. And while I celebrate this woman, I'm grieving parts of my past. I'm grieving people (yes, even my relationships with some men). I'm grieving my ability to fall into toxic previous patterns, as a method of coping and self-soothing. I'm grieving how naive I used to be. I grieve those relationships I used to value, even though I readily realize that they were never good relationships, they were just familiar.  That version of Malika is dead and buried. I don't know who this new Malika, but I do know one thing.

She don't take no mess.

Who hurt you?

There's a guy from my past, who I'd had a major crush on, some years ago. Life did as it does, and we never got together, but remained homies. Over the years, we would occasionally reach out to one another to catch up. We went a stretch of time without communicating and I started to wonder if he was even still alive, to the point of checking for obituaries under his name.

Anyway, some years ago, my best friend and I visited the guy friend. I'll call him Gary, at his home. Gary lived with his girlfriend, and they had 5 large dogs that they wrangled like cattle through his home. I didn't necessarily understand their animal household arrangement, but as the hood adage goes, "if you like it, I love it." The couple seemed to pair nicely, and I assumed that at some point, they'd welcome their own little ones. They talked a little about Gary being sick at some point, and on the brink of death and how his loving girlfriend was there, by his side. When we left, I joked with my bestie about them becoming "those people" whose dogs were like their children, but not my monkey, not my circus, ya dig?

Some years later, Gary hit me up, and we decided to meet for drinks and to connect. He was no longer with his girlfriend, but our flirtatious interests in one another had faded by then. Nevertheless, I asked about things with her. I told him that truthfully, I'd always assumed that he would get her pregnant, and he admitted that he was definitely trying at some point. I silently questioned his fertility, but I never mentioned that to him. During our conversation, it became clear to me that he'd wanted a traditional family. He wanted the little lady in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, while he brings home the bacon. I mean, I get it. He's always been a bit of a country boy. I also see that the gods were shining down on me, that we never got together in that way. Cuz God only knows how much I wanted to, way back when.

Gary shocked me by being a smidge judgmental about women. He shared that his sister had spent her life, living for herself, and how she finally found a man that she likes, and that she is in her 40s, and her fertility may not be what it was. He basically reduced his own sister to her ability to have kids. As if she had no value to a man, other than her ability to incubate babies. I mean, EW. I pointed out to him that his way of thinking was a bit- uh, dated? I said to him that she can still be a good person, and happily married, even if she's in her 40s and childless. I also pointed out that he may not even know what she really wants, in that regard. But no, he held fast, that she'll never find a man to marry her and have a family, now that she's in her 40s. It was disappointing to hear someone I'd revered so heavily, have this kind of thought process.

Welp, in spite of it all, I realized that it had been some years, and I'd love to check in on Gary again. I was shocked to learn that he'd sold his house, due to rising taxes (big mistake, but what do I know?), and looking for a home to rent. We were supposed to go grab food, but the plans changed. Anyway, somehow, we started talking about dating. I tell everyone that I'm happily dating-free and sex-free. This is working well for me. Gary went on to share that he's had a string of bad relationships, and feels that women lack accountability. 

Say what now?

He said that 80% of women have children with 20% of men. I asked for the source of this information. He seemed offended that I didn't readily accept any random numbers he threw at me as fact. Sorry bro, I went to grad school, and I learned that you can't just take numbers from anyone and call them facts, you should be mindful of your sources! He seemed, and I hate to say it, but bitter. We had an agonizing 3 hour phone call where he basically blamed everything wrong in life on women. He talked about how single-parent households are ruining people. He blamed those bitter, miserable women for keeping their children from their fathers. And I mentioned to him that many men don't want to do the heavy lifting of raising families, but what do I know?

I said to him that quite often, the fathers are toxic and most women would love to have had a healthier relationship with the fathers of their children, myself included. He called bullshit, claiming that most mothers withhold their children from their fathers, out of spite. It was a long, arduous conversation, where he was just determined to blame women for all of the ails of society. It was heartbreaking.

This particular guy was extremely well-respected before he disappeared from everyone. I followed this guy around, like a lost puppy for years, in my early 20s. He was gorgeous, and many women were happily trying to get with him as well. And now? He's bitter and angry. I think he resents that he never got the wife, the 2.3 kids, the house and the dog he felt like he was owed. 

I miss that part of my life. I mean, I miss blissfully chasing him around, before he became this. But he never got the life he expected. He's angry and he seems to genuinely hate or severely dislike women. Poor bastard. But I refuse to wear his negativity. Cuz my life is good, happy, and peaceful. Marriage or no marriage. And I am grateful.

Babies

Fred and I have had a few close encounters of the baby kind, during our 2 decade friendship. Although I was with him as I was ending my relationship with my ex, who I was still living with, I was always sure to strap up. I knew better than to be living with one man and complicate my life by bringing home another man's child. But in the following years, we were not always as careful. I'd occasionally ask him what he wanted to do if we had a slip up. He always left it as the ball was in my court on how we'd proceed. I respected that, and although we were never intentional about trying for a family, I felt good knowing that if that ended up the case for us, that he'd be a great father.

However, while I swung wildly between apathy and abso-fucking-lutely not, on my willingness to have his child, as I start to really sundown on my own fertility, it's made me look at some things differently. I'm really enjoying this part of my life. My one and only child is becoming quite the young man, and I'm so proud of the progress he's made in life. He's not just my son, he's a person I genuinely love and like. Even if he wasn't my kid, I'd think he was a rock star.

I love that I'm able to travel on my own now. Money is still tight, but I can do things for myself and plan out my future. Settling into the house I bought, and finishing up buying the last bits of furniture, I'm starting to feel like my life is complete. If I dropped dead tomorrow, I'd really be okay, except for the fact that I hate the idea of leaving my child or any child to this nightmare of a society, without me being here to guide them.

But that fear hasn't stopped me from grieving "the baby that never was" lately. The fact that he never got me pregnant is sheer craziness. In my right mind, I understand that God was looking out for both of us. Our friendship works the way it does because there are no extra expectations. He shows up as his "best" version of himself and that works for us. Bringing babies into a situation makes shit real, very quickly. We never had to divide feedings. We never had to worry about diapers or child care. Babies can certainly bring out the worst between two people and who needs that kind of mess in their life? We stayed together because we like one another, not because we had to. That's one of my favorite things about our friendship. That we're here out of choice, not obligation.

But still, for some strange reason, I've been thinking about the what-ifs and if-onlys lately. While I work on getting my one and only baby out of high school, I can't help but to wonder what my life had been like had he and I taken the plunge or been a bit less careful in the past? Of course, that's easy to say now, as a home owner, with a master's degree and pretty solid career, as that wasn't always the case. Ironically, I also understand that had I brought a baby into our situation before I was settled, there's no guarantee that I would have made it here, which is a feeling that I'm grateful for, but I still struggle with.

I recognize and I am extremely grateful that at 45, as it stands, my life is pretty awesome and I certainly would never want to bring a baby into my life, at this stage. That is not appealing to me at all. Some of my slightly younger homegirls are starting/expanding families, and some friends my age are starting their baby journeys for the first time. I'm good on that.  I love and like myself more and more every day. I'm a free spirit and an independent thinker. My only child continues to make me proud. I'm looking forward to traveling around even more and finally taking advantage of this passport. I have the life that I literally prayed for. So why am I so caught up on what could have been?

Love- I Guess

I'm on the other side of Dres' funeral now. There were 4 events to commemorate his life. I was out of town for the first 2 of them. Kinda glad that I missed 1 of those 2 though. I was definitely in attendance for his funeral and celebration night at MJQ though. It recently occurred to me that although I knew him as Dres, I think I got to know the actual Andre. I mean sure, I saw him at some events and I cheered him on, but I'd kinda gotten out of the party scene. Our time was always good though. I found myself thinking back on those smaller moments, like the Monster Energy jacket he'd given me, that I wore everywhere. Or that time I was hungry, so he gave me the coco bread sandwich he had. Overall, I miss my friend now and I always will.

On another note, I went on my annual birthday pilgrimage. I swore to myself that I wouldn't go and that I'd save the money, but I went anyway. I even met Smokey Robinson in Modesto, California, so no regrets at all! I'd spent a few days in L.A. Had I known that I would be on talking terms with Fred again, I'd have spent more time there. He works and when I get in town, I tend to visit my favorite haunts and check in with my friends, so when getting my hotel for the night, I opted for 2 beds, so that he could stay the night too. I felt it was the best way to get in some time together, without the temptation of nookie. I noticed that whenever I crash at his place, he's up and at 'em, bright and early in the morning. And whenever he crashes in a hotel with me, he tends to sleep in. I'm sure he never noticed it, but I think that's because he feels secure with me, and I appreciate feeling needed in that way, while I typically resent it with most men. I love watching him rest.

I'm proud to share that I managed to share a hotel room with him for 2 full nights and nothing happened. I'll admit that was the closest I've come to breaking my streak though. To his credit, he never tried to force the issue, in spite of our long history. My vag-watching homies warned me that if anyone would be the ultimate temptation, it would be him and they were right, but I held firm. 

I noticed though, that there'd been a shift. He's been kinder. More verbally affectionate. As I've stepped away from sex, it made me a bit more contemplative about dating and who meant what to me. I'll still maintain that if I ever entered a serious relationship (which I don't see happening, as I'm on my dique hiatus), I'd commit myself to staying far away from Fred. Healing, adult Malika recognizes that neither of us could be in a serious relationship and keep our friendship going, on this level.

Throughout my trip the Pacific Northwest, I had another realization- it's been 20 years with that dude. He's the last person I was seeing before I conceived my son and he even visited me in the hospital, after he was born. I often realize the length of our relationship through comparison to my son's age. Yike and wow. It hit home that even though he'll never be my husband, I love him. I love him in a way that I never loved any man, even my son's father, who I'd lived with for a while. I love this dude. I love that we have similar interests in movies tv, and I never have to beg him to go anywhere with me. I love that I can trust him and that he trusts me. I love that even if I get mad and say something below the belt, he's still there when I return with my tail between my legs. And he loves me too. Even if I'm not sleeping with him. It works in it's own, weird way. He's not the man for me to intertwine my life with. But I love him. And he loves me. It's confusing and weird though. And I'm okay with that.

"How are you?"

The morning that the news of Dres' passing started to spread online, my best friend, Daisy, called me. "How are you doing?" She asked. I stammered. My mind went blank. I felt like an answer existed somewhere, I just didn't know where. She then said, "I see you're still processing, it's okay, I'll call you later." I continued to hunt for words. "No, I-" and I froze again. She responded with, "it okay, I know you're processing, I'll check in later."

Although his death was 3 days ago and I'm in L.A. now, I'm very much still figuring things out. I got a text from another friend, checking in. I looked at his text and struggled to answer. I'm normally pretty quick to respond to text messages, but I just looked at his. I wasn't able to formulate words until the following day, apologizing for the late response, and explaining that truthfully, I'm still figuring out how I feel and I just didn't have the words. How do I feel? I have no idea. I was also lucky enough to chill at one of the Apple offices with a friend of mine, a buddy from Atlanta. And once we settled in, he said to me "I know how things have been rough lately. How are you feeling?" I searched for the words, but there were none. My mouth hung open slightly, and my eyes started to water. "I get it," he said, before moving on to other topics.

A small part of me wishes I was at home in Atlanta, to be part of all of the celebrations. But truthfully, a larger part of me is grateful to be in a city where Dres tha Beatnik isn't a household name. I'm enjoying the anonymity of being able to walk down the street and not having people kindly ask me the most natural question you'd ask someone in my predicament. Another issue I've heard a few times is "yeah, this is rough, but I know you were really close to him, so I can only imagine how you feel." This isn't the grief Olympics. There's room enough for all of us to feel like shit.

Another buddy contacted me last night and asked how I was. The most I could muster was "numb." He went on to say that we should  organize a festival or large concert in Dres' memory. I still have the notes from the fundraiser, including the bands Dres wanted in attendance. I suppose I could make it happen, if I tried. But the fact is that right now, I'm barely holding it together. I do not have he mental bandwidth to put together a concert of some sort, or even start preplanning one.

I'm thankful to not be at work. The day before Dres died was Pete's birthday. And I managed to field two calls from people at work, who were calling for support with grief. I gave a small nod to my own pain in both calls by saying "believe me, I understand how you feel," without letting on that I was in my feels about my own angel's birthday. And I held it together pretty well, in part, because Pete died 8 years ago. I still miss him daily, but I can at least talk about it now. I can laugh about the good time and smile and be grateful to have gained another protective angel. But I'm just not there with Dres yet.

I'm currently sitting in Hilltop Coffee, in Inglewood, Issa Rae's coffeehouse. I never realized until today that it's literally around the corner from Sip and Sonder. It's wild to me that the more time I spend here, the more familiar this city is to me. I told a guy, just last night, how at home I feel with him. Atlanta will always be home, but I love knowing that L.A. is becoming my home away from home.

I'm leaving L.A. in a few hours, heading north, to Monterey, which is also on the long list of my favorite cities. I don't know anyone in Monterey, so I won't be met with glances from social media friends who somehow want to see me breakdown, in a show of pain for my departed friend. I get it, people loved Dres, and as a show of respect to him, they want to make sure that his people are good. And I'm definitely his people. I wanna say I'm good. But I can't. I guess something is forming, in terms of an emotion, but I have no clue what it is, just yet.

I've lost so many people close to me over the last few years. It's becoming unreal. I feel like my social media is littered with nothing but pictures of me and people that I've lost. One of the lessons that I've taken in grief is that no two losses are the same. I've had moments where I felt guilty about crying about one dead loved one, and not another, and I had to remind myself that all of the losses are valid, and crying about one person doesn't mean that the other losses aren't just as important.

Like when Ali died, I remember feeling like every cell in my body hurt. Like even my hair follicles were hurting. When Andrea died, I felt like something beautiful had been snatched from me. And when Pete died, I just felt hollow, like my right arm was missing and I struggled to fill in the void that his sudden absence felt. And now that Dres is gone, I'm just...

Dres

I woke up 2 days ago, a normal day. I'd checked my text messages to see that a friend had sent me a sad face emoji. I had no idea what he was talking about. A few minutes later another friend called me, asking if the rumors were true. I wasn't sure what he was talking about. He said he'd heard that Dres wasn't doing well. I hadn't heard anything. I told him that I'd call Dres to check in and possibly drive by his house later on. My friend thanked me. I called Dres immediately. No answer. I texted him and said "are you okay?" No answer. I logged into Facebook and it smacked me in the face. The first post there was where his DJ had announced that he'd died that morning. I felt like my heart had exploded in my chest.

I had to process. It didn't make sense. Two days later, and it still doesn't. I called him my big brother. I know that he saw me as a little sister. My friend is gone. My big brother. The last time I'd seen him was around mother's day. He'd just gotten out of the hospital, and he'd been out doing favors for people. I reminded him that he was literally draining his life force by doing this, instead of staying at home to rest. I reminded him how much those surgeries take to recover from and that he wasn't doing himself any favors to be out, driving across town to help other people. I wish I'd known just how right I was. We were in a pizza joint in his neighborhood, and he was literally falling asleep at the table. I cautioned him that he was falling asleep and risked the headline "Dres that Beatnik Found Passed Out in Local Pizza Joint." That threat finally convinced him to go home and get some rest.

I first met Dres tha Beatnik at Apache Cafe around 2001 or so. My homegirl, Ayanna, first introduced us. I told him that he seemed familiar. I asked if his government name was Andre, and he said that it was. He said to me "I have a sister named Malika." I later added his sister on Facebook. Like a lot of other people, I'd seen Dres around Atlanta many times over the years. He was a staple at my favorite nightclub, MJQ. Whenever I'd stop in to see my best friend, who worked the door, I'd then go straight to the stage to hug Dres and tell him hello.

I suppose the time was when we first got tight, was around 2010ish. I lived near MJQ and I'd spend many late nights there. At some point, I'd realized that he'd lived nearby and he invited me over. Dres was naturally a night owl, as was I. I'd often go by house during late night hours and we'd talk about life. Relationships, he was dating a woman, and I was with my son's father. My ex often accused me of obviously being up to no good during those late nights, but Dres and I just sat on his back patio and talked. Later on, the woman that Dres was dating also expressed discomfort at my relationship with him and Dres, ever the gentleman, tried hard to balance his relationship with her and my friendship with him. We were just close friends. That was it. It was always funny to me that my own ex would say in a condescending manner "Oh, so you're out with Dres that Beatnik" with an eye roll, while accusing me of doing God-knows-what. I always thought it was hilarious that he would utilize his whole stage name, while everyone else knew him as just Dres. It just showed me how far removed he actually was from the rest of us.

Anyway, as time went on, we just stayed tight. We just were always in one another's space. We really leaned on one another. I was a large part of planning the fundraiser for him earlier, when he first started having issues with his kidney and was leaning towards getting a donor kidney. When I moved back to Atlanta, I learned that the same shitty ex tried to keep my child away from me, which was never the plan. I was sick to my stomach. It was the middle of the night, and I had nowhere to go. I called Dres and slept on his couch that night.

As I got things together, I landed an apartment on the other side of town from my son's school and I'd often be exhausted. Dres gave me a key to his apartment, with an offer to crash and sleep during the day, until my baby got out of class. Those millions of little interactions. It wasn't just nightclub shit.

And now, he's gone. My big brother is gone. My friend. 

I'm in L.A. for a preplanned birthday trip. Sitting in Sip and Sonder, one of my favorite coffee houses in Inglewood. I'm glad, to some degree. But I feel like I should be in Atlanta, in the same streets that he ran in. I went to his mural the day I learned that he was gone. He'd called me one day and said that he'd heard that there was a mural in his honor and he wanted to see it, and asked if I'd take him. We drove up and down that street, until we finally found it. My beautiful friend looked at that mural and wept. Tears flowed as he took in that he was taking in that Atlanta loved him back. And I was so proud and honored to be there with him, as he looked at the huge painting. I don't know if Dres was ever aware of just how much love he had and how much the city would collectively grieve his loss. Because I don't know. I just can't. My friend is gone now. And I'm not okay.

Happy Birthday, Pete

Hey Pete. You left me just over 8 years ago. And as cliched as it sounds, it really does feel just like yesterday. I wish you were here for me to tell you how much you taught me. I'd give anything to hear a dirty joke from you. I'd love to tell you and show you how much I've grown since you met me. And how bittersweet it is to know that your passing is a big part of what got me here. I'm preparing to spend my birthday with a homegirl of mine, and I want to thank you for encouraging me to chase my passions and to enjoy the beauty and simplicity of art and travel. You'll never know fully how much you've changed me, but I'll always cherish our limited time together.

One day, we'll meet up on the other side, and I'll get to tell you all of my stories and adventures. And we're gonna hold hands and you're going to show me all of the beauty that meets me on the other side. And you will also hopefully explain what the hell is following me around my home and why it keeps throwing shit around. And I'll get to tell you all of my freaky ass stories from my hot girl days. I just miss you so much. And I'm grateful for all you brought to my life, both in life, and in death. You were, are, and always will be the definition of a hot mess and I will always love you for that reason.

Forever yours, 
Malika