Dragging Along

This is the New Year. Or almost. And I'm exhausted. So much to do and say. I'm over it all. I want to be somewhere new, with new people, new adventures, but I'm stuck here. I'm broke. I'm cold. I'm over it.

More Surprising Love

I love that I can now blame my A.D.D. in my difficultly of letting things go. After my utter surprise at Him contacting me, I reached out to Ted. One thing I love about Ted is that he's logical and emotionally intelligent enough to give me answers that make sense. So as much as I hate answering the question, and as tacky and desperate as it sounds, I had to ask-
"What do men see in me?"

Ted went on to describe a few of my physical attributes. "I'm a breast man, so you having big boobs is a plus," he started. "Plus I love your lips," he added. But then he added "I dunno. I guess you're just attractive." I was like, "Huh? Attractive? Me?" Now don't get me wrong, I know I'm not an ogre or anything. But I'd always thought of myself as "cute" but not "attractive." Ted considered the terms synonymous, but I certainly don't. In my eyes, a man who is attractive has an uncanny ability to draw women in droves. A guy who is cute is considered a guy who isn't the ugliest damned thing I've laid eyes on. I mean, he may be nice to look at, but he ain't the finest dude on the planet.
For instance, Idris Elba is attractive, Tyler Perry is cute.

So me hearing myself as "attractive" was different. I mean, when and how? I still see myself as that awkward girl with big teeth, who can't dance to save her life. I see all of my flaws. In my mind and heart, my flaws are magnified and the whole damned world just doesn't know how bad they are.
But I guess I learned in that moment that maybe I'm not as bad as I think I am. Good to know that someone out there thinks that.

Surprising Love

I remember walking around my neighborhood in the summer when I was about 15-years-old with my 2 best friends. We walked by a group of boys, when the cutest of the group called out to us. "Hey" he said. We turned around and I prepared for him to approach either friend, as I sat back and waited patiently her to get her mack on, as was customary. But as we waited for him to approach us, he shocked us all by walking up me. Me? Me?! The surprise shook us all. I was the chubby girlfriend who always came along for support, and I'd occasionally get some fall off, mouth breathing asshole friend of his who couldn't hold a conversation if his life depended on it. Of course the guy who approached me ended up being a gang-banging loser who dismissed me and tried to get with one of my other friends.

So when you grow up with this sort of social dynamic, it shouldn't be a surprise that I grew up feeling non-physically desired by the opposite sex. It may serve as a shock to some, but these feelings of being the undesired, awkward sidekick are still with me.

The first time I lay eyes on Fred, I thought he was amazing. I was friends with a roommate of his, and I recall how he'd come in, say hello and head back out. A year or so later, I began casually dating a friend of his. I always thought that he was yummy, but my thought was that a man that sexy surely had slew of exceptionally beautiful women (a.k.a. women that looked nothing like me). I'm sure he'd tell a different story, but the first time we hooked up, the three of us started out the night hanging out together (myself, Fred and our other friend) when the other guy got a phone and had to cut the night short. "No biggie," he said. "Y'all can go on and hang out." I'd always felt some stupid vibe with Fred, an electric attraction, but I just knew it was in my head, because, I mean, look at him! So anyway, the other guy left, leaving Fred and I alone. We went back to my apartment and he kissed me, and we pretty much were a go. Clothes flew off and 12 years later, here we are and I'm just as sexually attracted to this modelesque man as ever.

And then there was Pete. I'd always assumed that some of the other women in the office had a thing for him, and I'd even assumed he'd smashed a few of them. But I asked him one day if he'd ever flirted with them and he said no. And based on the way that I was the only woman that was shaken to my core at his services held for coworkers and clients, he clearly was telling the truth. I remember the day I told him that I was attracted to him. We sat in my supervisor's office alone and I indicated that I suspected that he'd kept me from joining him at YouthBuild, a new department at the internship. He was taken back and asked why I'd think such a thing? I responded "I dunno. Cuz I'm kind of weird." He looked at me and said, "you're just eccentric, you're fine. I never tried to keep you from there. I saw the emails on it, but I had nothing to do with it." Out of nowhere, I simply blurted (and blame my A.D.D. for this one) "I am so attracted to you." I immediately regretted it. Too forward. Too soon. I'm such an ass! Then he said to me "Its okay. I'm attracted to you too." I still marvel at that. Pete was attracted to me in return. I mean, Jesus Christ, he was a hottie.

Another instance of surprise is the model and martial artist I fooled with briefly. I met him at a party one day. Green eyes, beautiful body, light skin, locs down his back. He could have given Calvin Klein a run for their money. I'd sat around with a new crew of people, laughing it up and he was one of them. At some point the crew was dispersed and I kind of walked a few feet away. I looked up and he was still walking with me. Um, what? Hello? Have you looked at yourself?

Those feelings of inadequacy still shake me. When men like me back, I'm like, "are you sure?" Between my fucked up childhood and the losers I've dated in adulthood, bad thoughts seem to have sunk into my psyche, making me feel undesirable. Funny enough, a few years back, when I'd lost that 30 pounds, I got hit on then more than I'd gotten hit on in my life! And I fucking hated it! These guys didn't hear me joke around or talk about spirituality or philosophy. They took one look at my face and body and wanted to smash. It felt horrible. All those years I'd wanted to be the girl that got the guy, and here all these random ass dudes wanted to fuck me and discard me. Losing weight didn't erase all of my problems. I'd always thought that being more attractive would be a magic pill to a better life. I can honestly say, I was wrong.

I talked in my last post how I was told recently that I have diabetes and that I'll need to take medication, and how I almost fought the idea of it. I shared that moment with Fred afterward, how for a brief moment, I said to myself "fuck these meds, I hate this place anyway, I'm ready to go!" but then I realized I had a kid to live for. Fred then said to me "man, you better stop that silly shit and take that medicine." As nuts as it sounds, touched me. Deeply. Fred told me in his own little way that he cared about me. I guess it only makes sense that he'd be attached to a woman he'd been romantically linked to for 12 years, but I was genuinely surprised. This gorgeous man, can have any woman he wants (I've literally seen women eye hump him from across restaurants), cared enough to speak up and tell me to take care of myself. Me?! Me.

And now yesterday. I haven't spoken of Him in some years. For new readers, and the old who may not remember Him, he was the first man to make me feel whole while dealing with my son's father. Him made me smile and laugh and feel beautiful, when I felt my worst. Before Him, I told myself that if my son's father and I didn't make it, I wouldn't date again. And then Him entered. We never slept together, but we almost did. At the time he didn't want to because I was still living with my ex and he had some other stuff going on, but the desire and the emotion was there. Later on, Him ran into some medical problems. He'd disappeared for a while, but stuff was touch and go for a second. For my own sanity, I had to back away from him, while remembering the good times. I'll always love him for bringing me back from the emotional dead though.

So anyway, Him called me yesterday. It was a pleasant surprise, although we still talk 3 or 4 times a year. He'd asked the normal questions, 'How are you? How is your son? How is life? Dating anyone?' kinda stuff. I asked about his health and whatnot. Then out of nowhere he goes, "I know this is kind of weird and random, but I'd like to make love to you." I paused. I mean, I know he did and still does. I just learned to play stupid on that kind of stuff with some guys. The fact is that Him's health makes me know that I can't get too close to him. I love him and I always will. But I just can't. All I can think to myself is how 5 years ago, I'd have done it with no questions. Now things are way different.

But that round, insecure girl in me is still like "Me? You chose me?!" Granted, my stock has risen since then and between his health and hard living, his has kind of sank (I know it sounds cold, but its the reality), but I'm still like 'are you sure you want me and not the woman behind me?' I guess I'm just tripping that at 38 years old, I still don't see myself as the kind of woman physically deserving of the attention of some of the men around me. Perhaps one day, I will.

My Other Struggle

I think I've been pretty up front about most of my life here. Sometimes I fear the idea of certain people reading what I write here, but the fact is that I put it out there, so if it gets read, its my truth and I'll stand by it, good, bad or indifferent. And while I've openly grieved numerous friends in this space, talked about love and heartache, my effed up family, my recent A.D.D. diagnosis, and a bunch of other things, I've never talked about one of the things that has plagued me most of my life- my weight.

I was diagnosed as diabetic just under 10 years ago. I'm not sure if I blogged about it or not, but I remember how I learned about it. I was hurt, angry, disappointed, worried, but eventually, I accepted it and moved on. My diagnosis was first met with vigilance, eating healthy, tons and tons of salads and veggies, gym membership, I began jogging, all of that. But life did what it does, and stuff got hectic, and I fell back into old habits.

A while later, roughly 2011, I was at a barbeque with my bestie, Daisy, when a woman sat down across from us, and promptly stood to shake our hands and introduce herself. "My name is Cat" she said. My jaw dropped. I remembered her!!! Her shop was the shop where I'd first started my locs back in 2004. She'd always been so wide in the hips, now here she was, mush smaller than me, and just beaming. Naturally, I asked her secret. How did she manage to lose so much weight? She simply responded that she gave up starches. That day, I knew what I had to do.


Fast forward a few months later, and I'd lost 30 pounds. I went from 200 to 170. I looked good, I felt good, and an unintended consequence of losing the weight was that I was no longer diabetic. I couldn't believe it! No pills, none of that, simply eating well. Truthfully, I wasn't even exercising at the time, it was all diet.

Shortly after losing the weight, my dumb ass fell in love and managed to gain it all back (won't do that shit again...) Since then, I've struggled to get back to that glory weight. When smaller, I felt that 170 was still a bit bigger than I wanted, that gut still plagued me. Now here I am, back at 200, wishing like hell I was a size 10 again, rather than 14/16. I'd done good about my diet this time around until I went to Maryland to visit my bestie this Thanksgiving. I went in (it was Thanksgiving for God's sake), and I came back unable to shake my lifelong addiction. I kept trying, planning, went to the gym once after watching my on/off friend, Ted, drop 50 pounds after hitting the gym twice a day and dieting regularly (he looks great now and his sex drive is even more amazing and now I feel like I can't let him be the only slim hottie between the two of us). But junk food has stayed my monster.
                                             


My diet has continued to go through healthy and unhealthy cycles. I recently went to the doctor for the first time in forever because I finally have health insurance like an adult and why the hell not. It was a general check up, and I asked on a whim that my blood sugar be checked. They almost didn't, but I felt that since we were getting all of this other stuff done, why not? My doctor took one look at my results and said "you have diabetes, I'm putting you on meds." My response was along the lines of "nah, I'm good, I'll just diet and eat well." Doc was like, "no, you don't understand. Your ass needs meds homie." I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I'd beat it, it was gone, diabetes was no longer my problem. I'd won! Remember? Nope? My body doesn't either. Truth is that when my doctor first told me that without the meds I'd die, my first thought was relief and that I was ready to get the hell out of here anyway. But then I remembered my sun, light, moon, and stars, Caleb. That little boy needs me like I need him and I'll be damned if I'll check out leaving him to grieve me. Every person that I know whose mother died when they were a kid is a fucked up adult (some are more functional than others, but yeah, it takes a toll). I took and am still taking my meds.


So I started driving Lyft recently, to make coins on the weekend. This Saturday, I picked up an older woman who was on her way to an appointment for dialysis. I couldn't help it- I asked the woman if she'd had diabetes, and admitted that I too struggle with keeping my diet in check. I told the woman that I needed some sort of push to get back on the wagon.

The woman went on to inform me that she'd almost had her food amputated, and had her toe amputated instead. She shared the gruesome story of what led to the amputation, and then later talked about, how her teeth had fallen out, and she also has heart disease now, on top of needing dialysis. What really struck me was how she shared that with diabetes, you don't always feel the damage immediately. How you can eat all of the junk food you want, and feel fine afterward. Except you're not fine, it just takes a while to know exactly how much damage is done.


So I'm not sure where she is, but Ms. Rhonda probably saved my life. I haven't eaten bad since. I'm eating more fruits and veggies than I ever have in my life. But I'm okay with that, because I'm diabetic, but I know I will beat this.

Coworker Demise Pt 2: I Love Who You Are, But I Hate What You Did

Things are going well over in my other department. I head back to my regular office on Monday, as a new supervisor has been hired and I will no longer be needed. I'm kind of looking forward to it, although I know I will miss these clients. We've definitely developed a bond in the month that I've been here.

Anyway, the other day, I led the clients in the beginning of our Christmas decorating. As they sorted through the old boxes, and began to assemble the artificial tree, it became clear that a part of the tree was missing. We searched high and low, but to no avail. At some point I asked around, trying to figure out the best way to get us some money to buy a new tree. I was told that the petty cash account should have some. The only problem is that we couldn't find it. My office (the office of the former supervisor) was searched to no avail. The other coworker that often handles cash was out for the day, so we couldn't ask him. We'd just find it later.

Thankfully we were able to get someone over in the finance department to order one. The tree went up and it was beautiful. The clients really enjoyed putting up the tinsel and decorations. But the money- the money was never found. Its gone. The petty cash is gone. In the wind. Just like Roger.

This hurts me to my core. I went from really feeling bad for Roger and praying that he is safe and warm somewhere, to being downright pissed. How could he do this? How could he steal from the very clients he was supposed to be leading? As we've all kind of grieved him in one way or another since he left, this coming up a month later only reopens the wounds we'd began to close. Only we all went from concerned to a healthy heaping of "fuck you, Roger."

On top of the sting of learning what he did, we are in the process of planning a Christmas party for clients and having no petty cash to do it with. He is kind of like "The Roger that Stole Christmas." We're going to hustle to build it, but what a blow. As a I left my office yesterday, I tried yet again to wrap my mind around this. I mean, its one thing to simply walk away, knowing that you're damaged and knowing in your heart that people are better off without you. When you're left with that from someone you love, you feel like someone cares. That as jacked up as the situation is, that person wants to spare you any heartache, so they leave. And it may hurt like hell when they leave, but that hurt is minor compared to what they're capable of when they stick around. Is this what loving a person with addiction is like? For the first time forever, I felt that maybe that's kind of what Pete did. Perhaps he checked out before inflicting more harm.

It made me consider if this is what it is like having a relative with addiction? To just wake up one day and all of your jewelry, electronics, and cash is gone? I'm having a hard time right now, separating Roger from his crime. I'd earlier attributed his absence and poor decision-making to a relapse of bipolar disorder, not a relapse of drug use. But here is is, in my lap, for me to see, hold, examine, and swallow. I hope that Roger is safe. But what a blow.

A.D.D. That To My Problems

I've always been a bit of a space cadet, and I'll take ownership of that. Those closest to me know that I'm often late, I zone out, I forget stuff, and other normal "Malika" stuff. I remember telling a friend a mine a while back (my friend who happens to be a clinician) about my lowering of my caffeine intake, because drinking too much of it would put me to sleep. I'd never developed the problem (or perhaps noticed it) until grad school. I'd taken to visiting the same coffeehouse frequently and to support the cause, I'd often buy a small coffee to justify sitting there for a few hours at a time, plugging away at my paper. I'd go there perhaps 2, 3, or even 4 times a week, and always buy coffee. As I started drinking more coffee, I'd started to notice the pattern of my afternoon naps. I don't mean a quick 30-minute power nap, I meant 3 or 4 hour naps, on top of my nighttime sleep. I eventually just settled for buying and drinking bottled water, since I hated their decaf. My clinician friend said to me "you know that when people have A.D.D., caffeine makes them sleepy." My response, being typical Malika, was "bullshit, I do not have A.D.D.!" He responded with a simple "okay."

I was at work a few weeks ago, when I'd stopped in to chat with a clinician co-worker who I've taken to. I'd told him how a friend of mine let me try an Adderall pill a while back and how much it did for me. She'd warned me that if I didn't have A.D.D. the pill would do nothing for me, but if I did have it, it would work wonders.

I used it to clean my home and I was amazed at how focused I was. I wasn't jittery, angsty, or anxious, I was simply able to focus, and not in some kind of freakish manner either. I'd gone on to tell my coworker that I have a difficult time cleaning my home because I can't focus on one part of the home, instead I work on small piles at a time, before I become overwhelmed.

My coworker looked up at me and said the words:
"Malika, I think you might have A.D.D."

My response was a simple "bullshit, I do not have A.D.D.!" Then I paused and grabbed a chair in his office. Wait a minute- do I? I took a moment to think about my coworker who often is done with her notes by 4:00pm (quitting time), while it isn't uncommon for me to languish until 5, 6, or sometimes even 7 to get mine done. Its not that the notes are hard, I simply can't focus on them. When our clients leave at 2, I have to debrief, so I get on Facebook, I may blog a little, text friends, play games on my phone... Then I'll start doing my notes, but then I'll have to check Facebook again... And then I began to think about how hard it was for me to focus as a kid and I often just check out and began to stare into space. When I was in grad school, I was never able to focus on just my paper, so I'd sometimes set a timer, allowing me to goof off for 20 minutes, and then I'd get back onto my paper for 20 minutes, then back to Facebook.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I never was truly able to focus on needed tasks, I simply stumbled through. Holy shit, he might be right! I walked back into my office and immediately looked online for the signs of A.D.D. (of course I wasn't going to do my notes, who the hell wanted to start focusing?!) I scrolled around until I found this website, and I felt like I was reading my whole life. The one particular list on the page that struck me through the heart was 

• * Poor organizational skills (home, office, desk, or car is extremely messy and cluttered)
• * Tendency to procrastinate
• * Trouble starting and finishing projects
• * Chronic lateness
• * Frequently forgetting appointments, commitments, deadlines
• * Constantly losing or misplacing things (keys, wallet, phone, documents, bills).
• * Underestimating the time it will take to complete tasks.

Dear God, this was it!! This was ME! I'd felt like such a failure for so long, unable to focus on tasks, and just impulsive as hell. I felt like a weirdo, a freak, unable to ever really fully fit in, yet here it is. I'd honestly thought I was just a bit broken, and I'd only recently accepted it and embraced it as who and what I am. But no, I wasn't a freak, I have an honest, diagnosable mental illness that I can learn to work with and through. That is so amazing to me.

Honestly, after I first processed it, I grew a bit angry. I mean, what would my life have been like if 30 years ago, someone picked up on this? What if they'd understood that I honestly can't help it? That I didn't mean to zone out when I was in school? Or if I honestly thought that everyone took 20 to 30 minutes to begin working?

The best thing about this is that my 11-year-old is exhibiting most of the same traits, and truthfully, I was beginning to grow frustrated and perplexed with him. But now that I know what this is, I can take the signs and get him the assistance that he'll need to live a normal life and shine like a rock star at school. So I have A.D.D. And I'll learn to be okay with that.

Co-Worker Demise

It happened again. Well, not quite the same thing. My co-worker didn't die this time, but it certainly felt like it. A couple of months ago, I'd went to work at a different department within my organization. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. I love my current clients, but the lower functioning clients are a bit of a challenge for me. The other department had clients that were a bit higher functioning and more independent. I like that. I enjoy watching clients reason and connect the dots, and the fact is that with lower functioning clients, you do not often get that experience.

The supervisor there is a guy I'll call Roger. Roger has this commanding presence that made me swoon. He understood his clients, because at one point, he'd been in their shoes. I never asked what his ailment was, figuring I had time. At one point, while talking to him, I found myself fooling with my earring, something I don't often do. I thought it was bizarre that I committed this act out of nowhere, and learned that apparently fooling with your ears/earring is a subconscious sign of flirting. *oops* My first day in the other department, Roger pulled me to the side and asked if I enjoyed my day over, and told me the clients loved me. He then asked if I'd be willing to transfer. Hell yeah!! I didn't hear much in the meantime, although we did occasionally check in with one another, and he had me to submit my resume.

I dropped him an email last week, asking him to follow up. That weekend, my current supervisor texted me and asked if I'd be willing to help in Roger's department for the week. I figured Roger reached out and asked for me by name and I felt that I'd use the chance to go over and talk turkey with him. I got to work that Monday and learned that Roger was no longer with the organization. What?! To make matters worse, he was terminated, due to a relapse. I was crushed. It almost felt like when I learned that Pete died. I had to remove myself for a moment. I teared up. I was and am so worried.

So in this case, relapse doesn't refer to substance abuse, it refers to mental health. There were allegations of some inappropriate behavior, in addition to him simply not going to work for a week.What the hell? This simply cannot be the same man that the clients adored. They hung on his every word. He met them where they were and they respected and honored him for that.

Now that I'm temporarily here, they placed me in his old office. This is kind of odd. As I walked in, they had to move some of his items from his desk. Not gonna lie, he won't miss this pen if I borrow it and I'm emptying out the lotion bottle he left here though... Some of the clients see his door open and they walk by to see if he's in here. Its almost like he's dead. I mean, obviously he isn't. At least we hope he isn't. Fact is that no one has talked to him. Clients have asked how and where he is, in addition to what happened, so we just keep it professional and tell them that he's having challenges and needs our prayer/encouragement. His former co-worker told me that he has called Roger, but no response.

When I first got into his office, they had his name on the phone list and was spelled out on his phone. Now it just says "vacant." I only worked with Roger once, but I learned so much about the field and clients from him. He definitely heightened my awareness of working with our population. After one day of working with him, I went back to my old site with a brand new way of tackling and uplifting clients. I'm so thankful to him. I don't know where Roger is right now, but I'm rooting hard for him. He deserves it.

Gemini Ruling

I was at a going away party for a friend recently, when a woman, also a Gemini, asked me to describe the two sides to my personality. I paused. I'd suggested in passing who my two sides were, but I'd never seriously considered it until then. Once I thought about it, I realized that my two sides were my mature professional adult, and then my country girl side. Only later on did I consider something glaring- my two opposing sides are a large part of why my dating life is poo.

I kind of miss Steve. We still text on occasion, but he's been busy with school. But that simple question made me realize what I'd missed realizing about Steve- he likes my country girl. He's made for my country girl. The mature professional adult, not so much. My mature professional side works full-time, wears nice clothes, adores my Coach bag collection, makes sure my jewelry matches my outfits. My country girl is barefoot, wants to travel the world and be held to no calendars or clocks.

My issue is that men tend to meet one side of me, and assume that side of me is all there is to know and satiate. Occasionally they'll do something to shut up my other side, not understanding that both sides need to be pleased and stay pleased. When and how just depends on so many things. There will be times I'll meet professional men who see me at work and assume that I'm a regular 9 to 5 woman, assuming that I'm strictly by the book, no frills. Or I'll meet a man drawn to my inner wild child and he won't understand why I expect him to have a regular job (or legal source of employment) and for the most part have his life in check, with the very least, a 5-year plan.

And looking back, THAT was my issue with Steve. He'd be great for chopping wood, campfires, road trips, fishing, or playing at the beach all day. But if we start talking about mortgages, 20-year plans, or a lot that boring, adult shit, he'd melt. My old standby, Fred, is much the same way. Spontaneity is is middle name, but if you ask him a 10-year plan, he can give you a generic answer, with nothing to back it up or prove he's working toward it.

On the opposite end, my old (sometimes) flame, Ted (total coincidence that Fred and Ted rhyme), barely tolerates my country girl. The idea of random ass road trips practically give him the heebee jeebees.

The facts is that most men that I meet either fall on one end of the spectrum, and they are often even attracted to the opposite side. For instance, I've learned not to date deeply religious men. It baffles me that they often like me, but I've figured it out. They are typically drawn to my bad girl side that is unapologetic and doesn't answer to anyone. But then as time goes on, they always want to go back to their religious side, and they expect me to settle down with them. Not a chance. Or the bad boy is drawn to the side of me that pays bills and goes to work 5 days a week and works toward a decent quality of living. But then they get annoyed when they want to run the streets and throw caution in the wind, and I have to remind them that I am expected at work at 8am.

So I think I'm learning a bit more about myself in this process. I guess I need a man who is split down the middle like myself. Except no more Geminis. Pete was a Gemini, and he's one of the few men who ever sparked both sides of Inner Malika. But we all know there will never be another Pete. But now I have to have a man who caters to both of my polar sides.

At least now I know.

The Betrayal- My Armoire

Ain't this some shit. I liked him. I swear I did. I wore myself out, trying to find ways that he could fit into my life. And I broke things off with him. I broke it off with Steve *sigh* I kinda hate telling my friends why, because it makes me sound like a bitch, but I'm totes not a bitch. So here's the reason- I asked him to move my armoire, he mucked it up, and I ended it. See? I sound like a bitch, right? But it runs much deeper than that.

Story:
My amazing neighbor, Lisa, is moving soon. I'm going to help Lisa with the move, and she was kind enough to gift me her armoire, as the thing is huge and heavy. The only thing Lisa asked is that I get the damned thing moved. Enter Steve. To give some insight here, Lisa and I both live on the bottom floor of our apartments. We share the same building, but are on opposite sides. Steve and I stopped in to do a recon mission to find the best way to get it moved. We sized it up, and Lisa and I both agreed that the easiest would be from her sliding glass door to my sliding glass door. To give a bit more detail, to come from the parking lot, one would have to go up and down narrow steps to enter our homes. So sliding glass door single level, no steps, right?

Two days later, Steve gets ready to move it. To make a long story short, he took the steps. He dropped the armoire, got scratches on it, smashed a handle, smashed my door, broke off my banister. I was okay when he texted me and told me the mirror broke. But he damned sure left off the other damages. I took one look at this poor armoire and knew it was over. I'll be honest, I was enraged. I genuinely could not figure out how two grown men messed this thing up so bad. I dunno, it just showed poor decision-making to me. I mean we talked about it, we had a plan. And despite the weight, height, and narrow space, the decision was made to go the more difficult way. I guess at this stage in my life, I want a man who is capable of handling stuff.

That wasn't the only thing. I feel like he didn't always listen to my needs. I've been requesting an actual date for forever. Not fucking calling me at 10 o'clock at night and asking me to meet him at a bar. I'm not opposed to the bar scene, but bars should not take the place of a nice night out every now and again. Or the fact that I explained numerous times that I hate being cold and had no desire to go swimming at 12 o'clock at night (cuz its cold!) but it didn't stop him from asking me frequently. Never did I get a call at 4pm, saying "hey, when you get off work (and the sun is still shining and its hot outside), meet me at the pool." I just felt like he didn't recognize that as a full-time mother with a full-time job, I need more than just random meetings. Make me a fucking priority and plan a date.

There was another issue. It kind of involved a personal space issue. I think that in his mind, it was good-natured teasing. In my mind it was irritating as shit. I've had abusive guys in my past who found it cute to do things that genuinely bothered me, so I have a special sensitivity to men that bypass my feelings to do rude things because "its funny." It isn't funny. I don't like it. And I shouldn't have to tell you 3 separate times to knock it off.

So here we are. I know Steve is sorry. He plans to fix the armoire. Perhaps he will, but honestly I doubt it. I dunno, maybe he'll prove me wrong. The armoire is still in my living room and I get annoyed every time I view it. One of my friends described Steve as a "drinking guy." He is. He has a few beers with his guys and enjoys life. Certainly not mad at that. But that isn't the life I lead. And not knocking that life, but it isn't me.

Steve and I still text on the occasion. Perhaps we'll patch things up, but I dunno. It ain't completely over, but it ain't looking good. Its so much bigger than the armoire. The armoire is just a physical manifestation of where things are. I'm looking for a partner. A rider. A man who meets me where I am. I man who I don't have to remind frequently of the big and small things that I need. A man that can move an armoire.

Explaining Myself

I'm not really one to explain myself. I've always kind of done things my own way in my own time, so the idea of having to tell someone why I do what I do irks the shit out of me. And I think that's why Steve bugs me. I said earlier that my fear is that people will think Steve is my "white guy band-aid for Pete" but he isn't. I just can't help but to think that a woman that looks, acts, thinks, and was raised like me is not supposed to have a thing for this country bama. But I do.

I wasn't prepared for the hostility that comes with it. With the looks of disappointment I get from Black men and the looks of anger I seem to get from other people. I don't explain myself. I don't have to. But when my loved ones (particularly Black men) give me a laundry list of how wrong it is for me to date a white man, I want to give a 10 minute summary. I want so badly to shout "IDIDNTLIKEWHITEGUYSBEFOREBUTMYCOWORKERPETEWASAMAZINGANDITOPENEDMYEYESTODATINGALLKINDOFMENISTILLLOVEBLACKMENBUTSTEVEGETSMEANDIDATEDMANYBLACKMENBEFORESTEVEANDISTILLLIKEANDLOVEBLACKMENPLEASEJUSTBEHAPPYFORME!!!"

But I can't. Because that would be explaining. And I don't do that. So I'm just stuck here. Being happy for me. Yikes.

Jamie Foxx and Katie Holmes

Stuff is going good with Steve. I mean damned good. We had some issues before, but we managed to hash most of it out. We haven't spent much time together, due first to our schedules, then he up and got bed bugs, so he hasn't been home much, and I've got house guests, so no alone time on that end either. I think about him often. We share the most random of jokes. We've discussed moving in together, to the point of sending one another links to properties we'd like to see. I've met his family, he's met my brother and I've talked about him to Stepmommy. Considering spending Thanksgiving with him at my best friend's home. We mesh. We blend.

I was out with friends lately, when I messed around and got a bit more tipsy than I needed to be. I devised a plan to walk to a local spot from where I was to buy some food to sober up so I could drive home. In passing I texted Steve to mention that I'd gotten drunk. He immediately texted me back to ask if I was okay to drive, and even encouraged me to take a Lyft home and he'd pay me back. Then out of nowhere he texted me "I love you." He'd been flirting with the idea of saying it, but he never had. Shit, I still haven't said it. Been nearly a year now, and I still haven't. This is undeniably the longest I've been in uttering that.

But anyway, it completely freaked me out. My best friend, Sky, happened to be across the room and saw my face when it was read. My heart raced. Palms got sweaty. I was definitely an Eminem rap battle. I didn't respond. I kinda felt it at the time, but just wasn't ready to face it yet. Not yet.

I was on the phone with my cousin recently when I began to gush about Steve. I told her that he's unlike anyone else in how he dotes on me and doesn't just care about me, he cares for me. Hurricane Michael is roaring up the coast and he just texted me to ask if I have eggs and milk (its a Southern thing, don't ask). My cousin and I both talked about our shying away from commitment with our respective men, when I began to say "yeah, I llll-" then I caught myself. Shit, I almost said it. Whew, Ice cold, Malika, Ice cold. (Outkast reference).

So what I have neglected to mention to my blog and most of the world is that Steve is white. It pains me something bad though. It burns because the fact is that I don't like Steve because he's white, I like him in spite of it. But my fear is that people who know me will assume that he's just a "white guy band-aid after Pete," but he's not. Pete was never meant to be a boyfriend or permanent fixture of any sort, other than friendship. I've dated several black men in the year and half since Pete died (has it really been that damned long?!) Steve is funny (in a dad joke kinda way), he's kind (almost stupidly so), he's supportive, affectionate, a hard worker, and he's someone that gets me for who I am. I've found myself as the object of so many men's desire, only for them to falter once they realize that I am a real live woman, with emotions and feelings. Like who does that, right? Plenty of men. And whether I'm done up in work clothes, or wearing sweats, Steve makes me feel like a princess. Steve isn't Pete. Steve is Steve. And that's all that matters to me.

Normally by now I would have gone public with him (at least on Facebook), but the fact is that I know many of my Facebook friends would have shit to say, and I'm just not trying to entertain it. I genuinely spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to introduce Steve to my world, but then it occurred to me- Jamie Foxx and Katie Holmes.

These two have been rumored to be together for years. Not just months- YEARS. Rumor mill says that they've had to be mum due to Katie's prenup, or some jazz. As of late, a few more pics of them out in public have began to surface. But its all speculation. No one can say anything, because no one knows anything. And that's the life I'd like to lead. No one on Facebook can say shit if I'm not posting pics and being all out there with my dating life. I even found myself wondering if Jamie and Katie would have made it if they'd been public about things early on. I think back on it, and I highly doubt it.

Last night, I lay in bed and it occurred to me that if I got married, I'd do a Vegas wedding. Nothing huge, maybe a few friends fly out with us as we say "I do's." Fuck Malika, what are we thinking?! Then, being the dumbass I am, I texted Steve and said "If we got married, I'd want to do it in Vegas or Reno." Steve immediately texted me back and said he'd want to do it in Vegas and he'd want an Elvis there. We talked timeline- I said 8 years, so my son would be out of high school. He texted back suggesting 8 years is too long. 2 years? I suggested a possible 5. The night wore on and I got tired. We tabled the discussion.

This morning, I looked at my Facebook page (naturally) to find this post I'd made before. I dunno, maybe this is a sign? Or maybe not? 

"I don't know a lot of happily married couples, but as I get older and observe the ones I do see, I've learned that marriage takes hard work, compromise and dedication. If you go into a serious relationship or marriage with absolutely no desire to be loyal or dedicated, you're wasting everyone's time. You can't go in thinking 'I'll be me until the day I die and I refuse to change.' Both parties have to want it and be willing to work for it."

Like everything else, I'll let time play this one on out.

Excited

Life is ever evolving. So much. So soon. To say that I went through a rough patch is a bit of an understatement. But I'm better. Much better. Up until recently, I still felt ready to meet my end. I can say that I'm still ready now, but I'm ready and willing to live every moment until my end to the best of my ability.
So many things I have experienced recently have me finally looking forward to upcoming things. I will have the chance to serve people the way I wanted and not how they wanted me to. I can take that opportunity to make money for myself. I can start writing again and focus on the topics I want to focus on. I'm ready to party. I'm ready to travel more.
Steve is still in the mix (I fell back from the other guy) but this isn't even about Steve or any man. I'm not depressed, I'm excited and optimistic. I'm ready to see what life has for me next. I'm finally ready.

The Impasse: Why I Need My Therapist

Life is pretty good. Overall, no complaints. The job is well. My son is doing absolutely amazing to the point where I'm damned near wondering if he's really my child. Steve is still in the mix. He absolutely adores me and this is quite a new feeling. It feels good to be with him. So natural. Except-

I recently exchanged numbers with a guy, whom I like. I don't have nearly the connection to him that I have to Steve. He actually reminds me a lot of Freeman, in D.C. He's professional, together, logical, practical. Everything I've needed in my life up to this point. Before my total reset with Pete's death, this guy, Daniel, would be the first guy I'd be trying to marry. Sometimes I feel like I need a man like Daniel in my life. Someone strong, organized, a planner. A man who knows that I'm bat shit insane, but is willing to just ride with that.

He's not Steve. The idea of a Steve didn't come to me after Pete's death. A woodsman, nature lover, easy going, good ole boy who is all about going with the flow. No need for rings and titles, we just do what is. Sometimes I feel like I could spend a lot more time with Steve.

I met up with a guy friend yesterday who reminded me that I have until roughly the age of 45 to figure out what the hell I want. Do I want to be the eternal bachelorette, afraid and unwilling to settle down, but deeply alone underneath it all? Or do I want to be settled and trying my best to make myself happy, despite wanting to just date around? I don't know.

I can't help but to feel like these two men represent various parts of my psyche. Part of me is a raging hippy, who just wants to sit by a lake barefoot and watch the days stroll by. The other part of me wants to progress, organize, save money and have the next 30 years of my life planned out. It isn't just about the screwing around, its about the other stuff too. Do I want the big house, the plans, the guy who is going to hold me accountable and make me responsible? Shit yeah!! Do I want the guy who goes swimming in the middle of the night, who I can call with the most random and weird of stuff, who seems to actually enjoy when I fall further into my web of weirdness? Absolutely!!

This all goes back to my therapist. Its funny that when I was meeting with her, we were there because of my deep-rooted mommy issues, but she was able to observe my inability to commit to one man. Then I went back to her after Pete's death. Its been over a year, but I'm ready to go back. She warned me that if I saw her afterward, we'd have to deal with my parents. I think I may be ready.

I happened upon my therapist in a Facebook group that I'm a part of, and I took it as a sign that its time for me to tackle this shit once and for all. She doesn't take insurance, and despite it all, I'm willing to pay cash for her. I'm comfortable with her and she knows me. She knows my quirks. Knows what I need to work on. Knows that I have so much resentment toward my mother, that if I focus on it too hard, my whole life falls into a shambles.

But I can't walk this tightrope forever. Or can I?

In the Now

Holy shit, have I really been blogging for 10 years?! My God!! Welp, its official, I gotta keep this going. Life is, well, its life. The job is still here (thank God) although I may be falling back from my part-time job soon. The biggest transition is the car accident that I was in on June 8th (coincidentally, Pete's birthday).

Leading up to that point, Steve and I had restarted our friendship, but barely. I was skittish and still feeling some kind of way about the fact that I had to practically beg him to enter a relationship with me, yet 2 weeks after we broke up, he had a new girlfriend. I knew that he still carried a flame for me, but I refused to play the side-chick, so I kept him at arm's length. He'd always promised to take me fishing one day, so out of no-where, I texted to ask him when he'd take me. That was when he broke the news that his grandfather had been killed that morning in a house fire. My heart broke for him. Sure, I may have been kind of salty about how things happened, but I knew that Steve adored his grandfather and he spend most of his waking time at the family home. Like I tend to do for friends in crisis, I made myself available for Steve during that time. He was surprised that I was there for him.

The same day of his grandfather's funeral, I'd just gotten paid and decided that I needed to buy a few things for my son. On my way home, I saw a truck veering down a hill, with sparks flying from it. I watched as a tire rolled down the hill and hit my car. It knocked the front bumper off and really shook me up. My arm was achy. Thankfully the kid was okay, neither of us had real pain at the time. As we went to the hospital, there were two people I wanted more than anyone- Steve and my stepmommy. Stepmommy was at the hospital when we arrived.

While in the hospital, I was given a muscle relaxer that did me right. Steve came by my home with his cousin and chatted with me about the whole thing that night. They both chuckled about how clearly out of my head I was from the muscle relaxer. When it was time to part, Steve put his arm around me and walked me down the steps into my apartment, to make sure I didn't trip and fall. That's the thing about Steve- he's always been the kind of man to make sure I was okay. I'd always felt that if I ever got sick or injured, he'd be the man who would help to take care of me. Now there he was, in his own little way, making sure that I was good. The next day, he followed up by asking me if I needed him to send a pizza over for my son. Not even for me, but for The Boy. I'm not sure if Steve knows how much that will always warm my heart.

As time went on, he and I just continued to kind of lean on each other. I was without a car, and he grieved. Two days after the accident, I also realized that I'd had a concussion when I developed a deep stutter. I hated it. I was so depressed and angry. I was just driving down the damned street, and suddenly my car was gone, I was achy, and I had a brain injury. I felt useless. I hated that I couldn't have a conversation without getting tongue-tied. I felt like a moron. Steve made me feel beautiful.
We definitely got closer, but I remained conscious of the fact that Steve had a girlfriend. He never thought it was much of a thing, but I saw how much his children needed him, the mothers of his children needed him, compounded with a girlfriend to answer to. A constant statement I made to him was "you don't have room for me."

He eventually broke up with her. We still spend time together. Sometimes I think about getting back with him. But then I remember that things fell to shit when we got together the first time and it makes me nervous. So we stay in limbo. I battled a stomach bug for the last two days and he came over last night and gave me an i.v. drip (he works in the medical field). I flinched like a bitch, but he looked me in the eye and he was firm but gentle. I needed that.

Moving Forward

This isn't getting any easier. Her name is Celeste and I went to high school with her. Although she was only there a number of months before she transferred elsewhere, we bonded and kept in touch even after she switched schools. She got pregnant right after high school, and had her daughter the following April. Celeste and I were pretty thick. Running the streets, chasing boys, she was my road dog, even after she had her daughter.

Eventually Celeste got pregnant a second time, and the family she had here sent her back home to Illinois. That was the last I'd seen of Celeste for a long while, even though we managed to stay in touch via social media. She got heavily involved in activism in her area, and I was pretty impressed and amazed that even though we'd led separate lives in separate cities, we maintained similar interests. She began the Clear Book Bag Initiative, which sought to give children clear book bags, filled with school supplies, all while I worked toward the food pantry at the Atlanta University Center.

A little under a year ago, I'd seen posts on Celeste's Facebook page, in an album she created called C-Journey. I called her immediately and asked what was up. She told me then that she'd been diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer. Coincidentally, about 3 days before she told me, I'd read an article about what to say if someone tells you they have cancer. The article suggested not making the patient's diagnosis about you (so no getting emotional and focusing on your own sadness and potential loss as the other person has to console you, despite them being the one with the actual sickness). Also, no offering examples of the person you know that was magically cured from cancer. Essentially, let the patient talk, let them lead the conversation. So that's what I did. I didn't cry while I was on the phone with her. I didn't offer miracle solutions. I just listened, told her how sorry I was and offered my help. Her words were then, "I've made peace with it."

I spent about 3 days in a funk. I cried, I was angry. I planned to drive up to see her one day. At the time, the job I had paid shit, so there was no way I could have afforded to miss work AND drive up. I was robbing Peter to pay Paul. I swore I'd eventually find a way up. Like it always seems to do, life got in the way.

I'd occasionally text Celeste to check in. She'd text back, but not really say much. Her posts on Facebook got fewer and fewer. People would post on her page, and there would be silence. No response from her, no likes or anything. I observed this, and hoped for the best. One day, I decided to call her. Her phone was disconnected. I knew how to find out what I needed to know. I typed "Celeste ### Obituary."

She was gone.

She'd been dead for about a month by then. I guess I'd gotten all of my tears out by then. I didn't cry much. Just focusing. How could a woman my age get Stage 4 breast cancer? She's not old because I'm not old. Also focusing on her children. She left 4 daughters. When she gave birth to her first daughter, she made me a god-mother. I had no earthly idea that I would be called in to step up to the plate one day.

Over the years, her daughter and I didn't communicate at all. I'd see her pictures on her mother's Facebook page, but being that she was graduating high school and I hadn't seen her since she was an infant, I thought that contacting her before would be a tad out of place. But now things are different. Now she is a 19-year-old young lady in college who's mother died a couple of months ago from cancer. Yeah, this is a good time to reach out to her.

As all people do when reaching out to new people in 2018, I inboxed her on Facebook. I introduced myself, telling her that I was a good friend of her mother's when she was born, and asking to meet up with her one day. She reached out to me and said that would work for her.

It was kind of odd initially (for her, I think, not really for me). I picked her up from her god mother's house (lol apparently I was replaced over the years). She was as beautiful as I remembered. Very sweet. Mannerable. Reserved. We sat down, and I told her that I knew her mother from high school and that I was hanging with her mother around the time that she got pregnant and asked if she had any questions for me.

She did have a few. I had her do the math and explained that her mother got pregnant with her essentially right after high school. I explained to her the situation regarding her sister's birth. She asked about her sister's father and I told her what I knew. The daughter told me how she'd lived with her father for the first few years of her life, before she moved back with her mother. She shared that things were rough with her mother. I explained to her that being a single mother of 4, who started having children at a young age, was probably a challenge and that at the end of the day, we all do the best we can.

I teared. Her daughter teared slightly, and admitted that our conversation was the first she'd had about her mother in depth, since she died. I laughed and told her that I'd just put all of her mama's business in the streets. Then I started to wonder, did I do the right thing? My intention wasn't to be gossipy. I just knew that her daughter would want answers. My mama is living (she's dead to me, but that's a different story entirely), but yeah, I'd want answers.

So Celeste is gone. No more impassioned Facebook posts. No more plans to drive to Illinois. Now I have to do everything in my power to make sure the young lady gets out of college. Celeste would have wanted that. That's why I'm the god mother.

Trapped

I'd set my trip to Cali for July. I've wavered on this, so I bought the damned ticket to force me to go. And now that I'm roughly 6 weeks away from this trip, I get a lump in my chest whenever I think about it. I need money. I need time. I need this fucking vacation in the worst way possible.

I've blogged extensively about my dating life, to the point of where I'm bored talking about and reading about it. I'd dated my neighbor, Steve, for roughly 3 months, and it fell about after we'd been official for about 3 weeks. I just couldn't deal with some things. So he asked me what I wanted (he really should have just given me time to sort out my thoughts, but he demanded an answer, and my answer was that I wanted out). Crazy enough, I know he still likes me. We're still in communication, but that ship has sailed. There was another guy I'd liked and we were seeing each other for a month. Then he pulled some bullshit. So I got the hell on and won't look back (at least after he fixes my car).

One of my good friends has decided that she's going to keep this one non-essential bullshit relationship going because she can't stand to be alone. And while I love my friend, I just don't know if I can do this. Its one thing to cheerlead a friend through the bumps and bruises of getting to know a new person. But its a whole different monster to listen to a friend cry for the 30th fucking time over someone who has proven time and time again that they are not able to be who and what you need them to be. I'm really torn here. As a person who has spent many years of my life chasing non-available men, I get it. But as a woman with this newfound clarity regarding not wasting my life energy on vampires, its hard as hell to watch and continue lending time and energy to this. I feel fucking drained.

As of late, I've found myself extending my self to people that are emotionally in need. Some are dealing with mental illness, leaving abusive relationships, physically ill... and I love each of these people immensely. I'm just finding myself unable to give as much as I once could. A part of me feels guilt, because I wish other people had this same level of clarity and I'd like to bring them here with me. But a part of me feels like my own load is pretty heavy, so I can't get you where you need to go.

Plus I work in the field of mental illness, which can be exhausting itself. I took myself off of Facebook for a while. I just need to figure me out.

Current Struggles

It has been a year since he died. I was good. Not quite great, but pretty freaking good! Then that damned anniversary came. That day was like ripping off an old bandage. My pain isn't quite as raw, and I'm not having to limp through a semester of grad school this time around (thank God), but this is still rough. This time of last year, he was gone, and I was grieving. I was starting to give a long, hard look at my whole life. The men I was seeing, the goals I'd set for myself, career objectives... and most of those things are in a better space, but my fear of commitment continues to linger.

I'm blessed in many ways. My job could be better, but my bennies are awesome, hours are great, my boss is a godsend, my coworkers are incredible. The clients can be challenging, but the good news is that I have decided that the next leg of my career needs to be a focus on clients with substance abuse. I currently work in mental health, and while some of my clients are easy to love, others take a bit more patience on my part. My previous job allowed me to work with clients in substance abuse, and I loved watching them process their emotions and grow. My current clients have a different set of challenges, so I'm having a hard time mustering the same amount of passion. But nevertheless, my goal is to stay here and do my very best.

So from this point last year, things are great. But I still ache in some ways. I've had a few admirers. I know, good men, are available to me. The problem has been that I had such passion with Pete. I lit up every time I saw him. My colleagues ragged on me like we were in high school. One of them knew something was up before I even said anything. She said that she spotted us talking one day and could feel the energy between us. Dating was easy before I had that. I had no clue what I was missing. It was nice to be with a man who could show me bits and pieces of his life without being condescending and snotty. I get sick of having to dress men up and explain things, or being talked down to. Why can't we just share mutual interests?

My friend Portia has been beyond patient in listening to me rage on about wanting to finally meet the man I can share my life with. The issue is that every damned time I tell myself that I'm ready, my fear of commitment rears its ugly head. I've really fought this part of my existence, but it may be time for me to get some therapy. My mommy issues run DEEP. I knew I was fucked, and I've dealt with it in various ways, but it may really be time to take this head on.

I told myself that I was ready to get back on that horse and try again. I was wrong. So wrong. I need to emotionally retreat again. I need to recenter. This time isn't about Pete though. It's about me. I need to design my next step in life. I need to focus on me.