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.