Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be

So Lama Sura Das is my dude! (in my head at least) I credit the man for penning the book that introduced me to Buddhism. It took quite a few years for me to fully be able to implement it in my life. To the point where I intend to start a full business based around spreading the wealth of mindfulness, in addition to and I'm writing two books about it. I recently started following him on Instagram. I guess it's official.

My first introduction to him was his book "Awakening the Buddha Within." That book taught me how to allow Buddhism to heal me and make me a better person. It taught me how to fully exercise compassion for myself and others. It made me a better version of myself and allowed me to be whole and be comfortable in my discomfort and embrace change and the ebb and flow of life. Trips to the Soto Zen Center only completed the transition.

I tend to collect and hoard books. I dumped a lot of books when I moved to Cali, but I held firm to my books on Buddhism and mindfulness. I held on to them mostly as research for the books I'm still writing, but also because I hoped to pick them all up and fully immerse myself in them one day- and I guess that time is now. I was reading some other work on Buddhism when another author listed "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I wouldn't normally have picked it up, except I recognized the author as Lama Surya Das and knew that it deserved a place in my collection, to be picked apart later. 

And my current job is apparently later. I often get quite a bit of down time and I knew early on that I intended to start reading between calls. The book didn't do much to tickle my fancy early on, but I enjoyed that it re-immersed me in Buddhist teachings, so I stayed with it. I rather like the woman that I am becoming and I'm exceptionally proud of her. I've done pretty good at shedding the former version of myself, so the name wasn't really needed, but it was what it was.

A large part of the book talks about death, more so as an example of major loss that most of us suffer. I haven't thought about Pete as much lately, although cold weather seasons and early spring tend to make me think of him more than normal. Just the other night, I stepped outside and I saw a giant star. And I felt him. I felt Pete looking down at me and smiling. I've suffered so much loss lately, that it felt good to be attached again.

The book discussed how we should accept the good and bad in our life. That we should acknowledge it and own it. We should accept it, examine it, learn about it, and release it. It was pretty cool reading in this book what I already know and practice. Then it started talking about journaling *ahem* Discussing writing down our feelings and thoughts. I guess I'm ahead of my time? Not quite, but still.

As I read through the book, one of the challenges it poses is to think about a major loss we've suffered in life. My mind immediately went to Pete. I remembered his smile. I remember how he always made me feel warm. I remember how without saying a word, I was always able to read him. Once he died, I realized how much he really gave to me. I mean, folks at the job were pretty sad that he died. But I was absolutely devastated. I took that to mean that he shared more of himself with me. Because anyone that saw what I saw in him and knew what I knew about him would understand what an incredible being he was. He shared his art with me. He shared his heart with me. No man has ever let me in that deeply. And then he was gone. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Next up, I realized that I mourn the pregnancy and family life that I never got. The one guy I got pregnant by was a lying sack of shit who made it his mission in life to punish me for not aborting the baby he told me he was okay with me getting pregnant with to begin with. I never got the loving maternity photos.  He never once kissed my protruding pregnant belly. He never rubbed it lovingly. I didn't get appreciation for loving this child and raising him to be an absolute rock star. Nope, I was shitted on constantly. And I mourn the praise and relationship that I should have had from my ex. I'm not angry as much. Just sad and disappointed.

Then I thought about the job that fired me for something I didn't do right after I finished grad school. I asked myself why that still hurt me so much almost 6 years later. And I realized that it was because I'd worked my ass off in school, only to land my first adult job and be dismissed. It hurt me on a personal level. What hurt even more was knowing how much my coworkers liked me and wanted me there. I just wanted to get a decent paycheck and pay my bills. After having to lean so hard on my family while in school, I just wanted for once, to be able to say "I got it, I don't need your help." And they took that from me. All for something that wasn't even my fault.

I thought about my amazing cousin, Tracey. What made her so special to me? I realized that after the tumultuous relationship I had with my actual big sister, Tracey, had the heart of what a big sister was supposed to be. For the short time she was in my life, we shared secrets, tears and laughter. She treated me like a young adult. She valued me. And she was taken from me too. I remembered how when Caleb was a baby, wishing like hell that she'd gotten to meet him. I imagined the tons of baby clothes she'd buy for her young cousin/nephew. I imagined her willingness to babysit, and see her being the only one in my family that could see how hard I was trying to stay afloat. Tracey was my real big sister. And she's gone.

(side bar- This is quite possibly, the most difficult post I've ever written)

The last thought that came to me was my ex, Theo. I think about that sorry piece of garbage far more than I care to accept. In spite of him clearly showing me that he brought so little to the picture (which is why I kicked him out fairly early). But why did I mourn the relationship? I don't miss him at all. I don't miss the relationship. But why am I still thinking about him now? I had to dig deep, but I realized it- I mourn the lie that he sold. He sold me a lie of wanting to go out on dates and grow together. Lies of connection and affection. Lies of appreciation. Lies of wanting me and not needing me. Lies of not resenting me for not needing him.

I mourn that he sold me on the idea of the ideal of the perfect connection, one he wanted but was nowhere near capable of achieving. He sold me on that lie- and he got here and pulled the lie from up under me. I mourn what was supposed to be.

I'm roughly a third of the way through the book. A lot of it is stuff I already knew. But I'm learning about things I didn't even know that I was grieving. Bring on the knowledge.

Lessons and Legacies

I didn't really watch Ellen's show. Daytime TV has never been my thing, outside of the addictive Young and the Restless (before it jumped the shark). Never the less, I heard about the recent suicide of Ellen's sidekick, Stephen "DJ tWitch" Boss. What struck me first was his poor wife. After the loss of Ali and me forging an even closer relationship with his widow, I have an up close seat to what that looks like. Watching her raise 3 children, much like Twitch's now widow. My heart hurt for him and his kids. But for some reason, my eyes and heart zeroed in on his poor wife.

I said before, I now work on a crisis line. I speak with people who are dealing with mental health issues. I often discuss our extensive training and say how they prepared us for the next apocalypse, while most of the calls are people who are just lonely and need a bit of support, especially in the middle of the holidays. Most of our training dealt heavily with individuals who are suicidal or homicidal. I'm kind of thankful for the support calls though. It keeps the job pretty light. I can almost hear people being relieved to be able to just have some kind human interaction.

The thing that kind of sucks is that I'm still in training. Many of the people who started when I did are no longer in training, and many of my trainers have assured me that I have it and I'm good to handle calls without the extra support. I'm still a little shaky on some of the paperwork aspects of the whole thing, but I'm comfortable and definitely ready to handle calls on my own. I'm confident in my therapeutic skills. 

Another thing that has helped me has been my decision to read at work between calls. I amassed a pile of books by my work desk, so that whenever there is a lull, I look down and pick something up. My latest book is called "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I purchased the book because the author wrote what I consider my personal bible "Awakening the Buddha Within" and I heard that this was a good companion to it. I don't consider myself to need to let go of my former self as much (been working on that long before I picked up this book), but I enjoy that his book keeps me grounded in Buddhist teachings.

Last night, as I was with my trainer and another trainee, we waited quietly for another call. LGOTPYUSB was in front of me, some random business card holding my place. I realized that I had to go to the bathroom, but I decided to hold it (in spite of the fact that I recently told myself that as I get older, holding it is not something I will be making a habit of). As I read along, suddenly, I got a call.

I heard him crying. I wondered if it was a prank, as it seemed so dramatic. He began speaking. He told me that he couldn't take it anymore and he had a gun. He wanted to end it all. He said that he wasn't sure why, things in his life were well, but he still wanted to just end it all. My first thought was DJ Twitch's new widow. Her pain. Her confusion. I couldn't let that happen to another woman. I can't talk much about his issues, or even what I said (HIPAA).

But I assured him that he'd be okay. And I encouraged him to discuss his feelings with loved ones and to seek out professional help. And he agreed to it. He thanked me profusely. I thanked him for calling in. After he hung up, I immediately threw off my headphones and walked away. 

When I returned after a few minutes, my trainer told me that I'd handled the call amazingly. I was so full of adrenalin, I was literally rocking back and forth. While I was in the middle of it, I was calm and collected, quite the deviation from the spaz I normally am. But once it was over? Holy shit. Did he really call in here, seconds from shooting himself in the head? And I talked him down? Me? Me?

My trainer praised my quick thinking and my staying calm in the moment. I didn't raise my voice, I didn't make him feel bad or guilty. I encouraged him and allowed him to feel how he felt. I shared later with my trainer that I strongly believe that my Buddhist faith has allowed me to really meet people where they are with no judgement and to give them the same kind guidance and support I have needed in my darkest hours. Just coincidentally, earlier in the day, I was at the gym with a coworker, when I told her that after my suicide attempt, it wasn't uncommon for my friends and family to literally curse me out for trying to take my own life.

Looking back, I realize that they were fearful and worried for me. And they encouraged me the only way they knew how- by making me feel even worse. No one asked how I felt. No one hugged me and said they are glad I'm here. They told me that life is fucked up and to not be a pussy and just deal with it. I swore that I'd never be that person to other people in pain. I may fail at times. But I try damned hard to give others the support that I wanted and needed.

I did it. I was there. I met him where he was. And I used two people's tragic deaths to prevent another tragic death. Right place, right time, I guess.

Navigating New Nails

Part of my ride into recent adulthood has included getting professional manicures every 2 weeks. Something makes me feel so feminine and pampered by looking down at these gorgeous, brightly colored nails. This feeling was only heightened when I met a manicurist nearby who was able to create designs on my natural, short nails. 

I rather enjoyed the attention that my manicures bought. When I'd stop to make quick purchases, it wasn't uncommon for baristas and cashiers to compliment the complex designs my new manicurist laid out. I even had a man compliment me on my nails yesterday. It made me feel seen in such a small, yet seductive way. I've also heard other men, in passing, say how much they thoroughly enjoy seeing women with freshly manicured nails. Thinking back on it, I don't think it's about the nails themselves. I think it's more about a man being turned on by a woman who is able and capable of keeping herself together.

I was raised to never walk around with chipped, funky nails. The message it sent was akin to walking around, holding a sign that says "I'm a broke harlot with no home training." When your manicure outlives it's usefulness, you either go in for a touchup, or the polish comes off at home. There is absolutely no in between. Coincidentally, I met a woman my age a few years ago, and we both shared how our mothers instilled in us from the very beginning that you are absolutely not be caught dead walking around with chipped nails, lest you besmirch the family honor. 

Lately I started to notice that my nailbeds were getting weak from their regular trips in to meet with the nail lady, which resulted in more chipping my manicures early. I was out yesterday, and stumbled upon a nail shop, and long story short, I ended up getting my nails done by someone new and she even put acrylic on them, which would help prevent the chipping as my nails grew out. For the average layperson, this probably seems like a rather trivial thing to care about. But as we all know, that ain't me.

As a bit of a backstory, I swore that I'd absolutely never get acrylic nails after a good friend from high school had her acryliced thumbnail ripped off in her locker, right before graduation. Dozens of manicures throughout my adult life, and I'd always sworn them off, fearful. I stuck proudly to my gel manicures, with no desire to wander out into the wild, wild west of manicures. Young me, remembering my classmate wearing a massive bandage on the injured appendage, the rest of her nails blue and gold, our school colors, never desiring to delve into the possibility of such a horrific incident.

But as I watched the temporary manicurist slather a gorgeous pink shade on my nails, complimented by hints of glitter ombre, it felt amazing. Like I'd made it. While younger, I always observed the hands of women, fascinated by how neatly manicured their acrylics were. These were women who clearly valued their appearance, in addition to regular care. Theses were women that obviously had the money and time to do the little things for themselves that made them feel good.

I told someone a while ago how I'm 42 now, and I've literally never seen my mother's nailbed. My mother was a fierce devotee to her regular red polished manicures since I could remember. As I began to dive into adulthood in my late 30's, I began to gravitate toward things that my mother happened to love, including her Coach bags. My mother was a bigger fan of the plain black bags, and she wore the same bag regularly, until her bag fell apart and was promptly replaced. I, on the other hand, am a fan of Coach's more colorful offerings, and I switch all 5 of my bags out regularly. I still occasionally browse Coach's selection in store and online, my eyes peeled to any offerings that were colorful and bold.

I'll be honest, I rather enjoy it when I'm wearing one of my little pretty bags and some random person looks down and compliments me on my taste in purses. It feels amazing to be acknowledged as an adult with good taste, rather than the young woman trying her best to pull together whatever is the least wrinkled outfit in her closet.

Speaking of my mother, my biomother and I have reconnected lately. It feels kind of strange though. We first reconnected last year, when the family, knowing that Ali was sick, opted to pull together for what could possibly be our last holiday together. I mean, we all knew it was a possibility, especially since he'd lost so much weight. But still... who knew on Thanksgiving that he'd be gone by Valentine's Day? 

Anyway, my mother and I have connected again. I see that the house prices are dropping significantly, and I'm still not making major bucks, but I'm weighing the possibility of buying one, if the right circumstance presents itself. I ended up calling my mother and asking her thoughts on the housing market. We ended up having nearly an hour-long conversation about things like motherhood, my father (she told me why she'd finally divorced him), and of course, the housing market. My mother said that based on some things going on around me, including my plan to move back to the west coast, buying a house doesn't seem worth the headaches, especially if I end up having to rent it out to strangers in the end. It was nice. I almost don't recognize her, but I can say that I genuinely like the person that she is at this point, and I hope that she can say the same about me.

So here I am, I'm typing away in a coffeehouse, as my son is in the movies. I occasionally hold up one of my hands, to admire my gorgeous, non-chipped manicure, my trusty peach/multi-colored Coach bowling bag, guardedly close by. My once stubby nails are slowly being replaced by longer, shapely, consistently manicured nails and I'm having to get more familiar with typing like this.

And it's so reflective of what's going on in my actual life. I'm surrounded by nice things, in a warm and comfortable place, as I contemplate how far I've come, in addition to how far I still plan to go. Slowly knocking out my second book. Currently learning how to publish my own books. Plans for yet another epic birthday vacation in 6 months. I'm finally free to let go of what doesn't feel good and make decisions that I know are best for me. I'm learning. But I think that this is the best version of me yet. 

Healthy and Happy

I surprised myself recently. Devon had invited me to go to a Tambor party with him. Tambor is a large dance party that happens periodically in Atlanta. Devon had reserved a ticket for me at the door, but surprise to him, I already knew the woman at the door. I congratulated her on her recent wedding and waltzed on into the party.

I found Devon, tall and yummy, dancing his heart out. I quickly joined him. I managed to dance through at least 4 songs, and found myself surprised at not even being tired. I knew that I'd been hitting the gym more lately, as my schedule is perfect for it. But still, keeping up with him in the middle of the dance floor showed me that I've made more progress than I'd given myself credit for.

This morning, as I strutted into the gym, I decided that rather than doing the exercise bike or elliptical, I'd challenge myself to see how my jogging skills faired on the treadmill. Much to my delight, I was able to knock out a mile. 

Can't lie though, that treadmill was giving me the business!! I sweat like I haven't sweat in some years. I was exhausted. I felt those little beads of sweat appear on my head. I felt my knee start to question our relationship and threaten to leave me on the floor of the gym, battered and embarrassed. Thankfully, I finished before my knee and my ankle decided to remind me that I'm not 30 anymore and I was pushing my luck. Mental note, invest in a good knee brace!

I'm thrilled to see that in spite of it all, my body is doing okay. I'm making peace with the lil fupa that I've had to call my stomach, but my blood sugar numbers are low and my diet is steady once again.

After the last few years, it has become so apparent how important health is. I talked to a good friend recently, and wished him a happy 47th birthday. I encouraged him to start going to his doctor to make sure his health is okay. He assured me that he's' fine and that he'll start doing the doctor thing when he's 50. I told him that my beautiful cousin was only 47 when he died from cancer and that my friend, Pete, was only 47 when he died from a heart attack. My friend sighed and agreed to meet with his doctor.

Not only am I focusing on my physical health, I'm trying to focus on my financial health as well. In the new year, I plan to engage far more in investing and saving. My son has just over 3 years until it's time for him to graduate high school and I'm heavily focused on moving back out west. Things at my job are going surprisingly well and the beauty of this organization is that I can move literally anywhere in the world and transfer jobs.

I'm so thankful. I'm also planning to pour more of myself into writing another book or 2, and about to look at some self-publishing in addition to finishing reading a few books that I have piled at home. I'll be moving back into the city soon.

Christmas is coming. My soul is at ease. I am happy.

Past, Present, and Future

I'm chilling in a coffeehouse, with a fresh manicure, and the world is right again. There are so many things to love about this time of year, but I love how it tends to lead to reflection about the previous year, and the hopeful things for the following year.

I'm still a bit perplexed about the rollercoaster that 2022 was early on. I was in a shitty (short lived) relationship, in extraordinary pain from car accident because of said dude, I had just started a new job after a long string of previous bad jobs, the new job was crappy too, still decompressing from having to move back to Atlanta from L.A. and having to rebuild my bond and trust with my son, after my ex pumped his head full of lies about my me.

At some point during the year, things began to shift in the opposite direction. I finally had enough of the shitty dude and decided that his problems were no longer my concern and put his ass out. I obtained a job that helped me feel more confident about my ability to be efficient and effective, and then I finally landed pretty much endgame of the jobs I'd been hoping to land since I finished grad school.

I was supposed to meet with Devon today. He told me he had more ideas to share for my book. I'm kind of taking a backseat on the book (just through the new year), although I'm still keeping it in mind. He and I are going to meet up early Saturday instead. I love and appreciate that Devon is so dedicated to helping me push this forward, while so many of my exes always blew things off that were important to me. Not only is Devon talking to his network for me to help me move in the right direction, he genuinely seems to be just as passionate about it as I am. Anyway, we were supposed to meet, but my family is visiting town for the holiday, and we made plans, especially since this is the first holiday after 2 loved ones passed away. Alas, plans changed last minute, allowing me to get these nails done and decompress for a few before I go grab groceries for tomorrow.

While in bed this morning, I read an article that showed various methods of husbands using "weaponized incompetence," which is where someone pretends to be bad at something in order to 1. no longer be responsible for caring for it in the future. 2. avoiding responsibility if it is done poorly. Suddenly, I was taken back.

At my son's birthday party, a few years back, while he was trying to urge me to go to counseling with him, my son's father said to me "I still remember the good times we had." And I briefly jogged my memory and explained that I didn't have the same good memories. I said to him that I'm sure they existed, but at that particular moment, I was honestly having a hard time recalling any good memories. But the article today slapped me in the face with the truth. I had no good memories, because there were no good memories. At least not for me.

But of course my ex had the good memories. He had good memories of the relationship, because I was good to him! I remember how I'd see him balled up on the couch, and although he'd always claim that he didn't want a blanket, I observed his body language, knew he was cold, and brought him one anyway. He only told me towards the end of the relationship, that he appreciated that I used to do that. When I learned that he loved frozen candy bars just as much as I did, I made it a point to always keep them on deck in the freezer. One year, I realized that he and a few of his relatives shared close birthdays, so I reached out to them for all of us to have a family celebration together. All of those little things that someone does to show you that they love you and they're paying attention to you? I did them.

And what did I get in return? I got insults. I got called stupid, and bitch. I recall him following me to my bedroom and hurling insults at me, hoping I'd open the door and fight with him. Sometimes I'd win, sometimes he'd win. But who really "wins" when you live like that? I remember the countless lies. I remember him picking me up from the hospital after giving birth to his child, with fucking HICKIES on his neck. I remember some other chick calling my phone and telling me she might be pregnant by him. I remember him bringing some "childhood friend" into my home, another bitch he was fucking. Say what you want, but I never showed up at a dude's house and tried to play nice with whoever he was dealing with. Grimy ain't my style.  My son  recently said in front of me and a friend of mine "I still remember when dad hit you." I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life.  I remember him allowing his absolute garbage of a "friend" to slash my fucking tires and break my windshield (which my dumb ass ex had to pay to replace). I remember him sitting back quietly and allowing his family to attack me and accuse me of ruining his life, in spite of the fact that I got pregnant based solely on the lie on top of lie he told me when we first met. On top of that bullshit, he continued to try to attack me and harass me, even after we broke up and he was openly fucking the booger wolf he ended up with because I left him. 

Good times? Fucking really?! Where?! WHEN?!

(So now that I got that out of my system)

So this morning, something in that article brought it out for me. I didn't erase any happy memories. They didn't exist. At least, not for me. Thinking back on that mess, it's really quite insulting for him to make such a horrible relationship all warm and fuzzy, just so the doesn't have to deal with the consequences of how terrible he was, and hoping that he'll slide comfortably back into a relationship with me. It's almost as if in his mind, I'll always be there waiting in the wings for him, no matter how horrible he was to me, and he put that mess on full display by suggesting we go to counseling, as if we'd hit a minor bump in the road of our otherwise loving relationship.

No wonder I didn't go to counseling with his ass!! Who wants to return to that shit?! I'm sure he did have great memories of me. I was loyal, funny, kind, understanding, naïve, and downright stupid. But that's my story, I was there, and I own my role in it. He had an amazing woman who was kind, loving, creative, fun, and supportive. And in return, he was allowed to show his ass every fucking time he wanted to. And he ruined her. At least he's another woman's problem now.

I was definitely bitter for a long time. But I'm not now. I'm the opposite. I don't consider myself ruined either. I'm still that warm, amazing woman that he first met. But he'll never in life get the chance to experience her awesomeness again, and I'm fully fucking okay with it. I finally found the joy in being alone. I've learned the value of blocking out men and not feeing apologetic when I needed to mob out, based on all the red flags. I now have the power and the knowledge to run like hell if stuff is crappy early on, rather than standing firm in the shit storm, hoping it gets better. I'm finally looking ahead at retirement. I put in time for my spring and summer vacations last night at work. Obviously going back to L.A., but considering spending time in Denver also.

I'm focused on my son, making sure he feels loved and supported. I'm focusing on becoming the best woman I can be and being unapologetically outstanding. I'm focusing on moving back to L.A. once my son graduates high school in  a few years. I love me. I like me. 2022 has been a hell of a year, and a hell of a ride. 2023 is almost here. Bring it.

Tricks or Treats?

I wasn't able to attend the rocking Halloween party in the Hollywood Hills that I'd hoped for. My girlfriend expressed to me that her people hadn't gotten back to her in a decent time, so she started to lean toward the idea of us not attending. During that period, I started to look at my coinage and determined that I needed to stay put and start saving. My child has cost me a good amount of money over the last few months, and I finally told him that if the plan is to save money for him to go away to college with some spending money, we'd have to reign it it. He sheepishly agreed.

The fact is, I really need to get more control of my spending as well. I don't regret my traveling, and I'm already looking forward to a few more trips, it's just that in the meantime, I need to get some savings up before I hop another plane. But Cali is always in my line of sight.

Anyway, a week before party time, my friend called me and said that she still plans to go plus there was an invite to the Playboy Mansion on the agenda. My inner feminist was definitely torn. I mean, I technically could have still gone to L.A. with her, especially with the invite of a lifetime on the table. But I was committed to staying, plus I'd promised my young adult nephew that he'd be with me at the nightclub I had plans to attend. And don't get me started on the skeevy history of the Playboy Mansion. Reluctantly, I held firm that I should remain in Atlanta. Pretty glad I did. My friend missed the Playboy party because of airline crap and her time at the party in the Hills was cut short because of logistic issues. I would have been salty AF if I'd spent all that money to show up, only for the whole trip to be b.s.

The weekend came and I remained focused on having a sexy costume, not something I normally do. I gotta admit, it felt nice getting eyes all night, although I'm openly not really looking to date at the moment. I'm enjoying my current space of working on book 2, while working on further centering myself. I ended up meeting Trinidad James and got his phone number. Wasn't really trying to date him or anything, but he and I have a lot of mutual friends and I wanted to get to know more about him. I texted him a few days after we met, and his vibe was kinda off, so I aborted mission.

The interesting thing about that weekend is that my best friend was performing, so I stopped in, wearing my sexy genie costume, so he could take a picture. While there, I was surprised to see Devon step in. I froze. I knew I had to say something to him.

I'd first met Devon about 16 years ago, while I was working at Borders Books in Midtown. He was always a nice guy and we got along well. We happened to have a lot of mutual friends, as social media makes it easy to find out. Nothing much ever came of it all, in particular because I got pregnant around the same time.

Devon and I continued to see one another running around town. We'd always promised one another a hang out session. The time finally came for us to hang out. Poor Devon, when we finally did hang out, I happened to be in a pretty bad spot, because I was dealing with the breakup with my son' father. I was tearful. Angry. Confused. And Devon was patient. He was kind. He allowed me the space to be vulnerable, without trying to blame or take advantage of me. 

As I came out of that fog, I started to realize how much of a massive thank you I owed to Devon for that. We remained online friends, and every now and again, he'd comment or post something and I wanted so bad to inbox him and tell him how much his support meant to me that one night so many years ago. I just never could, without my fear of opening up that night. So when I saw Devon, I knew it was only right that I take the time to tell him what he deserved to hear.

He smiled then came over to me and hugged me. I immediately told him how much I owed him for that night. He told me that he barely remembered, and asked me to jog his memory. I shared with him how I was going through a break up and I was a tearful drag of a mess throughout the night. He said that it was all vaguely familiar, but regardless, he was glad to know that he was there for me and whatever was going on, he sensed that I needed a friend that night, and he opted to be it.

I had to run, but we agreed to exchange numbers, so that we could meet up and talk more. We met up at a local coffeehouse a week or so later. During our next meeting, I talked about my career, how my life greatly improved since breaking up with my ex, and how in spite of some occasional setbacks, things have been pretty good. Devon discussed separating from his son's mother and how he's been navigating since then. Because Atlanta is so damned small, coincidentally, Devon knew my ex's rebound skuzzbag in passing, and he confirmed that she was the walking mess that I knew she was. I also talked to Devon about my book project and the hurdles that it entails. He suggested that we link up again to discuss the book further.

Devon walked me to my car, like the gentleman he is. We hugged. But it was kind of a long hug. A nice, warm hug, of embracing a long lost loved one. I instinctively pecked him on the lips. He smiled.

A couple of weeks later, Devon contacted me. I guess I'm kind of jaded about men, but I was thinking that it had been a while. But then he texted me and mentioned that he'd told a friend of his about my book and he wanted to pow wow about some ideas. Damn. So we'd been out contact, but he was looking out anyway in the meantime. Color me impressed.

We agreed to meet for breakfast a couple of days later. It was warm, light, and familiar. We talked about traveling. He discussed his time in Africa and Brazil. He talked about his upcoming trip to San Francisco, and I told him how much I've walked across the Golden Gate Bridge 3 times over the last 5 years and it remains one of my favorite things to do, while San Fran is one of my fave cities. I told him that San Fran is also close to Yosemite and not too much of a drive from Reno and Lake Tahoe and suggested he take a quick detour if able. I asked if I could join him, if my scheduled allowed. He said he'd welcome it.

While there, my best friend happened to be in the area, as there was a Christmas Market in the neighborhood. My bestie stopped in and greeted us both (Devon and my best friend have also known one another for years). Afterward, Devon and I agreed to vacate and walk around the neighborhood and check out the items on sale. We laughed, we talked to the vendors. We almost stopped at an amazing coffeehouse in the area, but they were booked for the day. We agreed to stop in another day to check it out. We shared our favorite music and I threatened his life if he didn't eventually listen to Kendrick Lamar's DAMN. album, while encouraging him to check out Tyler the Creator's music when he gets a chance. At one point, we walked by a window, and I stopped to look at us, bundled in our full autumn attire, sweaters and coats. I joked that we looked like a couple from a Black romance movie. He snuggled with me and chuckled

He walked me to my car. While in the whip, we discussed the book further. I told him the gist of it, in addition to what I plan to do to market it, and who my target audience is. He told me some things that he felt would make the book more marketable. I shared that writing the actual book is the easy part, so I learned. The difficult part is finding a publisher that would love and push my book, like it was their own. As a creative, your art really is your baby and you want someone who will push the hell out of it, like their life depends on it. No one wants their blood, sweat, and tears to be thrown in a corner and ignored by a publishing house that doesn't see the vision that you do. Devon told me that with the availability my new job offers me, I should look at self-publishing. I told him he was right. I asked him to be my manager. He said he was hesitant to take on the role, but would offer consulting. I promised him "if I make money on this, I got you. If I eat, you eat." He nodded his head in acceptance.

As the day wore on, he said he had to get to the gym and I had to fetch a laptop from the repair shop for my son. We hugged. We kissed. We made plans to meet this week at another coffeehouse, another one of my faves that I knew he'd appreciate. He said he looks forward to it.

I drove home, taking it all in. It was so much, but so simple. I'll be honest and admit that I'm a bit jaded right now. I have literally lost count on how many times I've had a good time with a guy for him to turn around and be a mess and a half. I no longer get the hearts in my eyes and feel my heart stop beating when I spend time with a guy. I just don't think have any more of the "butterflies in my stomach" reserve. 

More than anything, I'm glad that my bullshit meter now quickly rules out men who are either going to waste my time, break my heart, or both. I actually went on a third date with a guy recently, only to realize that he's got a bit of problem with the bottle, and for me realize that I need to find a graceful way to make an exit. I'd be fucking stupid to take on another man with a substance issue after what I've seen in my personal life and at work. 

I haven't given him the "if I fuck you, we go together" speech, but that mantra has become a regular part of dating me, and if I see potential with a guy, he hears it. Part of keeping me from giving in too early is also my refusal to have him come to my home or going to his home. The good thing about working in the evening is that it severely limits the access men have to me too early, and significantly lowers our chance of hanging out late at night and ending up naked together after getting too comfy too soon.

I didn't give the speech to Jon (more so because I was just trying to get over my ex at the time) and I feel like our friendship will never be the same. Kinda sucks, cuz now when I hear his brother's music, it just doesn't have the same ring now.

Wild how all of this played out tho. I went from thinking I'd have a wild Halloween weekend in the Hollywood Hills, to building a stronger friendship (and possibly more) with an old friend of mine. How's that for #NoRegets, huh?

Ain't No Way

I'm enjoying the new job. Meeting a lot of people, learning a lot. It's a pretty sweet gig. I even hung out with one woman from my job today. We both work from home, but she happened to live in my neighborhood, and after telling her about the sweet Christmas decorations I scored, she met me at the store to get her own.

We both shared our thoughts on what we've done. I talked about the trainers I was paired with, some far better than others. My coworker talked a little about her husband, not that I pried. She seems happy, excited to decorate for the holidays. I jokingly gave her grief for having me out buying things the moment we got paid.

Anyway, this evening at work, I had a trainer I enjoyed. We had a lot in common, and like all trainers, I asked him the best way to keep my nose clean. He said that I'm doing good so far, which was all I needed to hear. As the night wore on, I got a call from a woman, seemingly desperate for answers.

Apparently, the woman's husband recently got a potentially terminal cancer diagnosis. She went on to share that her husband has had issues with substances in the past, and she fears that he is out getting high at the moment. The woman had only had limited interaction with the man, as he had mostly been gone for days on end, since the diagnosis. The woman was desperate for help, for answers. I listened to her practically pleading for some sort of intervention, anything, to save the man she loves.

My heart truly broke for her. I've seen what cancer can do and I can only imagine how a person would feel to learn that their spouse has it. Not only did I witness it in my own family, with Ali, I worked in hospice briefly and saw up close and personal what happens to families struggling with this diagnosis. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Devastating only scratches the surface.

I explained to her that legally, there really isn't much that can be done. Police can be called if there was some sort of imminent risk to him or others, but there didn't seem to be any. I suggested that she call local non-emergency numbers, in hopes they will send out a mental health professional, but even that can only do so much. Technically getting high is not illegal and he is well within his rights to decline any medical interventions he may need.

I told the woman that I could have outreach done to the man to ensure that he was safe. She agreed, thankful for any help that could be given. I called the man and- he answered. He was possibly under the influence at the time, because he was almost jazzy. The man shared that he was fine and he wished his wife would not worry about him, he just needed time away. Now as I try to keep this as vague as I can (HIPAA is no joke), but pretty sure he was high as giraffe coochie.

It broke my heart that much more. To hear the woman's desperate, emotional pleas to save her husband's life and bring him home so he could seek treatment. And then hear him being almost annoyed that she cared enough to reach out to get him help.

It made me wonder all over again if marriage is worth the headache. Had she been anyone else that I knew privately, I would have told her that what I would do in that situation is to cut my losses. He wants to be sick, run the streets, then bring his ass back home (after making me worry like hell about him), so that I can nurse him and take him to doctor's appointments and wipe his brow?! And after years of dealing with his drug use too?! Tuh!!

I make no secret of my plans to return out west to live for a while. I want to bask in the sun and enjoy fresh fruit, and live by the beach, and spend my weekends hiking and exploring. I want to date beautiful men (or not), I want to do whatever makes me happy. I'm not necessarily against marriage, I'd be down for the right man/situation. I'm just against intentionally taking on the problems of another human being, when my life is so easy on this own. And this here was problems!

I told my guy trainer how my inner Black woman wanted to tell her pack her shit and start mourning him, because at the rate he's going, it's only a matter of time. But obviously, I'm paid $17/hr (the big bucks!) to shut the fuck up and follow the prompts. I joked that I've somehow become the homegirl that tells her friends to leave her man any time he fucks up remotely. 

*"He sneezes too loud?! Girl, you don't gotta take that, leave his ass!" 

*"He ain't taking you on dates and you're still giving him snatch?! Girl, you don't need that, stop fucking him and leave him!"

*"He ain't making you orgasm?! Oh hell no, he needs to be packed and ready to move out by the time you get home TUH-DAY!! Let him go give wack dick to that other chick!!"

The coworker and I both discussed how once you reach a certain age, you see what a bad marriage can do to people. How people gain/lose weight, lose their hair, lose their money, and their minds. People literally take years off their lives, all in an attempt to save someone that really seems not to give two shits about them (blame the drugs in their case, but still) and really don't wanna be saved in the first damned place.

She is either a better person than me, or a better wife than me. Cuz...

Going With the Flow and Reaping the Rewards

Last year, after Ali died, I knew that I had to take some time for myself before I started working again. It was almost like having to learn how to breathe again. Part of that time out was my dedication to finally finish writing my first book. There had been so many changes in the past year and some change since I'd started it, it only felt right that my cousin, Paperboi Pimpen (as he called himself, being a writer) would be the one to inspire me to finish my work.

I'd tried to chip away at it, but life just wasn't working that way. Taking much needed time off to work on my great masterpiece while grieving and healing just felt right. I initially made a goal of writing roughly 300 words a day. Every now and again, I surpassed that number, although 300 remained my goal. The book is for Black women, utilizing Eastern philosophy to live their best lives and I'm pretty proud of it, although I think that I may need to add a bit more to it.

I submitted it to my mother's friend, who is a publisher. I hadn't heard anything for a while, to the point that I'd almost forgotten about it. Then when I did remember it, since I hadn't heard anything in a while, I considered finding my own publisher. Little did I know then that finding a good publisher is far harder than writing the book. People often complain about the difficulty of writing a book, which I'm here to tell you is utter horseshit. Finding a publisher is way harder. After spending an afternoon fruitlessly looking for a local, Black owned book publisher that fit my niche book was not nearly as easy as I'd assumed. I wrote down a few things to possibly look into, but nothing panned out. I decided to just to wait to hear back from mom's friend instead.

The friend finally hit me up yesterday. I was  done with work for the day and so excited to hear her thoughts. I told her that even if she didn't find the book to be up her alley, I hoped to hear her thoughts anyway. She told me that she really appreciated the book and enjoyed how in depth I went in explaining Buddhism in layman's terms. She went on to say that she also appreciated that the book was geared towards Black women. I was excited. Then she broke to me that her publishing company focuses mainly on Christian works, so she felt that it wouldn't be a good fit for them. Shucks. On a good note, she said that she felt that her editor (who is also a publisher) would possibly like it and she agreed to pass it on.

That really motivated me to stay hopeful that this book may see the light of day at some point after all. In the midst of all that, while I was proud that my book was aimed at Black women, I decided that I wanted to give the same support to women overall, regardless of race. I had an idea to do a book about feminism and Eastern philosophy, but of course, I plan to put my Malika spin on it. Much like my last book, once I got the title for the idea, it almost started to write itself. I'm genuinely excited about this next book. I also love how my leap into observing and studying patriarchy is inspiring me to help other women lead their full lives, regardless of how they've been told they are supposed to live.

I'm out of training at my new job now, so my hours will allow me to write during the day (my most creative time) and work in the evening. Another blessing is that I had to buy an ignorant amount of books to research for my last piece, so I'll have plenty of research sources once I get into the heart of this new book. I before I even knew I'd be starting my  new job, I decided to turn my home dining room into an office. I guess it was nesting, before I knew I was nesting. But now that I actually work in the office, I can't really write there. I have tons of work equipment cluttering the area, and I spend so much time the for actual work, it's lost it's creative zeal. I mean, I'm thankful to have such a bright and sunny work office, but it no longer inspires me to write. So back to the coffeehouses I go. There are far worse situations to be in.

On a relatively sucky note, I'm not going back to L.A. for the Halloween party after all. My connect on the party learned that her friends have been leaning toward attending a massive party in Beverly Hills on Sunday instead, which she and I both cannot do, because we both have to get our kids to school that following morning. But on a good note, one of my favorite local night clubs will be hosting a fun Halloween party that Saturday night.  I mean, I was really looking forward to hitting L.A. again, but my funds are depleted and I really need to start focusing on saving more money. I was ready to sacrifice for my bucket list item, but no need to spend the coins if it isn't for something over the top.

I'm glad the weather has changed. I tend to do better at writing when things slow down. All I want to do this time of year is cuddle up with an oversized sweater and post up in a coffeehouse with my laptop while I tap to my heart's content. The local coffeehouses in my area are so cute and offer a nice little retreat, which is all I need at the moment. I also intend to start planning for the lifestyle brand that I've been toying with. This feels amazing. I'm inspired, with no major stressors. I've got some major projects to undertake. My book, in addition to working with some local leaders to increase awareness of fentanyl testing strips, in honor of Andrea. She'd be so proud of me. I miss her.

Weekend Vibes, While Life Piles On, Preparing to Fly

Last year, before I left L.A. I'd started on a bit of a quest to meet a few new friends. One of the guys I'd started talking to was a local named Jason. Jason had just moved back from Las Vegas after he broke up with his daughters' mother. Jason was staying with family, but struggling. Never the less, we met up for pho and had a great time. I made it known that I'd be relocating home to Atlanta soon, and we realized that had we met at a different time, we possibly could have worked as a couple. But things were what they were, and stayed in touch anyway.

Time did what time does, and moved us on along. I was back in Atlanta, and Jason had gotten a girlfriend he was mad about. They eventually broke up and he admitted to me that while he initially thought he wanted a relationship, it occurred to him that wasn't the case. Jason and I continued to chat over the year, commenting on one another's posts and occasionally checking in via chat messages. He recently mentioned that he hadn't eaten, when I asked if he needed a few bucks to grab some food, he agreed. I sent him $20 and wished him well. He later on mentioned being in the hospital. I inboxed him to ask what happened. He said to me "multiple abscesses on prostate." I told him that he'd better be okay. He assured me that he would be.

A few weeks back, I finally got my much needed, much delayed tax return. It was highly needed earlier in the year, but by now, I just paid down a few bills and decided that I'd head back to my new second home. I booked a flight for the sunshine and traffic of L.A., excited to touch down, yet again. It recently occurred to me that I've been in and out of L.A. so much that I don't even know how many times I've been now.

I intentionally selected last weekend, because with my upcoming job changes, I knew that taking a regular weekend out would be difficult with my son's schedule and mine. I debated pushing back my trip, but decided to stay on. I'd alerted Fred and my classmate, Amber and decided that having a weekend away was just what I needed.

I hadn't heard from Jason in a few days and I figured that while in town, I'd meet up with him for coffee, or possibly stop by the hospital if he was still there. I went to his Facebook page and saw the plethora of pictures of him. I felt a lump in my throat. I've been here before, so I already knew what it was. I scrolled a little, just to confirm it. Gone. He was gone. I boarded my plane on Friday, he'd died two days prior on Wednesday. I cried.

Granted, Jason and I weren't besties. We weren't super tight. We'd only met a year ago and in spite of us remaining in touch, we weren't best buds. But that was my dude. He was a genuinely good guy, who did right by others. And he's gone now. That makes 5. FIVE people I know that have died in 2022 alone. FIVE.

Fred picked me up from the airport and dropped me off at the hotel he helped me to find, called Hotel June. He went home, leaving me early the next day to entertain myself. I was in West L.A., close enough to the water that I could smell it, but far enough that I sure as hell couldn't walk to the beach. I wandered along the strip close to my hotel and decided that in all of my grief, a nice joint or edible would hit the spot. I was thankfully just a short walk from a dispensary. 

I explained to the woman inside of the dispensary what was happening and told her that I needed something mellow. I'd scaled back from smoking weed (not that I was ever a heavy user), in part because it always knocked me out. Even though I was never a heavy smoker, on the rare occasions that I did, I felt myself rendered incapacitated for 8-12 hours, followed by a massive nap. I have no clue how so many people exist like that, because I certainly cannot. Plus I was lucky to have a job that does not test for drug use. I figured, what the hell?

The woman at the counter suggested a pineapple joint. I left out and pretty much found a quiet corner to enjoy myself in. I gotta admit, it felt damned good to be able to unwind, without fear of a cop. I was in a state where marijuana is legal, and I didn't have to worry about any random drug tests on my job. What a world, right? I debated whether to bring that small piece of heaven home with me, but decided against it. My job is pretty coveted and the benefits are bananas. The last thing I want is to ruin it all for a $15 joint. I'll be back and get another one when the time is right.

Fred came by an hour later and we headed on to the Promenade, an outdoor mall. We enjoyed drinks at the Cheesecake Factory, before heading over to Santa Monica, where we walked to the carnival and then on to Venice Beach. I feel more and more at home, the more time I spend in L.A. I loved being at the beach in the middle of October. Granted, it was still relatively chilly for the beach, so there was no wading, and with my freaking luck, it was actually kind of drizzly early on, adding to the drop in temp. But still, it felt like home.

The following morning, Fred pissed me off (of course) and I had breakfast with a girlfriend of mine who went to grad school with me. Fred suggested we head over to Issa Rae's coffeehouse, Hilltop Coffee in Inglewood. That was actually my second time being there. Glad we got there early, because by the time we left, the line was literally out the door. It's a bright, open air space with great food and amazing drinks. I look forward to the day that I can go there with my laptop in hand and post up in a booth by the windows and create to my heart's content.

Anyway, we discussed professional issues we were experiencing in our careers, and of course we discussed men. My friend was aware of things with Fred, but I also discussed my overall dating life and how I feel that most men I've encountered have been nothing more than a noose around my neck and I felt no desire to tie myself down in anything other than a healthy and productive relationship. I found myself talking about the last two car accidents that I'd had, and how they led to stuttering. I also explained to my friend how at times, when I discuss those accidents, I begin stuttering again. Sure enough, I literally began stuttering profusely as I talked about what happened. I always hate the sympathetic stares I get whenever I stutter in front of loved ones.

After a couple of hours, we decided to head on to LAX. I told my friend how much I really didn't want to leave. I hated that I had to board that freaking plane. I wanted to stay and enjoy the sunshine and explore even more of the city and state. My friend said that the cost of living is killing her and that she hopes to return to Atlanta soon. I told her that hope she's still around when I move back.

I boarded my plane heading back home. Funny how I'd almost decided to cancel the trip, and I was only there for a day and a half, but it was just what I needed. Being there energized me and reminded me what I'm working towards.

My son is 15-years-old. A bright boy, who will undoubtedly be able to care for himself. He's so independent, intelligent, and thoughtful, I know that he'll do well. My son and I are quite close and he knows that I'll always be around if I'm needed. But I'd be lying if I said anything other than, "I WANT TO MOVE BACK TO L.A." I will acknowledge that moving back to Atlanta when I did was just what I needed. I got to spend time with my cousin before he passed, and truthfully, I would not have gotten the good job that I have, had I not returned. And this job has set me up for even more opportunities in the future. So I'm even more ready than I knew I could or would be. Now if I could just find a possible boo thang with some freaking sense to spend some time growing together with during cuffing season.

I mean, I occasionally dip a toe in the wonderful *sarcasm* world of online dating. And I met a charming gentleman that lives nearby. I asked him today if he has any children. He told me that he has six of them, the oldest being 21, the youngest is 5. He asked if that was a problem. I'm happy that he was honest, so I wouldn't tell him "HELL YEAH, THAT'S A PROBLEM!" But I mentioned to him that a relationship could never be, because of my plans to move cross country in 3 years. But the fact is, bruh, you got 2 whole decades, (half my life!) with another woman. Y'all have have had wins and losses, birthdays and holidays, births and deaths, sorrows and celebrations, all wrapped up in two decades. PLUS y'all gotta coparent, because you have a young child (and some teenagers) to continue to look after. Yeah, I gotta toss his ass back. I've been very intentional in not having more children. Why would I get with you now and have to start over? I'm done wiping noses and putting down children for nap time.

Reminds me of another guy I'd met. When I asked about his children, he said "I have 3. The oldest two are 21 and 22" with no mentioning of his youngest. Naturally, I asked about his other child. "She's 6" he finally 'fessed up. I explained to him my desire to begin traveling the world soon. He shared that he too wants to travel the world, however he wants his daughter to be able to travel at times too, hoping to make her well-rounded. I can certainly appreciate his desire to show his daughter the world, but all I could imagine was some child ruining my cruise around the Mediterranean, all because she was cranky and past her bed time. I ended things shortly thereafter. 

Three more years. That's it. Just 3 more years and I can move back and live the life that I want. I'm hoping to tie my tubes soon. I don't want to experience any other connections that will hold me down and keep me from living the life that I want. I don't want to be tied to anyone else, for any reason other than love and mutual respect. Lord knows that I'm also looking at retirement. The goal is to pay off my car note, build my savings, and raise my credit score in the meantime. Once my child is out of high school and in college, I can focus on my retirement. With my current job, I can retire at 62, as long as there are no major issues, like kids.

I love my baby. He's my world, and I don't resent him for a sec. Although, I'll be honest in admitting that I had no clue what I was getting into when I had him. And now I know. And with that, I'm good on having another one. I want to be free. I want to languish at the beach, and attend dance parties, and I want to not have to answer to anyone. I just want my freedom. Just 3 more years. Ain't it great?