"How are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Pete

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

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

Forever yours, 
Malika

Apathy

I'm in a strange space right now. I'm thankful that I meet with my therapist in less than an hour, because I've got some emotions to process, and I just don't know how. I wish I knew what or who to attribute it to.

I've talked a bit about how I've stepped away from the dating game, and the longer it goes, the better it feels. Coincidentally, I stopped at breakfast eatery earlier, and started chatting it up with a fellow sitting at a nearby table, and when my food arrived, I asked if he was okay if I moved over to his table. He said he didn't mind, but immediately informed me that he's married. I gave him a gentle smile and assured him that I had no intentions to get fresh with him. He seemed relieved, and I  joined him and had a great breakfast. It was a nice change of pace from seeing men around me as potential dating partners, and now just seeing them as homies or possible friends.

Anyway, as I'm stepping away from dating, and growing more apathetic about the possibility of living out my last days on my own, I've seen that the apathy is sliding off into my professional life as well. I've been at my job for nearly 3 years now, and I feel comfortable saying that I am both loved and respected by my supervisors, colleagues, and the population we serve. I bring a friendly approach and emotional support. I've had people say to me that some people are all book knowledge, and some people are just friendly and natural at this job, and I'm blessed to fall in both.

The issue is that within the past few weeks, I'm starting to feel my light fade. I'm notorious for being the bubbly jokester, but I'm finding it harder and harder to pull from my reserves and bring that woman to work with me. I've even wondered if it is the fact that I've been picking up extra shifts the last few weeks to cover my upcoming birthday celebration, or the lack of sun, due to all of the rain, but I'm just emotionally and mentally exhausted at work. 

I genuinely don't know if how I'm feeling is due to overall work stuff, or if the emotions from my personal life or sneaking on in to how I perform at work. I realized early in my social work years that most people don't want to do the work. They simply want to no longer receive consequences, while engaging in the same degree of fuckery. And people will come to me for support, and I'll give them all I have, all for them to reject it, because they don't want help like that. Reminds me of working at a drug rehab facility, how some of the women would want their children back, while basically keeping up the same toxic patterns. Sure, they wanted their kids back, but they didn't really want to give up drugs.

So after working on mental health for 15 years, you come to see many people who come in saying what they want and hope to achieve, only to bail the first time you expect something from them. Another example is a young woman I met at TJ Maxx. She seemed super sweet, and one day, she told me that she's in school, studying psychology, with the hopes of being a therapist. I immediately started talking shop and throwing around some phrases and words, and she admitted that she had no idea what I was saying, as I'd been the only person in her life who actually worked in the field. I offered to mentor her, and she said yes.

A few days later, I brought my DSM5 for her to look at. Long story short, the DSM is essentially the bible of the mental health field. If you have an actual clinical diagnosis, it comes straight from this book. The original is hundreds of bucks, but I lucked up on this one for $35, so I lent it out to her. One day, I saw her crying at work and tried to get her to open up to me. She couldn't. She wouldn't. I'd asked her if she'd ever gone to a therapist. She said no. I asked how she planned to go into the field if she'd never learned about it? She shrugged. I didn't want to pry, so I let it go.

About 3 days after, I dropped her a text message, asking how she was doing overall. No answer. I get it, life is busy, whatevs. I called her, the phone went straight to voicemail. Oh. Did she block me?! Two days later, called again. Straight to voicemail. This bitch blocked me! I texted her again, gently asking about my book. Cuz heffa, you can block me or you can keep my book, but you damned sure aren't gonna do both.

And honestly, I know what this is about. I've encountered this before. Feelings, thoughts, emotions? She doesn't know how to show up in them, so she bowed out. And old Malika might have fought harder to make her feel seen and heard. But I just don't have it in me to give a fuck. Babygirl, this is your journey, and yours alone. I no longer have the extra emotional energy to pour into her or anybody else. I feel like a washcloth that has been wrung dry. 

Like I'm physically tired. I'm exhausted. I hope I'll be better after my birthday celebration, when I scale back on the extra hours at work. I hope that works. I miss the Malika that always showed up for others. Maybe that's my problem? Time to scale back and pour into me, and me alone?

Broken

I said a while back that I'd stop writing about men. I don't want to be defined about who I am or am not fucking. My life is so much bigger and more expansive than that. I love this space that I'm navigating. And even though I've been sex-free for nearly 6 months now, I'm still so shattered in many ways that I'm not even interested. And I have two die-hard examples of just how far gone I really am.

I'd said before that when FAMM came to fix my air conditioning, we were good. We didn't feel the need to rehash anything, we were where we were, and we both seemed pretty good with that. We chatted and checked in with one another, but neither of us were pressed for more. But then, a couple weeks back, he called me out of nowhere. He told me that his favorite uncle died and he was pretty fucked up. I could hear in his voice that he'd had a beer or two (or way more), and I didn't want him in the streets like that. I told him to come to my house instead.

He got there in 15 minutes and thanked me. He admitted that he wasn't really good with emotions, and since my job is what it is, he figured that I'd be the perfect person to talk to. I was actually quite flattered that he chose to come to my home when experiencing so much distress. That meant he felt safe with me, which I appreciated. He lay in my bed, and we chatted a lot, not much about the death though. I felt like I'd let him guide the conversation, and discuss things when and if he wanted to. He stayed the night and squeezed me the whole time. I'll be honest and admit that I liked the time and affection, but I was also clear with myself that he was over here like this, because he was emotionally fragile, not because he wanted me, Malika, as a person or woman. But nevertheless, it was good. We didn't have sex, although the proximity was certainly there. I mean, we were thisclose, had he sneezed too hard, he would have slid in. But I was on guard the whole time, and at no point in that interaction did I want sex.

The next day, we sat around in bed again, I went and got us Jamaican food (that he paid for), and we sat in my room, watching YouTube videos. It was nice, and it felt intimate. But again, I reminded myself that his presence wasn't about me. It was about his own emotional needs, but even still, I enjoyed it.

Next up was the surprise of all surprises. A homegirl, whom I'd met through Fred, moved to NYC, but she and I managed to stay in touch. I made it a point to have discussions that had nothing to do with him, to build our own rapport outside of him. I even saw her when I went to NYC in October. She reminds me of myself, a bit too much at times lol. We both have our ratchet moments, combined with a heart of gold, and open for adventure, pro-Black creatives with a penchant for fucking the wrong men.

I'd been meaning to check in with her, when she texted me to let me know that she'd be in town for Memorial Day weekend. Sucks that I had to work that weekend and Monday, but I was still down to see her when my schedule would allow. I grabbed her from her son's home and we checked in about her personal exploits. I broke my rule and asked about him. I hated myself for mentioning it the second it came out of my mouth. I'd made peace that we'd never see one another again, and after nearly 2 decades of back and forth, I knew that never seeing him again was for the best. I figured that he'd shared my feelings of "good riddance" and in spite of planning another trip out to L.A. soon, I fully planned to check in with my other friends in the area. Confession time though- I'd planned to drive around the DTLA (downtown LA) area where his apartment is. No, I didn't plan to see him, but I planned to possibly buzz by his home, like the little weirdo that I've always been.

Anyway, I broke cardinal rule and I asked her how he was and if he'd thought about me. And she dropped it in my lap- "he feels bad about how things went last time." What?! That was news I wasn't ready for. I missed him and I wanted to see him. But I didn't see that one coming. I'd made peace with our ending, that we'd never see one another again. And at least he was on the other side of the country, so there was no chance of bumping into one another and sparking something again. I was just over it all. I know that guy, and he seems to double down on a lot of his fuckery, and finding ways to justify his bullshit. Plus he's stunning and women cling to him like flies to shit, why would he miss lil' old me? Ya know?

Funny enough, while my conscious mind said that we were officially a thing of the past and I was ready to move ahead from our clusterfuck of a friendship, my intuition said that we would actually see one another again. But for me, after it all, I just couldn't accept that, and I stood fast on that it just wasn't happening again. My intuition is pretty strong about knowing when I'll see people in the future. I can never quite pinpoint when, but I just always know there are certain people that I will see again. And he was one, no matter how much I tried to tell myself that would never happen. And then she really dropped the bomb in my lap. "He's coming to Atlanta too. He'll be there this weekend and I'm supposed to meet him at the Jazz Fest. He'd like to see you." Yeah, so anyway, my soul left my body.

Y'all, I never thought I'd see him again. We live opposite sides of the country, literally a continent apart, not like I'll see him in my local Trader Joe's, ya know? Like I legit killed him off in my mind. Our friendship, connection, sex life, all of that was dead in the water, as far as I was concerned. I had to kill him (figuratively, of course), to move forward. I know I'm making something big out of something pretty small to the average person (rightfully so), so I just wasn't ready. But truthfully, I wanted to see him. Not sexually though. Forreal? I'd kinda missed my friend. I'd told my bestie how every time I watch Insecure, I'm taken back to all of my Fred shenanigans, and even though I had no intentions to see him, it did make me miss our "thing."

It's been nearly 20 years. He was the person I was seeing right before I started seeing my son's father. So like 19 years back, I guess. That's a long time. I wanted to marry him at one point.  If I were ever in a serious relationship, I already told myself that I'd have to stay the hell away from him, he's just so... UGH. And he was here.

And even though I was shocked to see him, it wasn't sexual. We arrived at the park and my heart was beating. We'd looked around for him, and I immediately recognized him from behind. His thin, athletic frame and that head full of curly hair and his all-American boy look, I'd know that shape and frame anywhere. I said hello to the people he was with and awkwardly looked at him. "Bring it in" he said as he reached out to hug me. The only thing I could muster to say was "I never thought I'd see you again." I wasn't relaxed. I don't know why I was so tense and anxious. I knew there was a lot to address, but naturally, in a crowd full of people, while John Coltrane's son performed mere feet from us, was not the best time.

What shocked me, partially, was although I'll always think that Fred is the sexiest creature I've ever seen, I didn't want him that way. At any other point of our relationship, I'd demand he meet me at a hotel, to knock the dust off. But I couldn't. Since I had to head to work, he walked me to my car when it was time for me to leave. He apologized. And I appreciated the apology, I really did. But how many apologies can one woman take? At some point, you want changed behavior, not an apology, ya dig? While walking, I described to him how I've taken a bit of a sexual sabbatical, but on steroids. It's not just that I'm avoiding sex, I'm so emotionally spent, that I honestly cannot even begin to allow my sexual organs to even pretend that we're back outside. I have some serious healing to do over here, and a pretty smile, head full of gorgeous hair, perfect body, and apology just aren't enough anymore.

We did see one another again, the following day. We chatted about life, and caught up over the last year. I continued to repeat that I never thought we'd see one another again. He accepted that. I shared with him that I intend to visit Los Angeles this summer and perhaps we can see one another again. He gladly accepted that.

***

So yes, all of those additional details to explain that I recently surprisingly interacted with two men who I've extensively lusted after, and at no point did I even remotely crave sex. Not even a little. Not even when down to my underwear, in bed with a man who wanted to ravage me. Although I swore off discussing men in this space, for now, I decided to mention them in this particular post, more so to talk about how my mind and spirit are so removed from the idea of enjoying sex and romance.

I met up with my cousin last night and I'd told her in passing that Fred was in town, and how that man and I have been to hell and back. And then it hit me- hell and back. Our whole relationship has been this draining back and forth, and the truth is, I just don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to go to hell and back with any man.

The fact is that I used to find so much romance in the back and forth. It was so dramatic, like a tv show. The ending it all, just to find our ways back to one another, in each other's arms. I used to think it was so romantic. Ya know, like kismet? But I'm just not there anymore. Now I see it as clingy and codependent. I don't want the pain and the headache and the tears that comes with the back and forth. In trying to find the way to describe how I feel, I started thinking about the human brain. You know how the brain has the part that controls the eyes, the part that controls, memory, the part that controls processing scents, etc.? I feel like the part of my brain that controls sex, romance, and affection is broken. I feel like there's just an empty spot or a cotton ball in the area that's supposed to make me crave lust and romance. I feel like that light switch just went completely out and I have no idea how to turn it back on, but I don't even know if I would if I could, at this point.

Even when I see a man who is sexy af (and yes, I see plenty of them these days), in no way am I interested to know more. Occasionally, I'll see a sexy face on my Facebook "People You May Know" section, and even when I see a hottie, even if I look at his profile briefly, I have zero desire to add them as a friend. Coincidentally, if I seen an interesting woman's profile, I add her, quickly. But men? Absolutely not! When I see an attractive man, all I see is another problem. Another man waiting to hurt me. And I just don't have it in me anymore. To put myself out there and risk being lied to and gamed, just so some emotionally void creature can get his sick fill.

I hate feeling like this. But I told my cousin that I don't see myself having sex again, until I feel safe with a man. I don't know when or if that'll happen. But I'd rather not open myself up to it, if it could result in more bullshit. I just don't have it in me. I'm broken.

Have You Seen My Childhood?

I've always been basically a grown ass kid. Even as a teenager, as people grew older, I remained childlike. I found that one of the benefits of adulthood was that I could spend my money how I want, and the weirder, the better! I've always known that in some ways, I'm making up for a childhood where I wasn't allowed to bloom. Children were often told that they can do what they want as adults and I took that message and ran with it! And as an adult, no one can tell me shit! So if I want it, I get it. Not harming anybody, so if I wanna buy a 6 foot teddy bear, dammit, that's my business. Go broke putting up Christmas lights on my house and that huge inflatable Black Santa? Yep, bring it on!

Exactly 30 years ago, Michael Jackson was getting ready to drop his HIStory album, which coincided with my 15th birthday, June 20, 1995. Advertisements were everywhere about it. With zero internet to lean on, MJ managed to hold us all in the palm of his hand. I recall bugging the hell out of my father, with the understanding that I had to get the album on that day. I was already a Michael Jackson fan like pretty much all of the planet, but this album dropping on my birthday (of all days) was a sign that this was meant to be!

When I got the cd, a 2-disc set, which included a disc of 15 of his hit singles, plus a disc of 15 new tracks, naturally, I took to the song "Scream" (his single with Janet Jackson) and later "Earth Song." To this day, I will be in my car and play "Earth Song" at decibels loud enough to shock ocean plankton. After all, that is the only way to do the song justice. If you aren't shattering windows and setting off car alarms, you aren't doing it right! The album spoke to my soul, as Michael sang his heart out about the recent allegations he'd faced about sexual abuse against young boys.

When listening to the cd, I also loved the track "You Are Not Alone," a track written by none other than Robert Sylvester Kelly. This was before we were fully aware of the disgusting allegations against him. Being as zealoted as I am, when I switched all of my music over to digital selections, I never bought HIStory, because I did not want to buy the album and risk giving R. Kelly even a dime of my money. I'd buy my favorite singles, but never the album, lest I be supporting Robert's proclivities (this is before the Mute R. Kelly movement).

Recently, I thought to myself that since Robert is nicely resting in prison (where he belongs), I can finally step away and give myself permission to enjoy the album, in its entirety. What I hadn't expected was to be transformed back to that chubby 15-year-old who'd played that album to death! Songs I'd even forgotten about, like "This Time Around" which featured Notorious B.I.G. I thought back on how I'd mentioned something about the song to my ex, David. He thought that I was on hard drugs when I'd mentioned that Michael and Biggie had done a song together. And eventually, I was able to pull out the cd and play the song, to shut him up.

I'd picked up my son from school while going down memory lane, and as the song "D.S. (Dom Sheldon)" came on, I explained to him how Tom Sneddon was the district attorney that went after Michael Jackson, and how MJ was actually singing "Tom Sneddon is a cold man" while claiming he was instead singing about a phantom named Dom Sheldon. Ah, the memories.

Next up was "Childhood." I was transformed back in time. I'd forgotten what that song meant to me. My childhood wasn't happy. I didn't know what a happy childhood looked like, but even at 15, I knew something was wrong with mine. I cried a lot. I was sad and I thought about my death often, even constantly contemplating suicide. I'd spent my young years being physically assaulted, often terrified to go home. I've learned to work through it, but I don't believe my mother liked me back then. My father being a narcissistic puppet master didn't help. Being in the middle of their legal wranglings nearly destroyed me. The song "Childhood" was my escape. How I'd go to my bedroom and cry, and listen to Michael Jackson, who seemed like the only other human being who understood what it was like to have an unhappy childhood.

In preschool, I attended a neighborhood nursery, called Kiddie Cottage. One of my few things I remember was that there was a woman who would occasionally visit the family-run business and us kids lit up. She just seemed to radiate happiness and positivity. I don't remember her name, or what she looked like, but I remember that she seemed to bring something into the room that just made us kids feel better. And in spite of me having limited memories of that young woman, I recalled even then, that I wanted to be like her.

So in my teen years, when I'd go into my room to cry, I always envisioned an older, happy version of myself, coming to me and comforting younger me. And somehow, I always felt better imagining this older, accomplished version of Malika, coming in and telling me/her that I just had to get through this and that when I became an adult, things would be better. "Childhood" would play on repeat, as I cried into my pillow about how much I hated myself, and my life. The only thing that seemed to get me through was my connection to Michael Jackson and the visions older me, coming to comfort me.

As the song came over my song speakers, I was transferred back in time. I saw that little 15-year-old girl, with tears streaming down her face, and I wanted so bad to hug her. To tell her that she'd be okay. I wished like hell that I could tell her that her 20's would be a doozy and to not let any stupid ass dudes knock her crown off of her head. My heart absolutely broke for that little girl. And even at almost 45, with a master's degree, buying a home on her own, mother of a rock star of a son, an amazing therapist, and tons of accomplishments, I felt that wounded little girl, deep in my soul.

In that car, in my mind, I walked into my childhood bedroom, and I hugged that little girl so tight. I told her that I love her and that she did her best. I told her that we ended up okay. And right there in my car, I felt those tears starting to fall. Out of nowhere, huge heavy tears fell from my eyes. My heart broke for her. She didn't deserve it. Any of it. And even though we made it to the other side, and now work in mental health, helping those who need it most, that little wounded girl will always be with me.

Michael Joseph Jackson spoke to my soul, and he understood more than anybody. 

Have you seen my childhood?

Shielded Eyes

When I was about 11, my older sister had a baby. Suddenly her boyfriend and his family kind of became extended family to me and my family. It wasn't uncommon to see my nephew's father and his father's brother hanging out at our home, and his brother even began dating my babysitter. He was always kinda flashy. I'll call him Tobey. Tobey drove a sweet, small red convertible. He had a cute little puppy. He was dark-skinned and handsome. He reminded me of Eddie Murphy is Boomerang. The handsome fellow with the attractive, pressed clothing. He was also wickedly funny.

Around that time, I was also insanely interested in the news. Rapes, robberies, car accidents, politics, I wanted to see and know about it all. Probably kind of strange for a child that age to be so deeply into watching the news, but even then, I was always extremely interested in the human condition. Anyway, one day, I recall people saying they'd seen Tobey on the news, as I came to understand that he'd been arrested. Naturally curious, I'd ask the adults around me what he'd done, but they always brushed it off. I never got a full answer, and like most kids, at some point I got sick of asking, and eventually forgot about it.

Some point, years later, after Tobey came up in conversation, I asked someone and they told me- he had been arrested for a string of rapes and robberies in Atlanta. There are other identifying things to his crime, but I'm intentionally leaving it out, as I don't want people looking it up and retraumatizing my family. Regardless, I clearly remember those crimes. It was pretty distinctive, and I remember how paralyzing it had been and how terrified women were. The reminders to stay vigilant and lock doors. And the person responsible for those horrible crimes had been the same guy who'd cut my lawn and slid me and my little friends a dollar bill on occasion.

While in grad school, one my assignments was to do an analysis on an individual. We had to assess the person, based on the individual, and they had to be real. I'd been warned for many years not to attempt to do therapy on the people you know, and I'd never fully understood why. Anyway, around this time, I decided that this would be a the perfect time to do an assessment on Tobey. I took the identifying details about the case and Googled him. I saw that he'd filed an appeal, and I read the details of the original case. Even though I was aware of the nature of his crimes, I did not anticipate the difficulty of reading the crimes of a man who I'd come to love and know. Even reading about the streets he'd driven those poor women on, streets less than a mile from my house, which he'd often visit. 

One particular detail was so deeply disturbing that I had I had to put the case down and pick it up in another day or two. It was simply too graphic for me to read. I couldn't help but to envision how terrified that poor woman must have felt, with two men assaulting her. How soul crushing it must have been to have them touching on her genitals and the fear that she'd likely be killed after the experience (none of the victims were killed). My stomach turned. And while I completely center that those women were the ultimate victims, I still felt hurt, betrayed, and heartbroken, knowing what he'd done.

And while that was clearly devastating enough, I couldn't help but feeling a small degree of sympathy for him. I knew a bit about his family dynamic, and I can only imagine what he'd experienced to make him have that kind of hatred in his heart for women. Knowing that he had a mother and sister in his life, but he still did it. I'd read in the documents that they'd almost assaulted one woman, but she began talking about her faith in God and talking about gospel songs and he let her go. 

Some years later, I again decided to visit reading the details of the case. And when I got to the particularly disturbing part, I had to steady and steal myself. I didn't have to walk away for days this time, but I definitely had to stop reading for a moment and take a breather. That man was my family. And he was a monster.

((deep, sad sigh))

I'm mildly keeping up with the Puffy Combs case. While it isn't the first thing I wake up and look at every day, like many people my age, Bad Boy Records music played in the background for much of my development. Puffy and Mase, in those suits, running around. Biggie's murder. Tupac's murder. Total. Carl Thomas. Faith Evans. 112. Black Rob. The list goes on. So I can't say that it's not at least mildly interesting. Plus the only gossip blog that I follow keeps me with the updates.

I woke yesterday and saw that as the testimony from one man stating that he was often paid to have sex with Cassie and that Puff would be in the corner, masturbating. And then his 3 daughters, 18 and 19 year old twins, all got up and walked out. And while I hope that Puffy spends the rest of his eternity burning in hell for his crimes, my heart breaks for those little girls. I'm aware of the duality that his stealing from artists allowed him to fund the lifestyles that those young women will continue to enjoy, an extravagant lifestyle I could only imagine.

But my heart still breaks for what those girls went through. I'm a grown woman, with several years experience, and I still struggled to learn about the details of sexual abuse at the hands of a loved one. It has to be gut-wrenching to watch the world publicly disclose the sexual details of your father's life. Their dad is a monster too. But it doesn't make it any easier.

Decentering Men, and Centering Myself

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Part of this growth journey is taking stock in myself and my actions, recognizing when I'm off my game and doing better. That's it. So I've been sitting with something that's been floating around in my womanist stratosphere- the concept of decentering men. I've shared how much I've been hurt and damaged by various scenarios involving men, and it's finally hitting home for me what I need to consciously, intentionally do.

Even here. My little bubble, my little safe space, all I do is talk about whatever penis is floating around and how his relation to me somehow seems to impact my whole life. The fact is that it is time for me to unlearn that behavior. I have a whole life outside of men. So why is it that when I'm here, all I seem to talk about is what man I'm infatuated with, even if I'm not even sleeping with him? Something's gotta give.

I'm still leaning away from dating and anything casual, but life is once again smacking me in the face with the understanding that the time has come for me to fully decenter men. I am who I am (and damned good at being her), outside of my connection to any man. As I get ready to turn the big 45 next month, I want to again focus on me, and just me. Which means that I shouldn't just talk about things, I need to be more consciously intentional about centering myself, and my needs.

All of that being said, I intend to begin being more intentional about decentering men. Less about them in conversations. More about my creative endeavors, my traveling, my amazing friendships, my goals, the achievements of my amazing child, and my hopes and dreams. Time for me to dig more into me and mine, because I'm so much outside of men.

I'm loving this growth journey.

Malika, the Manic Pixie Dream Girlfriend

I was online the other day, when I'd learned a term I'd never heard before, the "manic pixie dream girlfriend." Being a woman who loves to learn, I quickly googled the term for a definition. What I'd learned shocked me. Apparently, it's a tv/movie character trope.

According to Google, 

A "Manic Pixie Dream Girl" (MPDG) is a character archetype, typically a young, quirky woman, who exists primarily to provide emotional support and life lessons to a male protagonist. The term, coined by film critic Nathan Rabin, describes this character as one-dimensional, serving as a plot device to help the male character grow, but often lacking a well-developed storyline or agency of their own. MPDG characters are often depicted as bubbly, eccentric, and seemingly carefree, with a tendency to "spark" the male protagonist's life with adventure and meaning.

And I was awestruck by how much I felt like I was essentially reading out my life. One of the articles I read seemed to describe me to a tee! A woman who is quirky, often colorful, and "not like the other girls." A woman who marches to the beat of her own drum, and makes life that much more fun and exciting to the others around her. But one of the things that stuck out to me was that the MPDG was always seen as the accessory. A mere tool, utilized to improve the man's life. A one dimensional character, with no plot line or role in the storyline, with no purpose, other than helping the man grow.

It started to make that much more sense. I'd written before about feeling like an NPC (here) and this just solidified my feelings. That there really exist an idea that free-spirited women are not real characters, just tools used by men, to make them better versions of themselves, with no real feelings, emotions, or interests outside of his scope of existence. What's wild to me is how much I've seen this play out in real time. How I'll take guys to many of my favorite haunts and hideouts and I'll see that little spark in them come alive. How I'll drive guys to my favorite spots for stargazing, and they'll tell me that in their 40+ years on the planet, they've never bothered to look up at the sky at night. How I'll be on the phone with them until the wee hours of the mornings, calming their fears and anxiety. How I uplift and encourage them to follow their dreams, when they feel incapable of getting out of bed. And how it never fails, that the moment I'm having a bad day and need some support, they immediately dismiss me, accuse me of being needy, and are almost disgusted by the idea of me needing anywhere near the same degree of love and encouragement that I've endlessly poured into them.

What bugs me so much about this (in part) is how naturally likeable she is. Like everybody loves the bubbly chicks with the awesome jewelry. No one has beef with the funny, earthy girl. Everyone loves her! But it seems like when her place ends, that's kinda it. Or if she stays with him, she stays relegated to his living accessory. She's not allowed to have bad days or fears and anxiety of her own, lest she pop the bubble of the idea of her being impervious to pain and disappointment.

I took this topic to my therapist the other day. She chuckled when she first heard it, and allowed me to explain it, and I told her that I feel like this is who and what I am to people. She nodded in agreement that I did indeed fit some of that mold.

While I'm in the middle of getting my head together, naturally, I need more bullshit in my life like a repair in my home. And it's not just any repair, either. Nope, it was my air conditioner. I mulled over who to call for this. I called my new handy man (he's cute, but married, and I had to create a rule about no dating anyone who fixes stuff in my house), but he doesn't fix air conditioning. He gave me the phone number for his own ac guy. But as I'm trying to stack bread, I feared calling in a new ac person, scared that I didn't have history with him, so he'd tax me. With all of that, I ended up calling none other than FAMM. Dammit, he's an HVAC technician by trade, after all. And the weather is pretty mild now, but this is Georgia, so I expect my face to be boiling off within another month or so.

I just knew he'd pay me dust, and I wrote him off initially, but he surprised me by being open to fixing  it. He showed up, while I was working from home. Naturally, he looked good. Our energy was different. But I guess in a good way. He told me that he got a job at a local shop, which is why he had to stop by so late in the day. We conversed briefly, but kept it light. I didn't ask questions, I didn't profess to miss him (in part, cuz I really don't). But at the same time he didn't either. He didn't ask what happened the last time we talked, and I wasn't really in a rush to have the discussion anyway. I think that we both finally get it that we just don't work that way and bring too much disarray to one another's lives, and none of want that for ourselves or each other. Its kinda cathartic, actually. That chapter is done and there's no need to revisit it again. Thank God.

I told my therapist today how having Jackson around is starting to soften my anxiety around a future of sex or dating. I appreciate this, especially because he's a therapist himself. We're not going to do anything as far as I can see. I love so much how he's not pressuring me. I guess because there's no reason to. We can just be friends with wild sexual chemistry. I think it's in part because he's not in that space and we just enjoy one another, whether we're physical or not. I really missed his friendship and male energy. I guess we're just made for that. And I'm cool with it.

I feel myself going internal for a while, which is greatly needed. I need to just do me. No dating, no sex. No holding anyone else up. No being some man's accessory. I'm just going to be my own pixie, and only spread my fairy dust where it will be respected. Isn't that all any of us want anyway? Shine on.

Pulling Weeds and Growing Plants, With a Broken Pussy

When I first bought my house, I wasn't overly concerned with the outside. It didn't look like a crack house, so hey, I was satisfied. But as I moved in and started to make it a home, the outside began to matter more. In my 44 years, it was not until I got into this house that I even learned what lawn weeds actually were. Of course I'd heard about them, and I'd heard of people pulling weeds outside of their home, but like I said in an earlier post (here), that wasn't something I was raised doing. I didn't even know what exactly what weeds looked like, but as I started exploring ways to get healthier looking grass, I learned that I have to pull weeds. So somehow, I instinctively knew which little bastards to be pulling. Never even saw a picture of what to look for. My intention is to pull them all and cut this grass down, and then start working on fertilizing what I have and planting some grass seeds.

I'm out there like a fiend in my front yard, almost daily. I'm not sure why I get a bit of a dopamine hit whenever I pull up one of those little bastards by the root. My backyard has it's own issues, which I'm proudly working to correct, but that front yard is going to be it's own project. I get out there and I'm almost hypnotized as I look up and see and immediately pull weed after weed. Perhaps it is the spring weather and extra rain, but I'm seeing my grass get greener and healthier. I've always been a lover of nature, so I guess it only makes sense that I put so much time and energy into building a lawn that most people would be envious of.

Wildly enough, not only am I finally learning how to conquer this yard, I'm also seeing my green thumb finally develop for inside plants. I've killed more potted plants than I care to admit, which has always irritated me, especially with a last name like FLOWERS. I eventually decided to buy an aloe plant, with the hopes that the gel from the leaves would show this psoriasis my face some love. The plant seemed to kinda flourish at first, but then I figured it was growing too big for the pot it was in, and attempted to replant it in a bigger pot. And my dumb ass broke those roots something fierce! I was so angry at myself smh. I decided to allow my little plant a burial of it's own and just let it bow out gracefully, and I left it in its new Hello Kitty pot, to let it wilt in peace. Later, I was at Lowe's (course I was) and I saw a cute little plant. Didn't know much about, but it seemed healthy and relatively easy to care for, so I brought it home. It too was acting kinda funky, but I left it in a window and figured it would do what it does. If it died, it died. But I did at least buy plant food to put in the water. And then while out with my bestie, a woman was selling decorative succulents. I followed her instructions, and the poor thing seemed to be dragging. But I decided to add a bit more water than the woman had suggested. And dear God, it looks amazing now!

In all of these plants, I largely ignore them. They get sunlight, and whenever I remember to get around to watering them, I do. And it's wild to me to see that all I had to do was leave all of them alone, water them on occasion, and I mind my business, let them do the same, and now I have not one but THREE thriving plants that are comfortably living in my home, green and beautiful.

As I moved in and my more experienced homeowner loved ones visited, they'd often mention the many trees around my house. Again, I wasn't overly concerned with them, initially. But day after day of seeing them just made me see and appreciate them more. On either side of my driveway sits two smallish trees. I had no idea what kind of trees they were in the fall. They were naked as a newborn baby, and I feared them either falling, and creating a challenge for me, as I hadn't yet developed my green thumb or bought any serious yard tools. I was assured that they were healthy and not going anywhere, so I let them stay. 

Recently, as I was driving with my son, I mentioned to him the legend about how it is said that dogwood trees were initially thought to be massive and they were used to crucify Jesus. And that the trees felt so guilty, they shrunk up, to the point of no longer being usable in that way. And then, the other day, as I drove home, I saw those unmistakable white flowers on those two trees I was so concerned about. They're dogwood trees! I guess I'm just easily pleased, but I love knowing that I have two dogwood trees gracing my driveway. It just makes it that much sweeter.

I'd set up today to be my spring cleaning day, as I'm not working either job. And I'm not sure how successful I'll be, but I'm trying. I set out earlier to finally burn some twigs, vines, and roots I'd pulled up from the kudzu that was keeping my poor back yard hostage. I'm aware that the average person couldn't care less about the progress I've made in my yard, hell my kid lives here and he doesn't notice anything. But I do. I know the progress I've made and I'm so proud of it.

I'm so in love with how peaceful my life is right now. It's wild that my life is so beautifully boring that the only major concern is pulling up weeds and growing/fertilizing my grass. I've thoroughly enjoyed having my friend, Jackson, back. I didn't anticipate that he and I would ever be close again. When he'd originally pulled away, I absolutely refused to fight for his friendship. I just didn't have it in me. And even when I reached out about the FVIP course, I didn't anticipate that we'd start talking again. I didn't even expect him to to respond.

What sucks about my past with Jackson was how extremely sexual we'd always been. Don't get me wrong, he's my rider (and not like that lol). Even today, when I reached out looking for a good kids' program for my homegirl, he immediately gave me his gym's info. One of my favorite things about our friendship was that he'd match my energy on interest in mental health. We'd always send one another articles about whatever the other had been experiencing, or what we knew the other would find fascinating. Even now, we frequently text one another throughout out days. It's nice to have this back in my life.

I haven't seen him in over a year, but I'd like to. We've discussed meeting up at a coffeehouse one of these days, and I really look forward to it. I know that our meeting will have to be in public, even though I'd love him to see the house. I just don't want to put myself in a position to possibly allow anything to happen before I'm emotionally ready. Although, as the days go on, my overall interest in sex drops even more. I'd told Jackson in passing that dating has my head kinda messed up at the moment. Not surprisingly (for him), he asked what I'd meant, for clarification. When he's present, he's always been attentive about my well-being.

I explained that I've entered a space where I seriously affiliate sex and romance with emotional pain. That even when I meet someone who is gorgeous, I mean drop dead stunning, I tell myself that if I allow myself to get close to them, they'll hurt me. I even get tearful when I think about it. I'm not opposed to dating. I'm opposed to allowing men to use my mind, body, and spirit for a quick release, followed by them acting like (or showing me) I meant nothing to them.

I didn't see it at the time, but I think the professor is the one that finally cracked me. That even though I'd said to him that I did not feel that sex for us would be emotionally safe for me, he assured me that we'd have no problems, and even though we never did anything, the second my guard was down enough to sleep with him, he immediately dismissed me. And he may have been the catalyst, but he's far from the only one. 

As I'm still on my Insecure rewatch, I'm on season 4, and I'm loving how Issa is growing into her own and no longer chasing down Lawrence or Nathan. She's out there "I'm out here growing, and you gotta catch me, not vice versa!" Issa literally went from singing about he Broken Pussy early on, to making moves and creating her own event to uplift her community.

Jackson has been a total gentleman as I navigate this emotionally delicate space. He apologized for being a part of the men who have not always been as kind as they should have and for how I'm feeling. I thanked him for his apology, and reminded him that he did not know. I also took ownership for my past and admitted that there were several men who I'd allowed to spend way more time than they deserved. Jackson also stated that he's ready to redefine our relationship/friendship, however we need to. I'm grateful for that. I'll be honest, I still think about how we used to get down and I even occasionally make small dirty jokes, although I'm aware I'm making them from my home, from behind text messages. Sometimes I think that I'd love to feel him just one more time, but I'm not sure. I just know that at this exact moment, I'm not ready and he and I are both okay with that.

I don't trust myself right now. I've heard the statement "my man picker is broken" and I've never felt so seen. I don't know when I'll be on the other side of this or what that will look and feel like. Will I be happily sexual or will I grow cobwebs down there? I don't know. I'm familiar with the 4b movement, and while I completely get it (on literally every level), I just don't see myself committing to a life completely man-free.

I guess I have the faith of a mustard seed that things will be okay either way. All I have to do is leave things alone, water them and check in on occasion, and watch them bloom. I wonder if I can make that mustard seed grow?

"Fun"

I walked into my therapist's office today, and I knew it was going to be a doozey. Last night, while online, I saw a post that stuck out. A woman explained that men immediately size women up into one of 3 categories- wife, fun, or forgettable. That one stung, because I'd long felt that men met me and quickly categorized me as a fun time girl, even if I never indicated plans or desire to sleep with them. It's one thing to theorize this categorization, it's another thing to see it written out in black and white.

I recall a while back that my former trainer had suggested that I dye my brightly colored hair (here), because he felt that a subtler tone would attract a caliber of better men. And I refused, because I don't want a man who'd immediately dismiss me for my bright hair, without even talking to me. And a year later, I stick with that decision, I only removed my locs because I was ready to. But with some reflection, I now understand more of where my former trainer was coming from.

It's been infuriating to me when I've met men who grow irrationally upset and act as though I've somehow cheated them by not having sex with them. I've come across men who are genuinely angry and act as though I've somehow deceived them, all based on a whole idea about my personality that they developed in their mind. I've had discussions with women who are deemed "forgettable" and attempted to explain how infuriating it is for a man to meet you and reduce you to nothing more than a walking vagina, in spite of your intelligence, education, and accomplishments. And I've heard those women say how they'd love that kind of attention, while I abhor it.

But I guess I can understand why a woman who gets no male attention would be elated to get such adoration. They'd love to be out and meet men who chat them up and want nothing more than to bed them in the worst way possible. And yes, I'll admit that I've had some fun in those times. But I've definitely grown out of it. Sure, bedtime moments have their purpose, but what sucks the most about being the "fun time girl" is that no one seems to ask or care about what you think or want. When you are slapped with that title, the expectation is that you show up, bend over, and pretend to enjoy yourself, lest you make some poor fellow feel uncomfortable for not wanting his creepy attention. And don't you ever try to change your designated station in life by talking about actual dates, relationships, or God forbid marriage. Nope, don't you dare! Guys won't even entertain that conversation with you, or if they do, they'll dangle that carrot of a relationship, until you get hip to the game and eventually realize that it ain't happening and block him.

I grew tearful at how exhausted I get at the idea of men who will place me in the box that they created for me and then play all kinds of sick mind games to keep me there. My dear doc then asked about my childhood. I told her about the relationships with my siblings, and how I had gone from that to a mistake of an ex, followed by the mistake of the ex I got pregnant by.

Coincidentally, I discussed with my doc about my long-term love, Fred. And I admitted to her that I missed who I believed Fred to be, but I don't miss the real him. And then I'd thought about it, and I don't even miss who either of the other exes even pretended to be. Like they were so terrible as human beings, that even in this space of reflection, there is not even a small part of me that misses either or wants either back in my life Seventeen years with Fred, there's bound to be some good memories. Tons of them, actually. Until there weren't. But what kept me with the first ex was that he was my first "love" and my first lover. That was pretty much it. He was mean, shallow, manipulative, and a know-it-all. He had loyalty to no one but himself and I thank God that he got with that lice-infested cum dumpster and left me alone to flourish.

And the ex after that wasn't much better. So even though both of those bastards carried emotional weight, in their own way, neither of them left a positive mark at all. Nope, instead, they left an emotional mess that I've spent years trying to clean up.

But I'm glad that I took this to my therapist today. She helped me to realize how far I've come. That my boundaries are non-negotiable, because I've come to value my peace. That after kissing so many frogs that my love goggles are off and I'm finally able to utilize some serious discernment, by cutting off men as soon as I detect problematic behavior. And learning how to use this discernment is priceless.

Insecure, But Not Really

I'm really settling in to my new house and neighborhood. Unintentionally, the location of my home is in a pretty decent lil neighborhood. I just wanted something in my price range, that wasn't too far out of the city and I lucked up on this little gem. It also happens to be really close to one of my favorite coffeehouses, which is located in a funky hipster neighborhood. I'd already spent tons of time at my favorite coffeehouse, when I lived further out, but now that it's only like a 10 minute drive from my home, I'm able to stop in and vibe there that much more. And to add to the blessings, a friend of mine who I'd met who worked at that coffeehouse, ended up opening a breakfast spot two doors down from the there. I finally managed to make it in for a visit, and fell in love with the food and the great atmosphere, and I now stop in about 2-3 times a week.

Although I go there to mainly stretch my legs and get out of the house, when I have writing or work to do, I still go to my warm blanket known as the original coffeehouse. My buddy loves to give me a hard time whenever I tell him that I can't stay in his place and write at the same time. He swears that I can, but our great conversations about life and relationships is often too much of a distraction. I've also started to become acquainted with many of the regulars, making this place like a mini-Cheers for me. And to add to the awesomeness of the situation, we recently found out that he lives in my neighborhood, like walking distance from my house. He's also a single father of an awesome 10-year-old and I saw her in the cafe today and I told her that I plan to take her for walks with me, which she jumped at the opportunity to do.

It's really cool that as time goes on, I feel myself growing into this new era. My child is growing older and graduates high school in just over a year. I'm out in these streets, turning up, and looking forward to digging into this new and established version of Malika. I find myself walking through these Atlanta streets, attending events and loving my time with some of the most awesome and interesting people around. I can't help but to look around frequently and feel joyful to be able to live this amazingly fun life. And now that my son is entering young adulthood, it makes it that much more for me to look forward to.

I've slowed the yard work for just a second, but Pinterest has been a godsend by giving me ideas for my backyard, since I can't justify the $3k expense for the deck I wanted. I'm looking forward to buying an outside chair set and gazebo and lights, that'll create a perfect atmosphere for me to write outside. And as I get ready for my upcoming beach trip, my high school homegirl stopped in to braid my hair, something I haven't experienced since high school. They're mid-back length blonde braids, that we accidentally created the perfect beach waves on. I love that I'm building the aesthetic to match the era that I'm entering. 

While working from home, Netflix has been my preferred way to pass time between calls. I decided that it's been a few years and high time for a rewatch on the show, Insecure. It's almost embarrassing to acknowledge that Insecure has been a big part of my hotgirl developments. Before I moved to Los Angeles, I saw parts of myself in Issa and saw parts of her fuckery in relationships to my former love of my life, Fred.

Wild how I'm no longer that mindless, stumbling Malika. I'm good and grown Malika. I've landed nicely on my feet. I was even telling a girlfriend earlier today how often I'll hear someone talk about how much they hate their life and the fact is that I just don't relate to that. I go on adventures constantly, my friends are insanely fascinating and entertaining, I'm okay alone or with a group/person, I'm solid in my career, just bought a house, my spirit is amazing, and I'm never lonely. Seriously, it doesn't get much better than this.

And this rewatch of Insecure makes me that much more excited about moving into the era of life where I can adult without being tethered to the care of a young child. Even though he'll always be my baby, now that my son is growing into his own young adulthood, it allows me to focus that much more on delving into who and what Malika is, on her own.

Watching Issa and crew navigate complicated relationships and have the fun social interactions that they enjoy makes me that much more happy to be that woman. And while I no longer anticipate a long-term Los Angeles living situation, I do expect to spend a hell of a lot more time there, once I no longer have to worry about getting my child to school and overall supervision. My season is here and I'm so excited. A season without sex or superficial attachments to men who will ultimately disrupt my peace.

Just me, my margaritas, gym time, the sun and the beach. Turn up, bitches.