tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21478978709352474982024-03-14T20:59:22.469-04:00Being Crazy Shouldn't Be So HardI'm on a beautiful journey to self discovery, life and love.Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.comBlogger410125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-62835862848101314762024-03-14T20:49:00.003-04:002024-03-14T20:58:48.197-04:00Strange Places<p>I remember vividly what made me decide that hospice was what I want to do next. I was next to my beloved cousin Ali, who was just days from dying. A hospice CNA came in and sponge bathed him. I sat there, mere feet from him, in a chair, big heavy tears running down my face. The CNA kept a straight face and never even looked up to acknowledge me. And strangely enough, I was grateful to her for that moment. Because I had no idea how to function at the time when our close loved one is dying. In a moment like that, no matter what kind of education or experience you have, your brain seems to just seep out of your ears. But she was professional. She had a job to do, clean and check on him. While the family was all so emotionally spent, she came in and did what needed to be done. That was literally the moment I learned how important hospice really is.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMubx_eq6qEqLm91UYbhW5LaDUHR2Ci7-3vEcaXO_JSIg-pyFxHmL5CJq8kELtKH3cqKfS4aYIYBtyLXwHFA88MWB7SmhDp3JOmNzwNJaD4eyHioarxPKFCJWrRdukS4-1MRMjE1Qq-WPQ-oXRHxCH5Fo7hl1C98nc3j9H0iUdWnanzytNQRP_8uaiB-rk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="626" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMubx_eq6qEqLm91UYbhW5LaDUHR2Ci7-3vEcaXO_JSIg-pyFxHmL5CJq8kELtKH3cqKfS4aYIYBtyLXwHFA88MWB7SmhDp3JOmNzwNJaD4eyHioarxPKFCJWrRdukS4-1MRMjE1Qq-WPQ-oXRHxCH5Fo7hl1C98nc3j9H0iUdWnanzytNQRP_8uaiB-rk" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I took two months after Ali died to finish writing a book (at least I thought I was done), before I went back to work. I'd been so distracted from the last few years that I knew that after being fired and losing my cousin, I needed a break. I'd tried so long to finish the book previously, that this was the first time that I felt like I could really work on it with no distractions, and once it was done, I would get another job. When I was ready, I started applying. </p><p>After the job I'd gotten fired from, I wasn't really looking forward to going back into social work. I'd been bullied, lied to, lied on, gaslit and underpaid from many of my last few jobs. I was over it. But I decided to look at hospice jobs in the area. Coincidentally, my classmate from Clark was working as a hospice social worker and I remember vividly telling her that there was no way I could ever do something like that. She assured me it wasn't that bad. I had a hard time believing at the time that a job dealing with death and dying wouldn't emotionally drain me. But by the time I applied, I had a newfound appreciation for the position. And I landed at a place I'll call Chances Hospice.</p><p>Chances sat in the middle of nowhere in a small town, about 30 minutes from my old apartment. When first I interviewed, I told them that I'd just lost my cousin and I saw the importance of hospice up close and personal and I wanted to share that blessing with others going through a hard time. I was hired on the spot. Chances had an interesting cast of characters. It had the typical, small Southern town feel. The office wasn't too far from the local downtown area, which was only a few small shops and restaurants.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIWljdymYGFTTZOrL_kT24Fmy5byMrMOat20iv1NdkJwvi5LFGbOvMO7_ft-ZjwBuaNECZQU2sR7deFyFMee4eLcDfpL8OMfQnEm47QdsTfrusVHkwGSipjlg4lVVr6R1X27c7he9GUto48hU3IWV-rmsR5IMERpML3moqUn9eYBw3nKprf6-JCFIWi9HL" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="660" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIWljdymYGFTTZOrL_kT24Fmy5byMrMOat20iv1NdkJwvi5LFGbOvMO7_ft-ZjwBuaNECZQU2sR7deFyFMee4eLcDfpL8OMfQnEm47QdsTfrusVHkwGSipjlg4lVVr6R1X27c7he9GUto48hU3IWV-rmsR5IMERpML3moqUn9eYBw3nKprf6-JCFIWi9HL" width="320" /></a></div><br />I was told that my list of clients would be south of I-20. I loved so much how I drove through all kinds of farmland to visit my families. Miles and miles of grass, as far as the eye could see. The job definitely put some miles on my car, but I was more than happy to collect them. They were so grateful for me, unlike working in crisis, where people drop all kinds of shit in your lap and it's then your job to put out their fires. Hospice was a much slower pace, less drama, less paperwork and I loved that it was overall based much more in compassion. When my uncle, Ali's father, died a month after I was hired, my coworkers were so kind and gracious. Not "so when are you going to get over this?" like the job I was fired from after Ali died. No, they were genuinely loving and allowed me all the time I needed and didn't give me mess when I had to fly to Denver for his funeral. When I met with a client's family right after my uncle died, I had to excuse myself to go cry, and my coworker was more than understanding.<p></p><p>I was heartbroken to have to leave Chances. I had every intention of staying there until my son graduates high school in a few years. But at the same time I was applying for Chances, I also applied for my current job. And when that major organization reached out to me much later, I knew what I had to do. Chances was great, but the other position that I'd been offered was too much to pass up. When this organization calls you, you pull up.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9EqLWImtXHZ-XF_RRZp_drbVYjs8jenjP5GczoYYgPEOeW9UlfF-la0InMzSWgd5AYG6o0fzn5tPpXPW2Ln0tR-zHflDOha-QS75Fa23pmx7UvJjAfhGlTY6U8ANN9pICRY25GJUN6puQ7rhidpFzAwSXKYd5AnmKEnZMTooPsM5AYXh6bZqo168CP-oo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="800" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9EqLWImtXHZ-XF_RRZp_drbVYjs8jenjP5GczoYYgPEOeW9UlfF-la0InMzSWgd5AYG6o0fzn5tPpXPW2Ln0tR-zHflDOha-QS75Fa23pmx7UvJjAfhGlTY6U8ANN9pICRY25GJUN6puQ7rhidpFzAwSXKYd5AnmKEnZMTooPsM5AYXh6bZqo168CP-oo" width="320" /></a></div><br />I offered to stay on part-time, but my coworkers at the time asked me not to do that, for fear it would cut their pay if the higher ups realized that my job could possibly be a part-time position. I respect it. I told them that I'd gladly stay on as a volunteer, and even emailed the volunteer coordinator twice, telling her that I was interested, but I never heard back. I assumed that management was miffed at my early departure, which is why I was never called. But even with that, I never lost love for Chances.<p></p><p>I stopped in to see my therapist today. Dr. R happens to be located in my old neighborhood, and the inviting weather told me that it was time to stop by Chances again, after my visit with her. I didn't expect to talk about Fred with her, but she's great at pulling things out of me that I'm trying to avoid. Nevertheless, when I emerged from her office, I called my old coworker, Sophie and asked if she would be okay with me stopping in for a visit. </p><p>When I got off the exit, I was transferred back to the time when I started, just two short years ago. I remembered how peaceful I felt, driving through the small town to my office. I was also on the opposite side of town from all the traffic and I never had to encounter the hustle and bustle of rush hour, which I was also grateful for. I remembered those treatment team meetings, and how my coworker, Jennifer, and I would exchange funny memes as we updated one another on our clients.</p><p>Mostly, the old gang is still there. I was happy to learn that some of my old clients are still on the services and even still ask about me. I confessed to Sophie that driving through that small town into the office today helped me to recognize just how much Chances really saved me when I came in, 2 years ago, and I was far more broken than I'd realized at the time. Sophie encouraged me to reach out to the volunteer coordinator, but I told her how I'd done so previously, but never heard back. That's when she told me that the that the previous person in that position wasn't too good and that's why I never got a response. She told me that Chances desperately needed volunteers and encouraged me to drop my info. I anxiously filled out the application and emailed the woman before I left.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7Kx0pYT8IjTS3BvnLOE3po-MCPbw3nxkD84Q8LoBY4mTOYGZ2niWl2LPHTYXTryH-1-WzedNaD-6-RmCuEAg-lEBNZzUzadXPJ528nBFsWHY1t-MmzrgIBE4mI3ENYtUI0S_rhCydFpilN2pUvPHlzRb2Cu4RU8Zll9UA3zk19i5IETLFhy4J_Ipcscy3" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7Kx0pYT8IjTS3BvnLOE3po-MCPbw3nxkD84Q8LoBY4mTOYGZ2niWl2LPHTYXTryH-1-WzedNaD-6-RmCuEAg-lEBNZzUzadXPJ528nBFsWHY1t-MmzrgIBE4mI3ENYtUI0S_rhCydFpilN2pUvPHlzRb2Cu4RU8Zll9UA3zk19i5IETLFhy4J_Ipcscy3" width="240" /></a></div>I came into Chances, grieving from the recent loss of my cousin. I was just a hair from leaving social work. I'd just broken up with my extremely shitty boyfriend, and I was still really processing my feelings regarding moving back from Los Angeles. And although I didn't realize it at the time, your girl was going through it! And driving out, in the middle of nowhere, and getting to support families, and being welcomed in, 5 days a week, from 8-5 was all I needed. I saw cows and horses. Heard all kinds of wild stories. Working there was like being transformed to a time when everything was simpler. I wasn't catching crap about dress codes and office politics. I wasn't bullied. When my uncle died, I was given nothing but genuine support. Chances gave me the work family that I so desperately needed.<p></p><p>Coincidentally, when I left Chances today, I called my friend Lisa, who I'd met through my work there. I was her mother's social worker, and Lisa and I just took to one another. Lisa had been caring for her mother with dementia for the last 4 years. Lisa's mother died recently, which I'd learned when I Googled her one day. I immediately called Lisa to offer my condolences, but she was with family. I told her that I'd drop by later. While I was out at Chances and in Lisa's neighborhood, I stopped on in.</p><p>She told me about watching her mother slowly decline. I knew she was still processing a lot and I allowed her to talk as much as she needed to about her mother, knowing the loss was only a month ago. Lisa's house happens to be on a lake, and we sat outside, talking, enjoying the 80 degree day. I told Lisa how I'm hoping to buy a home, but I'd been thinking about getting something in the city, so that ultimately, I could pass it on to my son, if needed. </p><p>But being out there today, in the small town where Chances is located, made me rethink things. Maybe I really will buy a home in that tiny, country town, where I can be invisible and loved on at the same time. Chances did more for me than they will ever know. I am eternally grateful.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRu0mjxPa--O0hoehjKFfc_5guoN7HprWoSsIv2Y9e1aWNqnvqenT96y00obUyU6mCM3w9CZ98MId0WOf2SZpKVyRvCkSku72XZCHy4ZCG3MSIE4Tdzv5O6fPp85g94cQQ3PaRVkH1Q4P1O3u_xBYNmlKvkRKr9Q7GSwi5X1EvpzTl7VY9bJCHkFTCaBnX" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="428" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRu0mjxPa--O0hoehjKFfc_5guoN7HprWoSsIv2Y9e1aWNqnvqenT96y00obUyU6mCM3w9CZ98MId0WOf2SZpKVyRvCkSku72XZCHy4ZCG3MSIE4Tdzv5O6fPp85g94cQQ3PaRVkH1Q4P1O3u_xBYNmlKvkRKr9Q7GSwi5X1EvpzTl7VY9bJCHkFTCaBnX" width="168" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-83556199917226319402024-03-01T01:17:00.002-05:002024-03-01T20:11:41.243-05:00Balance<p>I haven't had vivid dreams in a while. Things are pretty tame in my life, so my dreams tend to match. But I had a pretty lively one last night. In it, my son's father and I were getting along quite well. So well, it genuinely surprised me. In the dream, I recall saying that I'd have to work out in therapy how to actually like my ex as a person, because I'd started detesting him so much, and he was so nice now, that I would miss my actual hatred for him. But then, the dream, he said the one thing that would set me off (which is par for the course with him) and I wailed on his ass right there. I woke up shortly after.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv8qfFVVaBJ9qEc3aAxIE5ODhaPmL-_Nk-M5iiOd9wOOWc553qrWC4RdibylN407benVSPfmxtbP1OVyFYT4juO8iL8EzQMrQ-T-2u_QvBjvWYPdfCeKm0H55JJmfgeHx9DP_bv8YB8wUl_NXXOAjo243pPsL_SFCTg4_oaalBOjmDi0mj-5n74OfBwDHV" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="620" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv8qfFVVaBJ9qEc3aAxIE5ODhaPmL-_Nk-M5iiOd9wOOWc553qrWC4RdibylN407benVSPfmxtbP1OVyFYT4juO8iL8EzQMrQ-T-2u_QvBjvWYPdfCeKm0H55JJmfgeHx9DP_bv8YB8wUl_NXXOAjo243pPsL_SFCTg4_oaalBOjmDi0mj-5n74OfBwDHV" width="320" /></a></div><br />Like any typical Thursday for the last few months, I woke up this morning and dreaded going to see my trainer. Even though I've seen the benefits and observed my clothes fitting loser, yeah, I still hate it. On a good note, I've gotten to be pretty close with my trainer, and he loves to hear the stories about my debaucherous life. Actually, my life is pretty tame now, compared to what it once was, but he's married, so any news of my ignorance, he's always happy to hear about. <p></p><p>As I stepped in, he said to me "this is going to be a tough workout, you're going to hate me." I low key feel like he takes joy in hearing me whine about not wanting to do whatever he tells me to do. He told me that today would be a cardio workout that focused on balance. He had one of those workout tools I'd seen, that's half ball, the other half is flat, known as a BOSU ball. I'd seen those things frequently, but never stopped to figure out what they were.</p><p>He explained to me that I'd be standing on the flat side, balancing, while doing squats, and holding onto a pole. I surprised us both by getting through the set pretty easy. Next up I did the squats on the BOSU ball, without holding on. Then I lifted weights, while balancing on the BOSU ball. Then he had me standing on one leg, all while I did squats.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxAKUPeZGkqqi7Zi7yPDELTC7jZjROXiaNizcXsZL5NDjOOEpf8nBVX3AgCf6y2UbeO2naDRNhkbIqwJXwLZMl4UE3z9evGNl6jskF_Ooh9Wc4CJ8OXobpPm3Yp3vKFl_klWkWhGpo3df0Hy3aG8AqB-DrWQQcbDw_zKiFvl6d0-AvKe0MHoYmNH4QL7y2" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxAKUPeZGkqqi7Zi7yPDELTC7jZjROXiaNizcXsZL5NDjOOEpf8nBVX3AgCf6y2UbeO2naDRNhkbIqwJXwLZMl4UE3z9evGNl6jskF_Ooh9Wc4CJ8OXobpPm3Yp3vKFl_klWkWhGpo3df0Hy3aG8AqB-DrWQQcbDw_zKiFvl6d0-AvKe0MHoYmNH4QL7y2" width="320" /></a></div><br />Once again, they were all pretty easy, and dare I say it, pretty fun. My trainer remarked on how wild it was that whenever he had me do lunges, I'd practically face plant, but here I was, doing one-legged squats like a pro. He marveled at how uncoordinated I often am, and while he gave me tasks today, he said that I'm literally only one of 2 people he's ever worked with that had this level of balance. It's probably attributed to the at-home workout routine that I've done on and off for years. I'd never really thought much about it, but at the age of 43, I'm glad to see that I'm doing so well. My trainer joking referred to my combo of terrible coordination with immaculate balance, as me being a "conundrum."<p></p><p>Not sure what made me ask my trainer, but out of no where I asked him what men would typically think about my hair, which is in nearly waist-length, multi-color locs, that I currently have curled up. My trainer said that most men would likely see my brightly colored hair and think I was a free spirit or easy. I wasn't surprised. The fact is, while I love my hair, I get sick of talking about it and getting complimented on it. I did it because I like bright colors, not because I wanted the attention. I told him that I wasn't shocked, because men comment on my hair the most. My trainer suggested that I darken my hair and appear on the Kendra G show, and internet show where people put themselves out there and look for love. I told him that I pass.</p><p>I have no desire to do such a thing anyway, but why the hell should I change my hair to be taken seriously by a man? I'm a grown ass woman, with job I enjoy, higher education, I'm intelligent and well-rounded, my bills are paid. My hair and my tattoos have nothing to do with who I am as a person, and I refuse to dim my light to attract someone who isn't intimidated by the awesomeness that is me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPWvDugbgoNOrHsoMnb4wqJDGWEsZCDyq0B9NFEj4erwOOSyZNp6gQWuRcMrgbEzHNBso5cU8F6Fe6kw1pt7czg6rmhBOSaRXzf6msNy8JM4CA4801Sd04Y2--Ol_mhLCwNOkHELw2fDp8puky9hZGaNQ2YnQY_r0Wzku34xoUznZoACgcqZCks0Lc1-9C" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="720" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPWvDugbgoNOrHsoMnb4wqJDGWEsZCDyq0B9NFEj4erwOOSyZNp6gQWuRcMrgbEzHNBso5cU8F6Fe6kw1pt7czg6rmhBOSaRXzf6msNy8JM4CA4801Sd04Y2--Ol_mhLCwNOkHELw2fDp8puky9hZGaNQ2YnQY_r0Wzku34xoUznZoACgcqZCks0Lc1-9C" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBXBRYRjw6_zrSc3kgH0lSnDpOGgxkWnXVsOIDhebSvHApMCiXRF7AQO9eOSdq28GMn7Ud8kPmBTLDcWTuQcEeadlQXbWTRbH29BuzGc3dyN13oKPF56hSpubchXFkFUQ5Vry9tgJR2fdan6EMxRP01hCwrfAlI1v3iAVjOa-wJ5S7PpPv_Qd0vM2uVlPh" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="736" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBXBRYRjw6_zrSc3kgH0lSnDpOGgxkWnXVsOIDhebSvHApMCiXRF7AQO9eOSdq28GMn7Ud8kPmBTLDcWTuQcEeadlQXbWTRbH29BuzGc3dyN13oKPF56hSpubchXFkFUQ5Vry9tgJR2fdan6EMxRP01hCwrfAlI1v3iAVjOa-wJ5S7PpPv_Qd0vM2uVlPh" width="135" /></a></div><p></p><p>After gym time, I rushed off to my therapist. God, I love that woman! She's older, and a little old-fashioned, but she's thoughtful. It took her a few weeks to really learn me, but she has, and I thoroughly enjoy meeting with her. She's managed to identify that my biggest stressors are my dating life and my family.</p><p>As I walked in today, I immediately unloaded about the strange dream that I had. It was weird, mostly because I haven't talked to that knuckle-dragging idiot in forever, and he's thankfully another woman's problem now (or based on his extensive history, <i>several</i> women's problem). There's no reason for him to suddenly appear in my dreams. In fact, I've been meeting with my therapist for nearly a year now, and only one of our bi-weekly sessions talked deeply about the abuse I suffered at his hands. He's not at the forefront of my mind. So why am I having dreams about him now?</p><p>My therapist explained that the dream could have been based on something like a tv in the background, but I know that's not it, because I sleep with the tv on almost nightly. She said it could have been something like a recent interaction with him, but again, that ain't it, I don't talk to him and I don't really even want to. Then she said that it could have been reflection of something else going on in my life. I could almost feel the lightbulb go off in my head.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipzc6so0iF3WgvTiJfyR8TIQ2AjVm0n9PwEM33I5izvC0tVzsI14RSPWhLyaVVg5LGajOtAUlMcCNtuX8mULfMaODQ5T44gBdQjMKmBsSbJOIRlvxQHRSv7yKkqcR-Ra3mUG6Eh23GqNtNGrzq1AjxpfdiNljaDUN3HKTjMmjzkX9wcBBEB8hbQF064GtA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="612" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipzc6so0iF3WgvTiJfyR8TIQ2AjVm0n9PwEM33I5izvC0tVzsI14RSPWhLyaVVg5LGajOtAUlMcCNtuX8mULfMaODQ5T44gBdQjMKmBsSbJOIRlvxQHRSv7yKkqcR-Ra3mUG6Eh23GqNtNGrzq1AjxpfdiNljaDUN3HKTjMmjzkX9wcBBEB8hbQF064GtA" width="243" /></a></div><br />I immediately thought about a new guy I'd been casually seeing. The funny thing is that the guy is such a minor character in my life, that I hadn't even brought him up to my therapist. Like he's a non-factor at this stage in the game. I enjoy his friendship, and I love talking to him, but I'm not really putting my eggs in any baskets. I'm focused on my plans for when my little walks across the stage to get his diploma in 2 years. If this dude is still there, great! He's already shared his willingness to move with me, if things progress to that point. But if not, whatevs.<p></p><p>My therapist immediately asked me about him. I told her the good, and I shared with her my pink flags, which are leaning towards red. I told her that I pretty much addressed my concerns with him. He grew a smidge defensive initially, but in the end, he got it, and said he'll work on things. But again, I'm not pressed. I have my plans. Alone or booed up, I'm making moves regardless. I told him that if he works on the things I pointed out, whether he's alone or with someone, he'll be a happier version of himself, which he agreed on.</p><p>What sucks about working in mental health is that you often find yourself acting as a therapist in your personal life, even if you don't intend to. I recall some years ago that I tried to gently tell a dude that I appreciated the energy he put into trying to get to know me, but he needed some serious therapy to work through some trauma. Like I could see dude's trauma long before he uttered a word about it to me. And that clown then attempted to accuse me of weaponizing my job to judge him. Bitch, I can't help what my job is, but I'm trying to put you on game. Fix yo' shit! So yeah, we don't talk no mo'. Anyway...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj18s_Nw9OQ5pWzmodzGFgYLfB2612wcgx660w9Bs2IrDfbdnCLny8l5SqMrrchp9NXKeO3_hLK0LT4qZargdm4P-CZkiGrFR86YgOqL_Wcogft0_VSw9-4QvU2KHRLM20kTtcvVuGS4ezwCzKUPkpixpQG7kNz7jOBOA81onIkORLFfRdMd4VmsdAI36kL" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3665" data-original-width="4950" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj18s_Nw9OQ5pWzmodzGFgYLfB2612wcgx660w9Bs2IrDfbdnCLny8l5SqMrrchp9NXKeO3_hLK0LT4qZargdm4P-CZkiGrFR86YgOqL_Wcogft0_VSw9-4QvU2KHRLM20kTtcvVuGS4ezwCzKUPkpixpQG7kNz7jOBOA81onIkORLFfRdMd4VmsdAI36kL" width="320" /></a></div><br />I told Dr. C that with the new minor character, I hipped him to what his pink/red flags were, and that he agreed to work on them. I assured her that I'm not pressed regardless, to the point that I hadn't even mentioned him until this thing with the dream came up. He works in a different field, and he makes less than me, while still making a livable wage.<p></p><p>I mentioned to Dr. C that when I met him, I initially told him that my job title was that of a boring paper-pusher, and I only told him later on what I actually do. I explained to her that people assume too many things when I tell them off the rip what I do, and while I'm so fascinated by my field, I don't want to spend all of my down time assessing people and doing therapy. </p><p>My dear doc then suggested that I'm dumbing myself down when I'm not always up front about what my job title or profession is. She suggest that I essentially say "I'm a professional woman who is solid in her career" as a way to meet new people and deflect when asked about my career. But I can only imagine how suspect and off putting that would be to many people. It just makes it feel like you have something to hide. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1_PfnyYjzyvo2d8LvctEwzIYzVbCR9B5OAERD12mOOqcpdwPWF5a5x6OdOH4QF5vH9hV1wUVsgkbX-4RaCuxMXshpxKT-rnrhTAxDbXcq0I-THqtgMYC_SffNVNnQmHe21fGi3C9d5iFdcXRUVlhUk-9UGCJQBULizf6p5fU58EJI15VLzth49aWq48EZ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1_PfnyYjzyvo2d8LvctEwzIYzVbCR9B5OAERD12mOOqcpdwPWF5a5x6OdOH4QF5vH9hV1wUVsgkbX-4RaCuxMXshpxKT-rnrhTAxDbXcq0I-THqtgMYC_SffNVNnQmHe21fGi3C9d5iFdcXRUVlhUk-9UGCJQBULizf6p5fU58EJI15VLzth49aWq48EZ" width="320" /></a></div><br />Like when I told dude that I'm a paper pusher, he asked no questions. But when I tell people what I do, they immediately hit me with "I could never do that" (I agree, it's not for the weak) and then they assume that I'll be a mother figure/nurse/therapist to them. <p></p><p>I went on to say how because of having bright hair, tats, colorful nails, and a nose ring, men tend to assume the worst about me. Like my trainer said, they assume that I'm a good-time girl. I really can't count how many times I've met a guy and he had assumptions about me, based on his preconceived notions, and suddenly he acts like I've wronged him by not being whatever he expects me to be. Like dude, I never lied to you. You just saw bright hair and assumed that I was uneducated and unmotivated, and now you're tripping to learn that I have standards because I have a higher degree than you, and I make just as much, or possibly more money than you.</p><p>I became a bit incensed during the visit today. I shared how free-spirited men tend to be flakes, addicts, or all out mentally ill. And polished men can't seem to take me seriously. Like there's this fine line that I'm expected to walk in life. Be bright and friendly and outgoing, but don't be too confident and sure of yourself. People don't like it when you don't hate yourself. But then go into your profession, and you should only wear these boring, muted colors, and don't appear too friendly and sociable, lest you make your colleagues feel uncomfortable and you appear unprofessional and unqualified, in spite of having over a decade of experience, in addition to a professional license.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUWdpuMlmYAgfihAN0EvvloPftOe2_6JvB6c5YLYZ4MSM_AGCB_b4rJ1xhSDY-DFt2P8AGPdAjY2L-_uN7LO4KFR5g0mbMeVqOBGp_lr-2HjAdbwTkPGP1F9C_2sQg02M3ozdi8_aebvnimPPaitenCptT6AorNgUC9vpuGs7mZYHBE6aXuXZ5l0biRLA8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="612" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUWdpuMlmYAgfihAN0EvvloPftOe2_6JvB6c5YLYZ4MSM_AGCB_b4rJ1xhSDY-DFt2P8AGPdAjY2L-_uN7LO4KFR5g0mbMeVqOBGp_lr-2HjAdbwTkPGP1F9C_2sQg02M3ozdi8_aebvnimPPaitenCptT6AorNgUC9vpuGs7mZYHBE6aXuXZ5l0biRLA8" width="320" /></a></div><br />I ended up buying a BOSU ball this evening. I look forward to using it. Seeing how much I impressed my trainer made me want to stick with the workouts we did today. I already have weights that I enjoy lifting between calls at home. At this rate, it feels only right to further work on my physical wellness, while I'm on the clock. Been balancing this long, might as well keep the party going, right?<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjza8o6qbqihk8-hnVOwZjuoCmDDGhPweVNifpas3YspqXpAajci_mDj5ji3YAboG-G4RJ2UiIprqVi22k21zFgoc_9vtP1VLcR8cLPZ7EXIcKpi1uo04cgdCAHDeXbdI5TfX9oP4xWZXtxw5UwpurhJkTEDgFzmOMgpqTMTizCyxe7QX6V_Xx5EBWbdNe2" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="373" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjza8o6qbqihk8-hnVOwZjuoCmDDGhPweVNifpas3YspqXpAajci_mDj5ji3YAboG-G4RJ2UiIprqVi22k21zFgoc_9vtP1VLcR8cLPZ7EXIcKpi1uo04cgdCAHDeXbdI5TfX9oP4xWZXtxw5UwpurhJkTEDgFzmOMgpqTMTizCyxe7QX6V_Xx5EBWbdNe2" width="146" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-61976995626456866162024-01-01T03:33:00.000-05:002024-01-01T03:33:03.120-05:00Day by Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZh90tOPI6NiBF0kNYUVR17MzsEo814srpswp9s08rx5ZnVJWy5UTRee5vBblkRvbtsmZFAfJjz6YpOLtGTKf4radLg4Befp-yje-r4ZbRZIMbsAJT2HiFwWgdToIyBdyUnrUUStj5-jD6w4-v6EqFFv9l5biDxfy53CL1BTeWYM1Tfv94z1mLrfPBBz67" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZh90tOPI6NiBF0kNYUVR17MzsEo814srpswp9s08rx5ZnVJWy5UTRee5vBblkRvbtsmZFAfJjz6YpOLtGTKf4radLg4Befp-yje-r4ZbRZIMbsAJT2HiFwWgdToIyBdyUnrUUStj5-jD6w4-v6EqFFv9l5biDxfy53CL1BTeWYM1Tfv94z1mLrfPBBz67" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>Initially, I anticipated cleaning and saging my home as the ball dropped. In reality, I was knocked out in my bed, from a 6pm "cat nap" that rolled on into midnight, when I was suddenly awakened by celebratory gunfire. Not the best symbolic way to spend New Year's Eve, but hey, I'll take it. I was knocked out because I stayed up late dying my hair last night and I made a trip to the gym where I made the elliptical my bitch. I recently decided to get a personal trainer for a while. I didn't think I'd see much benefit initially, but he's really pushed me. His goal is to knock out this stubborn type-2 diabetes, which is a goal I can get behind. I say quite often how turning 40 is wild because it seems like people just start dropping like flies, and my goal is to not be on that list. At least not dropping dead from something I have moderate control over, so diet and exercise it is.</p><p>On of my artist friends hit me up this evening and as we were catching up, he asked me to be his date for an event in February. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm always looking for a reason to get dressed up, so I'm already looking forward to this. I have a cocktail dress planned already, but at the rate I'm getting it in the gym and turning down the sweets, I'll either have to get the dress altered, or buy a new dress, but that's a pretty awesome problem to have.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFQQpwvi4gRmLXsi1NzwaJZNAOzh_DZUEUmzkrygDBCTXa7KuWC8xZsQqL0r1P5NR0PBWd36l8__pMt1MSoON6KqTwTanvmq--e5T_Eaw1yT7U4NcxE0nMhjvFTDacqaCQR-du9Vzv6azFl3kjJvAA7y5_0K9qy6RUm8a9FMUiDcMUklFfmUcQrK6u4vLm" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFQQpwvi4gRmLXsi1NzwaJZNAOzh_DZUEUmzkrygDBCTXa7KuWC8xZsQqL0r1P5NR0PBWd36l8__pMt1MSoON6KqTwTanvmq--e5T_Eaw1yT7U4NcxE0nMhjvFTDacqaCQR-du9Vzv6azFl3kjJvAA7y5_0K9qy6RUm8a9FMUiDcMUklFfmUcQrK6u4vLm" width="240" /></a></div>And in a few weeks, Dexter is going to be performing a jazz concert with some friends at a local museum, so I'm also looking forward to dressing up and meeting up with him there. Things are still casual with Dex, but we still catch up on occasion. <p></p><p>I'm considering myself solidly single, but I'm really good with that. Things with Love kind of fell flat, but that's okay. Essentially, the reason that we initially broke up is still very much there. It made me glad that I broke up with him originally and I see that I would have been a miserable wreck had I stayed with him. I continue to say and mean that I'd rather be alone and able to live life on my own terms than to be with someone and have to shrink myself to make them comfortable.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsQhHQjq2csInIvHBDvmKWY0bOBZIhAuLDoyoYJnh6YWrb_Tuv6L6oPVKVbhxcrqHgWUf8fm-DDpoQaEyrNaZbl63RnkBKpCo85mdYEWCd3zxhXd-r2d5lAFD6Yv0MKTTxUlrMng43Y2E9ZFIOH7IKrhmmjeLTUf-Koqy8PckwcjQNfpAS5fbLqwotPmi_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsQhHQjq2csInIvHBDvmKWY0bOBZIhAuLDoyoYJnh6YWrb_Tuv6L6oPVKVbhxcrqHgWUf8fm-DDpoQaEyrNaZbl63RnkBKpCo85mdYEWCd3zxhXd-r2d5lAFD6Yv0MKTTxUlrMng43Y2E9ZFIOH7IKrhmmjeLTUf-Koqy8PckwcjQNfpAS5fbLqwotPmi_" width="320" /></a></div>I was hanging out with a new homeboy earlier. He was telling me about his divorce and his new girlfriend. Dude hooked me up with food (which I gladly accepted), and then casually mentioned how he would have to text his new gf to tell her that I stopped in. I was perplexed and didn't understand the necessity to tell her why I was there. Not that I felt that my presence should have been a secret, we had nothing to hide.<p></p><p>But the idea of having to track every encounter with the opposite sex didn't seem right to me. I mean, if we'd been sexual partners in the past, or had there been some sneaking suspicion about something between us, I'd understand. But my response was almost visceral to him feeling that he needed to check in. I ran by him that perhaps he felt the need to check in with his new boo after being married for almost half of his life. I asked if he'd operated like that in his past relationship, and he admitted that he did. I asked if he hoped to continue that precedence in his new relationship, and he shared that he did not.</p><p>Whenever I hear things like that, I am reminded of why I have such a fear of commitment. I don't want to track my movements with anyone. I don't want to ask permission to meet with friends. I don't want someone criticizing and critiquing me. I don't want to be a caged bird.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxIom3B2d8sFz42fL-2qFL6_GaKrkt5I0aoofS2igvVC2gECbNzDgd6uiJiqiH5p8v7-B19-Hrqlro0Dt4caoxCIJ2Sr9qjcgpqWjlluoNLBbsfkZgtTzr151t3UDNd1xleGTUUFJp9zDQCD3L5ZE0rtqtgvPRYjadu-Aix3qjp5m5qgb1ae1pQajwkcEQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1690" data-original-width="2253" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxIom3B2d8sFz42fL-2qFL6_GaKrkt5I0aoofS2igvVC2gECbNzDgd6uiJiqiH5p8v7-B19-Hrqlro0Dt4caoxCIJ2Sr9qjcgpqWjlluoNLBbsfkZgtTzr151t3UDNd1xleGTUUFJp9zDQCD3L5ZE0rtqtgvPRYjadu-Aix3qjp5m5qgb1ae1pQajwkcEQ" width="320" /></a></div>It took so many years of learning to love myself on my own terms, that I don't want to feel like I need someone else to make me feel valid and valuable, especially not a man.<p></p><p>I guess I should look at some New Year's resolutions, but the fact is that I hate them. They're so cliched. But I try to really focus on the things I want and need for myself. I like the idea of actual goals. Occasionally, I mentally go back to the night I sat in my friend's record shop and realized that I'm back and how energized I felt that night.</p><p>I spoke with my cousin today, who is Ali's brother. My cousin lost both his only sibling and his father within a few months of one another. I explained to him how I'm just now feeling like I can breathe again. The last few years, I didn't realize how much I was barely holding myself together. Between having to move back from Cali, being fired from jobs, my money being fucked up, my ex trying to kidnap my kid, the shitty boyfriend, and losing my favorite cousin and uncle, back to back, I was emotionally depleted. My dear cousin admitted that he too is finally coming back.</p><p>So yeah, I don't really have any resolutions, but I do have goals and things I hope to center more in my life. I want to do better about staying in touch with new and old friends. Before I go to sleep tonight, I want to compile a list of people I hope to hang out with soon. I want to continue to focus on exercising and lowering my sugar/starch intake. I want to focus more on my creativity. I want to continue to increase awareness of mindfulness to others and finish writing both books (an admitted goal from last year that has poured over into this year), and I want to get my savings up. I want to continue to center my inner peace.</p><p>I think that in my journey, I want my inner peace to continue to be my center. My goal. My end. And I'm proud at how much I easily walk away from anything that takes away from that. I don't have a million resolutions. I'm not on a manhunt to find a husband, or even a boyfriend. I'm just relearning who I am and really learning to like this person. This woman. She's dope. I'm proud of that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQIiEy06ccVHLvgS5-KTlquSgH7YBPLqev4Aegr2gCGvfgVniEbUcl28foMMt66PKXgjGpJtwhF8OB-5TdSuQn5Fa6qQhjhivcH0xG8d4Z_nRcY0H2DIskn_d0YXOcWoT-yq5w6owbdM5t6J1O1mfHAaFVS7akjgxbqCce2wpUufTAPlfB2BKCWhslogzD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="940" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQIiEy06ccVHLvgS5-KTlquSgH7YBPLqev4Aegr2gCGvfgVniEbUcl28foMMt66PKXgjGpJtwhF8OB-5TdSuQn5Fa6qQhjhivcH0xG8d4Z_nRcY0H2DIskn_d0YXOcWoT-yq5w6owbdM5t6J1O1mfHAaFVS7akjgxbqCce2wpUufTAPlfB2BKCWhslogzD" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-77321032788365935712023-12-04T22:26:00.007-05:002023-12-06T22:54:35.692-05:00Competing with the Non-Compitetive<p>I attribute it to my traumatic upbringing with my sisters, but I have come to see that for some reason, some women just hate my damned guts. And it's not even necessarily anything that I've done or said, for some reason, some women just can't stand me. It doesn't matter that I've been nothing but polite, it doesn't matter if I stay out of their way, their target is often aimed at me. And the fact is that it's ridiculous and exhausting.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYtWNbTKLg2lYZkQuqwF5fyAIHP-Ksh6dSGXn1w9hzZnaBpgjfXEIpK2sNZ9ySbrIM3T5_zn-nq_bdlC6e-qj3x6KQukk7tcix0yUYxe5ASUiGp-1h7B-0zUPuXuQStjLwuMFhpZEjwA6gYy9xQaxpq4VafTVPTO9TUkeUn30kr7g2hBWYJ8R1LwFRhX5F/s612/Target.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="611" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYtWNbTKLg2lYZkQuqwF5fyAIHP-Ksh6dSGXn1w9hzZnaBpgjfXEIpK2sNZ9ySbrIM3T5_zn-nq_bdlC6e-qj3x6KQukk7tcix0yUYxe5ASUiGp-1h7B-0zUPuXuQStjLwuMFhpZEjwA6gYy9xQaxpq4VafTVPTO9TUkeUn30kr7g2hBWYJ8R1LwFRhX5F/s320/Target.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><p>I've said recently how I started a retail job. Nothing too heavy, just a few days a week to contribute to savings and to be a bit more social, outside of home. I've been a cashier for so long, that this is really old hat. The only issue seems to be that one of the managers there (coincidentally, the same woman who hired me) has really seemed to have a strong disliking for me. And perhaps if this job were my main source of income, I'd care a bit more. But it isn't and I don't.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2stachPhMbH2lOukHHdVva31PBw4_B8Es4foL8TGFk3RUEbCGOKWWFVpV3TiQZsc31OWz4vx15qKVcQsdM0TH2oagUgWLRLQXEO7cTiCeypZGoToZCtSuS8ta82bcay9g82wSN_4_bbd2W53Kpd_pp2fxzSZLauz_F-xm4Op1N7P_TsqSNNHtJWjNVSdr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="500" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2stachPhMbH2lOukHHdVva31PBw4_B8Es4foL8TGFk3RUEbCGOKWWFVpV3TiQZsc31OWz4vx15qKVcQsdM0TH2oagUgWLRLQXEO7cTiCeypZGoToZCtSuS8ta82bcay9g82wSN_4_bbd2W53Kpd_pp2fxzSZLauz_F-xm4Op1N7P_TsqSNNHtJWjNVSdr" width="320" /></a></div>It started slowly. I happened to stop by the dressing room to chat with a coworker when I was off the clock and Goofy Chick (hereby referred to as GC) stopped by the dressing room to tell me that I was not to be talking to coworkers off the clock, as they work. Er? I let it slide. A different time, she got snotty with me over a headset between coworkers, over something that could have easily been addressed in person. Another day, I got paid from my main job, and mentee (the woman who got me the job) asked that I buy her a $40 pair of earrings. I'd just gotten paid, so I said sure (with the expectation that she pay me back). Another time, I was talking to a customer about my Coach bag collection, and I laughed about having 5 of them (I miscounted, I actually have 8 lol). That particular conversation was more so about how I called my mother bougie for owning the bags when I was a child, but I ended up purchasing them anyway.<p></p><p>Another moment was when I'd brought my laptop into work 2 days in a row, because I was having IT issues and needed to take it into work. I opted to bring it in and have it locked away, so that I did not have to risk it being stolen from my car and me then being tasked with the painstaking ordeal of replacing a government laptop. At the end of my shift, I went to the GC and asked her to unlock my laptop from the office. She then "jokingly" gave me grief about stashing my laptop under her desk (I had no damned clue that it was her desk, I merely stashed the thing where I was told), and walked in to find that she'd placed it elsewhere in the locked room. Honestly, I feel that as a retail worker, she felt some kind of way about seeing evidence of me having a life outside of our job, in addition to me having evidence of doing well financially outside of the gig.</p><p>I've mentioned to my colleagues that I feel that GC has a bit of a problem with me. They've all assured me that she's cool and couldn't possibly feel some type of way about me, as there's no need. And then today happened. I made my schedule so that I put down my free days 3 days a week, to not interfere with my other free time. I walked in today, ready for work, and was met by surprised looks- apparently, I wasn't on the schedule. As a matter of fact, I'm only on the schedule for 1 of my 3 open days. Fine by me, right? Heck, I'll take my ass to the gym, and post up in a coffeehouse somewhere. I pondered out loud why my schedule was what it was, especially during the holidays. I mean, I even was asked to come in during the past weekend (which I did), so clearly, there are a glut of hours to be worked.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpkJv9aU9H1hl8QJ1tlWfUmIdc_S8qxqHSFVNsCTI4jUhfLezWHCavNJ2OT6vdFDmX-Khiozbh6qMYhZfzHLFeUy8Fh02FCUj-8m813wkBVY576WiSAzi5M95Yr3UovBOkZ76OWhoOJWK0NyQ4GNdTCFynWWe7BoAYmkw4MrjiSK0U9GTeSuU_n7WmEUe1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="626" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpkJv9aU9H1hl8QJ1tlWfUmIdc_S8qxqHSFVNsCTI4jUhfLezWHCavNJ2OT6vdFDmX-Khiozbh6qMYhZfzHLFeUy8Fh02FCUj-8m813wkBVY576WiSAzi5M95Yr3UovBOkZ76OWhoOJWK0NyQ4GNdTCFynWWe7BoAYmkw4MrjiSK0U9GTeSuU_n7WmEUe1" width="320" /></a></div>But then someone happened to say in passing "I don't know, GC makes the schedule." I immediately knew what happened. I made it known to the managers that I am more than happy to take back my time and go home. I was again encouraged to stay. I even said to the store manager that I saw that I'm schedule off later in the week, and he pretty much told me to bring my ass on in to work my regular shift anyway. So GC tried to cut my coins, only to have her supervisor tell me to work anyway.<p></p><p>I worked my shift, as usual. No changes. But deep down, I was- I dunno, confused? GC was there, and she said nothing about the schedule change. She didn't bring it up, nor did I. I've been told (before today) that I should talk to her. But the fact is that I don't care about her enough to talk. This job is not my bread and butter (that's such an amazing feeling), nor do I really care about her thoughts or feelings about me to go hard for this.</p><p>I've had a previous job where a supervisor (also a woman) was just as petty. She'd make it a point to publicly go against me in meetings and say really slick shit out the side of her neck, once again, while in meetings. But during one-on-ones, she was a lamb. That was quite possibly one of the most toxic jobs I've ever had.</p><p>What always confused me about that job was once again, I didn't see myself competing with that supervisor. But I could tell from her catty and passive aggressive actions that she constantly found it necessary to keep me in my place. I didn't get it. I still don't. The funny thing is that I have continued to flourish in my career since leaving that dump. I couldn't be paid enough to go back there. I even continued to have nightmares about that job for 2 years after I left.</p><p>While with Dr. D last week, I'd found myself talking about how when I used to to church with Love, I noticed that the women there were a bit standoffish as well. Love isn't exactly a serial dater, so having the cute, middle-aged single Black man (and a well-respected member of his church, a minister, no less) suddenly pop up with me on his arm, couldn't have been too desired. Good thing they didn't talk to me, because had they known that his new girlfriend wasn't even a Christian, they probably would have burned him at the stake. But even then, I didn't consider myself in competition with those women. Love and I really enjoyed one another. And our relationship had nothing to do with any of those women who overtly ignored me whenever we bumped into one another in the ladies' room.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOhF0SkMz4T94ZSnSlmia7O_QbihTH72QFt1eqTHLYtdkfVlniVbRO0zZsd7nLKiiJCG8PaKoM85ijbFjV1Af_38jnJEdegz9KeWpMdytDTcbnXGuZg8BBlibCf9bFdPoj8UEFVoCRDK9DB7JU4L8QXr1qPfzug1Xi-PeeYoE54QVGvd9kYWQXzVKKMl9N" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1650" data-original-width="2535" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOhF0SkMz4T94ZSnSlmia7O_QbihTH72QFt1eqTHLYtdkfVlniVbRO0zZsd7nLKiiJCG8PaKoM85ijbFjV1Af_38jnJEdegz9KeWpMdytDTcbnXGuZg8BBlibCf9bFdPoj8UEFVoCRDK9DB7JU4L8QXr1qPfzug1Xi-PeeYoE54QVGvd9kYWQXzVKKMl9N" width="320" /></a></div>I'm just over this. I'm just in here to get outside of the home, be social, and collect my coins towards buying a home. That's it. I feel like the pied piper, just collecting bitter, angry, jealous ass women (and a few dudes), who'd rather hate me, than to take stock and fix the issues in their own lives. <p></p><p>Look y'all, I'm not your competition. Never have, never was. But I gotta warn you. That by choosing not to compete, I'm already the VIP. Because I'm going to be joyful and love myself no matter what you do or say. I already won the match, and I haven't even warmed up yet.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWzJOUs8h32dfBmWEzvwyFyhFxgIgr8T0hu2uCEzQg8DSug0VbHAyc8dSu1Fra-CN41sTR8VfgNqGPj-UGzGbneRJ8IRNW627kNkMJ1TQIaIPv43EeQ-i7MufQ6hA-P7ac1y_q-eC-9I41H2V_YK9bt0VEGhCBW5xVt4DbxvWtcDy6NrepTXFPgccvbhF/s602/Boxer2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="602" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWzJOUs8h32dfBmWEzvwyFyhFxgIgr8T0hu2uCEzQg8DSug0VbHAyc8dSu1Fra-CN41sTR8VfgNqGPj-UGzGbneRJ8IRNW627kNkMJ1TQIaIPv43EeQ-i7MufQ6hA-P7ac1y_q-eC-9I41H2V_YK9bt0VEGhCBW5xVt4DbxvWtcDy6NrepTXFPgccvbhF/s320/Boxer2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-27857147399300971842023-12-01T01:21:00.001-05:002024-01-01T01:24:55.710-05:00Welcome Back to Therapy!<p>I've been meeting with my therapist just shy of a year now. I've really come to love and respect my time with her. I know from experience that finding a therapist who you enjoy and trust is pretty difficult and I feel very fortunate to have her in my life, even though it was my trauma that brought us together in the first place.</p><p>Dr. D had been away for the last month finishing up some trainings. In the meantime, I'd really looked forward to her return. There were updates with my family. More stuff that led me to further shut down toward them, while they simultaneously seemed to want more of my presence. UGH.</p><p>And then, there was Love.</p><p>I hadn't really talked a lot about Love to Dr. D before now. There was really no need. He was in the far reaches of my mind, nothing more than an occasional blip from my past. The men I'd talked to Dr. D about were my toxic ex and my vow to never cross paths with another man like him, and one other guy (another admitted mistake). As Dr. D and I got acquainted, I told her that I'd reconnected with Love and that he was truthfully the man in my life I'd come closest to marrying. My dear doc had a look of sheer shock on her face. "You?! Married?!" she said in her Nigerian accent. It's actually a bit funny to me that seems to be a common response when I speak of Love and my past intentions to say "I do" to him.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRyt2PfpucrbgTQ4EcEUF1kz6hljWQEXScVc8n12suXspG5XADFrtro7SoQCe58TsnV2QNErM7SC4UQE9SKqFhVQ9fRqI62mnNOoLZy7uGE8sBdLODxsgHIfvXajucy40ktPv9Ytxt26kdUE-mxtqtaUYoz0eCoKdkcOcYwrwkl_A5ZKv4XbPC6epblzAJ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1801" data-original-width="3200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRyt2PfpucrbgTQ4EcEUF1kz6hljWQEXScVc8n12suXspG5XADFrtro7SoQCe58TsnV2QNErM7SC4UQE9SKqFhVQ9fRqI62mnNOoLZy7uGE8sBdLODxsgHIfvXajucy40ktPv9Ytxt26kdUE-mxtqtaUYoz0eCoKdkcOcYwrwkl_A5ZKv4XbPC6epblzAJ" width="320" /></a></div><br />I have no one but myself to blame for that, however. I'll admit that I've been far louder in my cries for freedom than I have about my intentions to permanently boo up with any guy. I shared with Dr. D how I first met Love at a print shop as I printed out a paper for one of my first classes while at Clark. I looked at him and thought he was attractive, but with that baby face, I assumed he was a youngster, in his early 20s. As I stepped outside to leave, he chased me down and asked me to lunch. My first response was to ask his age. He surprised me be actually being 2 years older than me.<p></p><p>Quite honestly, at the time, I was a bit of an emotional mess. I'd just gone through some really heavy stuff in my personal life, on top of grieving my relationship with my son's father. I was coincidentally practically fighting men off with a stick. I was even considering cutting my hair, because I hated all of the attention it drew from men, but my best friend convinced me not to do so. I opted instead to wear my hair up in buns to avoid the leers of the male gaze. Anyway, I wasn't really trying to get with anyone in particular. Or at all.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVb2UpYIt7RIVikeGudnTw03Wis-AsTuHBMwMSzkq658n5xa85V5RbQfD8H9sMccuq151W9foX_HqOtPTjs7o2qJzC9D06CBcHy9fsCjx9SFEvvT4xD_JtbIF5O0aofCqZWe_I-KxxevybWCEJG605RJRW6aqyz-__xOdI2y3Lgn3jtwtUT0U_ffAztTGe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2495" data-original-width="1877" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVb2UpYIt7RIVikeGudnTw03Wis-AsTuHBMwMSzkq658n5xa85V5RbQfD8H9sMccuq151W9foX_HqOtPTjs7o2qJzC9D06CBcHy9fsCjx9SFEvvT4xD_JtbIF5O0aofCqZWe_I-KxxevybWCEJG605RJRW6aqyz-__xOdI2y3Lgn3jtwtUT0U_ffAztTGe" width="181" /></a></div>Truthfully, had Love asked me for dinner or drinks, I would have rejected him instantly. But I loved that he asked me for lunch. Drinks or dinner hints at possible sexual opportunities. I took him asking me to lunch to mean that he really wanted to see me out of the bedroom, which was the only male attention I wanted or needed at the moment. He later told me that as he saw the title page of the paper that I was printing off, he was impressed, and felt that I must be pretty intelligent. And the rest, as they say, is history.<p></p><p>I also then shared with Dr. D what it was that made me finally break things off with Love. Essentially, I felt crowded, while simultaneously not feeling supported. All of the flowers, cards, and candy in the world means nothing if you feel like your partner isn't hearing, seeing, and accepting you as you are. I talked about how things fell apart (at least for me) during the wedding planning and some things that were important to me were being completely ignored, I also told her the things where Love said he'd felt things began to fall apart.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw1JpfsCfYlS9vAM5DyfcGI6Hb-shyphenhyphenx8bjmWIS_XC_fNcdvhqgwU466Rxg70a2MQP0kxsZx5cIi8Qmyoiio1cXh69jQ9CWuJVNio7MPKRbr0y3YLUoZqXIdMhLiJNb90JnIbV5xvBqN6bXUlLqpwGgMTxro6mL16OGYiQ7hDix_VxjpINjqC2_h7JzW8j/s1000/Ignored.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw1JpfsCfYlS9vAM5DyfcGI6Hb-shyphenhyphenx8bjmWIS_XC_fNcdvhqgwU466Rxg70a2MQP0kxsZx5cIi8Qmyoiio1cXh69jQ9CWuJVNio7MPKRbr0y3YLUoZqXIdMhLiJNb90JnIbV5xvBqN6bXUlLqpwGgMTxro6mL16OGYiQ7hDix_VxjpINjqC2_h7JzW8j/s320/Ignored.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I went on to tell her how during our last couple meetings, he and I have cleared the air on a lot and how I'd love nothing more than to try "us" over again, as he and I have both brought more life experience, patience, and understanding into the fold. Strangely enough, while we'd planned a nice wedding before, if I got married these days, I'd opt for maybe 50-75 people, and keep it fun and simple. Nothing too fancy and not really Instagram worthy either. Doc chuckled hearing me discuss the possibility of a wedding/marriage of my own.</p><p>I admitted that while Love is clearly decompressing from his last relationship, I just have to be patient. I had a bit of "come to Jesus" moment yesterday while meditating, and I essentially recognized that I need to continue to focus on myself and that if I truly love Love, than I need to back up and allow him to process and grieve on his own accord, much as he did the same for me when we met. And if we get together, great. And if not? That's okay too.</p><p>Dr. D seemed rather pleased that there is actually a non-toxic man out there who I'm capable of loving and willing to spend the rest of my life (or at least a significant portion) with. I missed her terribly. As a mental health professional myself, I understand fully how sometimes you have to get those trainings in, lest your license/accreditation be rendered useless. But it felt nice to share this part of my life with her. I'll tackle the family stuff later. But for now? This lil corner in Dr. D's office is for me to talk about Love. Or at least my thoughts of being open to it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2UknTJvE-KJrNAN3IW1oNEX7syNvfaY2imYCKOzBW2OBAEPfaxxSr3rGaDlRR8tE3qJuhDNeSXXU-D4UeT3cJTcWuptc7TgopkErsTUu2-clPBZGSiJZoN2mLfa18lKMSt9G3TdiWkyKcBO6k-NUoLr6Ux7pmn1YC9OxA9hfm-DyXxFuicF1AHIA5HGCq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2UknTJvE-KJrNAN3IW1oNEX7syNvfaY2imYCKOzBW2OBAEPfaxxSr3rGaDlRR8tE3qJuhDNeSXXU-D4UeT3cJTcWuptc7TgopkErsTUu2-clPBZGSiJZoN2mLfa18lKMSt9G3TdiWkyKcBO6k-NUoLr6Ux7pmn1YC9OxA9hfm-DyXxFuicF1AHIA5HGCq" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-78399473775168579092023-11-13T00:33:00.003-05:002023-11-13T00:33:21.463-05:00Back Outside<p>Once again, I have a post that I feel belongs solely in this space- a post about my growth and personal changes. Anyway, I believe that I'd mentioned before that I took on a local retail job to build up some extra money. I never questioned if that was good move for me. I've worked retail for most of my adult life. Even after I first graduated with my master's degree and I had my first jobs in my field, I stayed right there in Petsmart. It was comfortable. It was familiar. It was my back up. I knew retail. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4bA2z7263XiK7oJ6UHD5wrVAtIr4UmI854kpVj5s4yN4gVHYdd32_6v-wX3MZNUZTUokDwhorBl0tONzB-OcYB1jftAlkxOcqAkEniFWRsSu4uTJPqvW4j-e3CZxoE58ChBAFMAlq6Xncidq6oVTF8gwZfeW4ae04H2qp7WcmS48buL2fKtjg7TWukUG/s612/worker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4bA2z7263XiK7oJ6UHD5wrVAtIr4UmI854kpVj5s4yN4gVHYdd32_6v-wX3MZNUZTUokDwhorBl0tONzB-OcYB1jftAlkxOcqAkEniFWRsSu4uTJPqvW4j-e3CZxoE58ChBAFMAlq6Xncidq6oVTF8gwZfeW4ae04H2qp7WcmS48buL2fKtjg7TWukUG/s320/worker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>When I decided that I was ready to step back into retail after a year of working from home at my current full-time job, and a few years only working in my career field, I decided to ask my mentee to hook me up at the place where she worked. I'm too grown and experienced to be running the streets and walking in and out of stores, looking for something barely above minimum wage. Thankfully, her place called me back almost immediately.</p><p>Outside of the extra coinage, I was thankful to have something to dress up for once again. Working from home makes you suddenly become a person who lives solely in sweats, because there is no one nearby to look presentable for. It just seems pointless to get dressed to the nines to go sit in a coffeehouse and then go for a Target run. Hell, even showers become optional. But after nearly a month at my new side job, as much as I liked the new people I worked with, I started to face a strange new truth- I have absolutely zero in common with my retail coworkers.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtT-C-zfCCRcN7AdKALSCa1jbMqGQblc4bIt_Sw3uhkVqK5NHCSICX2gVWSVIoz0oKJjjtdtdFXFFZZLD6NOEPN_yAyDJb3tyiyXxplo3PmbLPKoijh9OMJVqWRNlDGL2D1rXDQDCa1RWt1bbRES7J4epzOAKdAGU_pF2q3HdRt4rDPziw8mRr5lxxBw7w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="795" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtT-C-zfCCRcN7AdKALSCa1jbMqGQblc4bIt_Sw3uhkVqK5NHCSICX2gVWSVIoz0oKJjjtdtdFXFFZZLD6NOEPN_yAyDJb3tyiyXxplo3PmbLPKoijh9OMJVqWRNlDGL2D1rXDQDCa1RWt1bbRES7J4epzOAKdAGU_pF2q3HdRt4rDPziw8mRr5lxxBw7w" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>When I'm at my full-time job, I have meaningful conversations with nearly everyone I encounter. We talk about our vacation plans (I was stoked to spend my birthday in Alaska this year- no regrets, it was stunning!), we talk about finances, we mostly have similar educational backgrounds and career experience, many coworkers at my full-time job are even close in age. And while I have very little in common with the retail acquaintances I now share, I struggle to find out where I fit in this new puzzle.</p><p>I'm not quite sure how or why it hit me so hard. But all of a sudden, I noticed our disconnect. I live in a rather expensive side of town, nearby the job, and I'm thankful to pay my rent every month, without much hiccup. Most of my coworkers live further out, where the COL is a bit cheaper. I find myself talking to the customers, who mostly live close by, about interest rates and real estate. Or we may talk about our careers, while I discuss my full-time job.</p><p>I don't have quite the same rapport with my coworkers at the retail spot, save for the managers who I occasionally chat it up with. I have a therapist, whom I pay out of pocket, and I openly discuss how much I love her. None of my coworkers at the retail spot say much when I mention her. Not that I expect them to. I feel like most of them have no idea what it's like to have a therapist on deck, just for overall emotional support. So how could they comment on something they really can't relate to?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEfORgDtTpMbHnyaGMCyd55SAveUUrh0QXcCVHLSImvdD50GMjjtJz106KNkLUqjdDiC8KXUgnLXu8jtPyjfip5bDEaIlaOshfEnF0Ef5jhIGPr9lb7tf7no1AcCNOvZ5cXb7E2LFr2ZAYweHC6Z7gd726OBKDxfrS3JrhnS1ua3NxgkZGPoHV_ECVps_/s4950/Puzzle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3300" data-original-width="4950" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEfORgDtTpMbHnyaGMCyd55SAveUUrh0QXcCVHLSImvdD50GMjjtJz106KNkLUqjdDiC8KXUgnLXu8jtPyjfip5bDEaIlaOshfEnF0Ef5jhIGPr9lb7tf7no1AcCNOvZ5cXb7E2LFr2ZAYweHC6Z7gd726OBKDxfrS3JrhnS1ua3NxgkZGPoHV_ECVps_/s320/Puzzle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>And for some strange reason, this epiphany hit me kind of hard. I'd spent so much of my adult life working low-paying retail jobs, at what point did I no longer feel connected to my fellow retail workers? I should probably feel proud to have moved into another space in my life. But it felt wrong for me to acknowledge that I no longer felt like a retail worker. I felt like I was almost slumming it by working there. On every level in my body, I feel like I am no better than any worker in that store. But we seem to not connect. I just don't feel like I fit in that space anymore and I'm wracked with guilt over it.</p><p>A coworker at my full-time job is talking about flying me out to see the Northern Lights with her in the early spring. Another coworker there just got back from Jamaica and she's heading to Cancun for her upcoming birthday. I'm still very much working on having not just one book, but two books under my belt. These are things that I am beyond proud of, as I should be.</p><p>I'm not sure how much longer I'll be working retail. The plain fact is that I'm exhausted. I look like I'm in my 20's, but my back and knees are telling a completely different story. I've only been here for a month, and I'm already thinking that I'm too old for this shit and the fact is that I don't need this shit, especially as we go into the holidays and the lines are getting heavier. Maybe I'm getting too old for this and I need to accept that? How can I accept that without feeling elitist? The old me would have rightfully felt quite insulted had someone confessed these feelings to me back then. But much like many other things in life, the experience is quite different once it is something you personally face.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh946abdUYQXeI5Rxk2f-b6QaEkhK8XOKDZPbm2rCdNXrabomwnn5qsgvduLs1qsL-LeRlIL2tRWsNPbArcusOC45qkyqXvu79QaDJJHeKlWizfiFEyiLtg_hc_FYkYNSEs5a0GIDSltHX6UDb-WCyR505DO58Ygov5Pa0eVwnHiJl38-8tsFw7BmS2P4C_/s360/Mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh946abdUYQXeI5Rxk2f-b6QaEkhK8XOKDZPbm2rCdNXrabomwnn5qsgvduLs1qsL-LeRlIL2tRWsNPbArcusOC45qkyqXvu79QaDJJHeKlWizfiFEyiLtg_hc_FYkYNSEs5a0GIDSltHX6UDb-WCyR505DO58Ygov5Pa0eVwnHiJl38-8tsFw7BmS2P4C_/s320/Mirror.jpg" width="292" /></a></div><p>On another note, on Thursday, while my son was getting his hair cut, I'd rushed off, and walked into a nearby department store, in an attempt to get some extra steps on my pedometer. While mindlessly walking around, I ran into a guy who runs a local record shop. We embraced briefly, when he invited me to a podcast that was being recorded at his shop that evening. I gladly accepted.</p><p>I walked into the event that night, stressed from the day's chores, but glad to get away. Outside of the friend who invited me, I didn't know anyone. I settled into a couch, next to a man I'd never met. We sat silently, before I finally reached over and gave him my hand. "I'm Malika," I started. He gave his name and I commented on the Temple sweatshirt he was wearing. Within minutes, we were familiar chums. Moments later, another man I'd known, a former writer for Creative Loafing, walked in. I excitedly hugged him, and quickly introduced him and the man I'd just met, secretly hoping they'd make a love connection.</p><p>Someone also introduced the photographer of the event. He was a man who's name I'd known, as one of his recent picture books featured a few pics of my best friend. I introduced myself to him and bought one of his books for my friend. I appreciated his dry wit, and I offered him to meet me for coffee one day. He gladly accepted.</p><p>Eventually, the show started. I didn't recognize any of their names or faces of the male hosts or the female guests, but I quickly saw that that they would be great assets to the project I'm currently working on. The topic was essentially generational music and passing the torch in the Atlanta scene. Both women talked about attending Tambor parties, and while Tambor isn't quite my scene, I'd consider it adjacent to me, as quite a few of my friends frequent them and the last time I went to one, I saw some of my people there. One woman also happened to be the wife of a well-known tattoo artist I'd once met in passing. For me to be in a room with mostly strangers, I somehow felt like I was among friends and family.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCN_BdoMgv1TLLOWURcrThKPOTSLT621HdzeQ1yttwL1yggIVWumw-q8bIxZRxoWL-tDhAMFGZ72EX_QRCZdydnAyRExn6MMmlqddKeE_4Fr-NZZ8KRMihKLWPjL62TGOcu8QUIWMarD4gDeSYup7NqhdcGvWSjo4UNdMVqHsjrN-JeJm8b_FS_eNEYOzb/s612/Black%20Friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="612" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCN_BdoMgv1TLLOWURcrThKPOTSLT621HdzeQ1yttwL1yggIVWumw-q8bIxZRxoWL-tDhAMFGZ72EX_QRCZdydnAyRExn6MMmlqddKeE_4Fr-NZZ8KRMihKLWPjL62TGOcu8QUIWMarD4gDeSYup7NqhdcGvWSjo4UNdMVqHsjrN-JeJm8b_FS_eNEYOzb/s320/Black%20Friends.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Once recording stopped, I quickly walked up to both women and introduced myself, and announced that I am a social worker. Both women hugged on me and presented me with business cards. Afterwards, the music started. House music. Everyone in the room danced and laughed. The energy was electric. And I had a sudden thought. </p><p>"I'm home."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzzjSmDhR85vsunFxNN2OPOezBumzSnpmzKsTT7jZP-8SQkgW-hrUL9Vcr-qhKziDb7LmTZFomlOUozVDyjOfgjGj0H4q6cPbSEZwDNwAGpQxBzzwgjWvTvt4Eb15EWsibOgl0ZMebPS3RIyNGztNIMQy3554CKgWiCdmPG10G7Ab5IXaPlmZFxKlSsk6j" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="640" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzzjSmDhR85vsunFxNN2OPOezBumzSnpmzKsTT7jZP-8SQkgW-hrUL9Vcr-qhKziDb7LmTZFomlOUozVDyjOfgjGj0H4q6cPbSEZwDNwAGpQxBzzwgjWvTvt4Eb15EWsibOgl0ZMebPS3RIyNGztNIMQy3554CKgWiCdmPG10G7Ab5IXaPlmZFxKlSsk6j" width="320" /></a></div><p>I don't think I'd realized how stressful the last few years had been on me. I didn't realized that I'd kind of cocooned and went internal for a while. Minimal casual dating/sex. Not really looking to make new friends. Just sticking to what I knew and what was familiar. I focused on my job, my son, my finances, and my sanity. I needed to feel secure again. And I got it. I feel secure in myself. My soul, my spirit, my mind, my body. My energy. </p><p></p><p>Still okay with Dexter, even tho I realized things with Love ain't happening. I'm okay just booing up with Dex for cuffing season. I'm enjoying my life on my terms. Just like I'd told Dex before, I have made the mistake of trying to fit people into the mold I want them to be. I'm meeting them where they are. And I like that Dex is where I am. Just living life on life's terms. No expectations and no attempts to move things from where they currently fit naturally.</p><p>I'm back outside. And this feels good.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0EsU6Ez_zmScD47j12X1PwlU1AzU5In1JZuBZycYs2RZbQbmnxFOwUl-XnVbm9dNyI8ohYLCPqzLkKyayktZXZ59YFNBFNhBouk_2ITWG21LMm03KErO0RAuBR-kSAnRT-UhQpED5IAEL4yH7gqxbCScFBCiVS8VaKTdw0dLs6tnOiJWpon9zXegWuWSN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0EsU6Ez_zmScD47j12X1PwlU1AzU5In1JZuBZycYs2RZbQbmnxFOwUl-XnVbm9dNyI8ohYLCPqzLkKyayktZXZ59YFNBFNhBouk_2ITWG21LMm03KErO0RAuBR-kSAnRT-UhQpED5IAEL4yH7gqxbCScFBCiVS8VaKTdw0dLs6tnOiJWpon9zXegWuWSN" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-71297566150812563542023-11-06T00:27:00.002-05:002023-11-06T08:32:38.054-05:00The Circle of Life/Love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhp6C5Ad0zxN3KzII1x-_f99h5pw8H2BKbRrGrZQ83dC5Ot39qqLGOA_j_DoIXty8PkE8v709qHrSLToCrUF076BpjS7JESNpBlJJMP7yUj2gJ4ZpMk0kZuBuGvC7pMcafO2BFHNOMVRkI55UdZNxvX24f2M0toZC_pvxsdCahVa6fQuWh_SNLosgS7my7W" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2318" data-original-width="3000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhp6C5Ad0zxN3KzII1x-_f99h5pw8H2BKbRrGrZQ83dC5Ot39qqLGOA_j_DoIXty8PkE8v709qHrSLToCrUF076BpjS7JESNpBlJJMP7yUj2gJ4ZpMk0kZuBuGvC7pMcafO2BFHNOMVRkI55UdZNxvX24f2M0toZC_pvxsdCahVa6fQuWh_SNLosgS7my7W" width="311" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>I know I'd sworn off my beautiful little corner, but sometimes things happen that just make you miss that version of home. I consider the last 24 hours to be that. I'd started a new blog elsewhere, and although it does still exist, I'll admit that I missed this space and I didn't write there with the same fervor that I did here. </p><p>Anyway, as the seasons change, it has shamefully been a while since I'd felt the touch of a man. I'm so exhausted by the bullshit games that I've really opted just to do my own thing. There was a guy I'd been eyeballing for some months at my old apartment, and we had a brief fling, but I got sick of his inconsistency and he eventually faded away, which I'm actually thankful for. Cuffing season is here, and I have nothing to show for it. I mean, sure, I have a job that I'm proud of, and my bills are paid. But the fact is that my itch hasn't been scratched for a while. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj406Px-y3O7gQS3JcT66oaQvHZJwLsiVmUcI4qq1ydOOMQlVuw2fnyLjSFtUbE2XtyIfq6Uros7iUzJ1eehE9GWs-iCT1eDvF_0RTRuOp1FBvdPwEITZV0GvI4Xb4aYbONivsxEJqdoaZSIk9RCKGfB1ZqBmhCBaQN1XI6wLIytR66y8vDEBNM5hzYiqkO/s200/lip%20biting.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj406Px-y3O7gQS3JcT66oaQvHZJwLsiVmUcI4qq1ydOOMQlVuw2fnyLjSFtUbE2XtyIfq6Uros7iUzJ1eehE9GWs-iCT1eDvF_0RTRuOp1FBvdPwEITZV0GvI4Xb4aYbONivsxEJqdoaZSIk9RCKGfB1ZqBmhCBaQN1XI6wLIytR66y8vDEBNM5hzYiqkO/s1600/lip%20biting.gif" width="200" /></a></div><p>I'd started a part-time job as part of my desire to save money for some goals that I have. One of the men there happens to be rather nice looking, and he and I happen to be from the same neighborhood, and have some mutual friends. I'd been slowly working on a way to see if dude was interested in just keeping me warm during this holiday months, but when I called him yesterday, he didn't pick up. Ugh. Okay, hint taken, playboy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNS6-Bz3awiGBu0BG5rrOQMe177wQGbqLnOuueaLjSK8M3lDgY_5bp_pXu4Cw3Hi8ciS4cCKyCZ89fo9leW45uhw2YvD71McStWrySL6gUkJj3kWs03fwolN-GmIEC7ODuhE8RzW-ZJoPLFNVZO6NCTfdm8IqPbGK-klx-9OLpKGmDOYHJ9xxtZ-w1kSbQ/s500/I%20quit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNS6-Bz3awiGBu0BG5rrOQMe177wQGbqLnOuueaLjSK8M3lDgY_5bp_pXu4Cw3Hi8ciS4cCKyCZ89fo9leW45uhw2YvD71McStWrySL6gUkJj3kWs03fwolN-GmIEC7ODuhE8RzW-ZJoPLFNVZO6NCTfdm8IqPbGK-klx-9OLpKGmDOYHJ9xxtZ-w1kSbQ/s320/I%20quit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I opened up my Instagram page, and the first post on my feed happened to be a musician whom I'd had an interesting spin with a few years ago. I'll call him Dexter. I'd sworn him off when after our last time, I just felt- eh. Funny enough, when I first met him, I was beyond head over heels. I know I wrote about him some years ago, but I don't feel like going back through to find the post. 🙄</p><p>We met at a party. He was sitting at a chair nearby. We started talking casually. By the end of the night, I practically wanted to inhale him. I wanted to know more. I learned that he'd had a girlfriend, and was heartbroken, but I scaled back, even though I combed his social media for all I could find. </p><p>The following year, I saw Dexter again. I was determined not to let him get away (he and the girlfriend were no longer a thing). Part of my growth was acknowledging that I put expectations on him back then that were my own, and I was heartbroken when he fell short of who I wanted and expected him to be. I felt that he'd broken my heart, but the fact is that I broke my own heart. Yeah, he did some mess. But so did I. It was nothing but love tho.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDvr4rBK7EX9xljrYT3h5yXsi-mKjk7_u4LVu6PBUiYDObwvxxjsaVWe25ZYF0FxowutzCJX3ZOwEPRRoLxMzA5kb1OWov6uUqC-VqarJD54-jxGeBzfg5XpQpOLHVG-cS8xTUcOON5KHJ7J-x-KfTllM-a0rPNm9UjEK8pvptNyBEKjrTtOhz730J2Qzu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDvr4rBK7EX9xljrYT3h5yXsi-mKjk7_u4LVu6PBUiYDObwvxxjsaVWe25ZYF0FxowutzCJX3ZOwEPRRoLxMzA5kb1OWov6uUqC-VqarJD54-jxGeBzfg5XpQpOLHVG-cS8xTUcOON5KHJ7J-x-KfTllM-a0rPNm9UjEK8pvptNyBEKjrTtOhz730J2Qzu" width="240" /></a></div><p>Back to today- the guy at work was a work in progress. Plus I was really tired of the song and dance of trying to figure out when and how to approach him about "outside activities." I'd been attempting to play it cool and warm him up to the idea slowly, but I was sick of trying to figure things out. And Dexter's Instagram post was right on time. He's a well-traveled musician. I saw the post that featured some of his music, and I thought back on the night that I sat in his home while he play piano. I decided that since the new potential was playing hide and seek, I might as well hit up the old familiar.</p><p></p><p>I inboxed him, and asked if he was in Atlanta. I'd seen that many of his last few posts were international. He confirmed that he was, in fact, in Atlanta, and asked what the move was. I wanted to play coy, but the fact is that he and I have warmed one another's backsides enough that I knew that beating around the bush wasn't necessary. I told Dex point blank that it had been a minute, and I needed the touch of a man. I loved his response of "I'm happy to take care of you." Woo chile.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB38lOYLcCJpJMhJyIMaijYMsHeQejqXIY5nHLUMH67GSXBjvha5F39rNZR7jY2sfB0jvTVZuG8qTq51ohyphenhyphengzw64Ao7vwbTCTcg3ZQABGwBBrovJIeDr8B8mkKVCr0FTc48dMp6-HU61OABC4DBd-f_y34u6_g_JEmM1a6oGCHNPssJN27BHWIPdHv0kEg/s640/Strong%20Black%20Man.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB38lOYLcCJpJMhJyIMaijYMsHeQejqXIY5nHLUMH67GSXBjvha5F39rNZR7jY2sfB0jvTVZuG8qTq51ohyphenhyphengzw64Ao7vwbTCTcg3ZQABGwBBrovJIeDr8B8mkKVCr0FTc48dMp6-HU61OABC4DBd-f_y34u6_g_JEmM1a6oGCHNPssJN27BHWIPdHv0kEg/s320/Strong%20Black%20Man.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I pulled up late night at the venue where he was. He gave the most amazing hug. He said his goodbyes to his people and we were off. As we walked toward the car, he held his hand out for me to hold. After I royally fucked our previous friendship up by expecting more than he wanted to give, I was wary to take his hand, and I told him so. I said to him "if I hold your hand, I'm going to want you to be my pretend boyfriend," fully expecting him to put his hand in back in his pocket. He shook his hand as an indicator that he wanted full-on hand-holding. I obliged.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjpv_WU2_Eulo5DEcN_G3DBrWrVShMjnXzaHZjH_VefmK88P2E-Kc4AJMd1-stik93Cm_H4uuWddjFw20GqAWTXF1-3qqC6FqpT7s-R5ztRlIzjrNCNTqTmba5X5oHuDyd54_6nlz6cO5Wuny6va_N1gvhxyV8e-ZAYv5a-j2548RGY02vCpdXxgRIgPF/s2100/Holding%20Hands.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjpv_WU2_Eulo5DEcN_G3DBrWrVShMjnXzaHZjH_VefmK88P2E-Kc4AJMd1-stik93Cm_H4uuWddjFw20GqAWTXF1-3qqC6FqpT7s-R5ztRlIzjrNCNTqTmba5X5oHuDyd54_6nlz6cO5Wuny6va_N1gvhxyV8e-ZAYv5a-j2548RGY02vCpdXxgRIgPF/s320/Holding%20Hands.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p>While we strolled to the car, I explained to him that I recognize that during our last trip together, I now know that he didn't want a girlfriend- at least he didn't want that from me. And I respect it, and I knew to tamper my expectations this time around. His response? "We'll talk."</p><p>While riding, he discussed his time floating around Europe and Africa, and he talked about some musical projects he's been involved in. We both talked about growth. I talked about my love of my job and my financial frustrations. We talked about the past girlfriend he had, and we talked about the mutual acquaintance we met through. We talked about that sticky time in our lives, and how we were both admittedly, a bit of a mess back then. I told him that I recognize that he didn't want me like that back then, and I should have respected it. He looked over at me and said "honestly, I didn't know what I wanted, and I'm still figuring out now what I want." I found his honesty and reflection refreshing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCK1y3QPa5YQkvJkormneMP8o099IkV2MFow52YiOB0cOfnojiREd5HGdFi_6y0wSydHkR20Y-ftJtjKHYQm_4lwrLwtOrYBUJn7V8mM46o_gWNCINk-_I3ODL4V6B4utou5oeQ0Yzilf486v7E8agFr0STSZmIMImyO3utOp0-Da1EsBusSJqOPhyphenhyphenFkY/s800/Life%20wheel.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="800" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCK1y3QPa5YQkvJkormneMP8o099IkV2MFow52YiOB0cOfnojiREd5HGdFi_6y0wSydHkR20Y-ftJtjKHYQm_4lwrLwtOrYBUJn7V8mM46o_gWNCINk-_I3ODL4V6B4utou5oeQ0Yzilf486v7E8agFr0STSZmIMImyO3utOp0-Da1EsBusSJqOPhyphenhyphenFkY/s320/Life%20wheel.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>He confessed that he's made a decision to be more intentional about choices that he makes and that he now realizes that not all of his decisions were wise the last time around. He's scaled back on drinking and smoking, and that he no longer engages in druggie culture that a lot of musicians get into. He'd shaved his head and scaled down his beard. He even looked lighter in the face. He looked more clear and at peace. I was happy for him.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRurJF1jl7x3FlNJO2_DqqNpzWiNKRxkDWNfyoHLAM1WesrhcU5nOU7Zf5merQEqDPQWATFhL5Hh9j_12rgEH-OKAPE0n-fCWjGUQhiFuRo7tSXV0YkZI--kEZlV7-DRA-6cwvaUMTXbi9ClX9ks8NaHu3PPkWP1eh5_jnrr-WgG9JOa0sEn6iMj8neNp1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRurJF1jl7x3FlNJO2_DqqNpzWiNKRxkDWNfyoHLAM1WesrhcU5nOU7Zf5merQEqDPQWATFhL5Hh9j_12rgEH-OKAPE0n-fCWjGUQhiFuRo7tSXV0YkZI--kEZlV7-DRA-6cwvaUMTXbi9ClX9ks8NaHu3PPkWP1eh5_jnrr-WgG9JOa0sEn6iMj8neNp1" width="320" /></a></div><br />We pulled up to the spot and walked in together. As we stripped down to our night clothes, we didn't get straight into the nitty gritty. He held me. He kissed on me. He caressed me. I again warned him that his behavior was getting him dangerously close to becoming my next pretend boyfriend, but he carried on, not skipping a beat. At some point, I caressed his head and told him that while sex is a dime a dozen, I really missed what he had in that moment-intimacy. The familiarity. Being with someone who sees you and hears you, and recognizes your growth. He looked at me and softly nodded in acknowledgement.<p></p><p>Somewhere during this time, I decided "yeah, he's my pretend boyfriend." And while I recognize how juvenile this was, he humored me, which made me appreciate him that much more. As we parted ways, I then explained that part of being my pretend boyfriend meant that I expected regular dates and meetups. And that I'd occasionally call him to vent when I was having a difficult moment. He giggled and nodded in agreement. And when we parted, he kissed me. Not some half assed hug, he kissed me on the lips. It was everything. It was intimate.</p><p>As if that wasn't beautiful enough, I recently noticed that a post that was on my social media had been liked by a moniker of my ex-boyfriend, Love. Coincidentally, I'd been looking for Love a lot online within the last month or so. He's never been the social media type, so I looked for any hint of him that I could find. I immediately inboxed him. </p><p>We chatted briefly. He told me that life has kicked his ass (as it's wont to do), but he's hanging in there. I suggested we meet up for coffee today at noon. He agreed. I walked into the spot, not knowing what to expect. He wasn't in there. I go order my drink, and I look up a few minutes later to see him walking in. I saw that big goofy grin on his face and I instantly melted. We hugged long and hard. We settled in on a nearby couch and began to catch up.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLacjoaGNzFU1j1GADDiabviyrqFIe-3BITZf_HjXnIeU1KyXNBo9E8uI8iE0CHF3SCbbI5AJSelq4JyQf03vL3Fpi27XK3D_4JKtrzQpxT2Re5MF79VxeWWUNlfrBxdKpdtyg_n9ObjwdnqCJgl3LhzoWV6pta9g1l2wywopeOXIOjqeIZDeOXVD19rH4/s600/Black%20Couple%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLacjoaGNzFU1j1GADDiabviyrqFIe-3BITZf_HjXnIeU1KyXNBo9E8uI8iE0CHF3SCbbI5AJSelq4JyQf03vL3Fpi27XK3D_4JKtrzQpxT2Re5MF79VxeWWUNlfrBxdKpdtyg_n9ObjwdnqCJgl3LhzoWV6pta9g1l2wywopeOXIOjqeIZDeOXVD19rH4/s320/Black%20Couple%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>He shared about his mother's declining health and his former fiancé who struggled with some mental health challenges. He basically talked about some genuine trauma he'd experienced. He admitted to some rigidity he experienced from some religious dogma he took part in back then. I talked about Pete. I talked about Ali. I talked about my career. We talked deeply about mental health. We discussed things from our past relationship. I was flattered when he told me the many things that he appreciated about me and how good I always made him feel. We talked about growth, and failure, and challenges. By the end- I wanted so bad to say "yo, I love this version of yourself, let's try this again!" </p><p>Oddly enough, being that I practically just bid goodbye to my new pretend boyfriend made me not want to. I mean, I know it's not real, and I could call Dex and simply say, "I'm going to spin the block on my ex from a decade ago, no love lost" and I know he'd accept it. But I don't want to. I sure as hell didn't expect to love this new version of him as much as I do. He's admittedly a bit more cynical this time around. But I think he needed that. We both did. I'd love to give Love another go. But not now. I want to know him first. At least, I'd like to get to know this new version of him and be friends with that person first.</p><p>I drove away from Love feeling- I guess feeling Loved on. So many of my recent encounters with men have been toxic and drawn out. Filled with addiction, resentment and bitterness. Trying so hard to guard my energy from unhealed trauma of the men around me just exhausted me and caused me to retreat. I can deal with breaking up- but I was tired of all of the emotional baggage from the broken men around me.</p><p>I don't expect perfection. I just want honesty, respect, and a touch of introspection. And I got it from not just one, but two past significant men in my life, within a 24 hour span. I was heard, and loved on. I was touched and caressed, and heard and validated.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWw-y_bgTthq0rhRWbeqPQqYDaEGFjSjsgibKeIONGxYE7SFjDiBRNzbF_7wEb5d_r4flKGIyryzcGLGeDnEeGmjpW67MV3kvIfWOSamER1m5nwQcj-pzWhaqsf7M1D8ws-1hIiloRJwCMl-ZCFuyqBL7FmUntNcRweMK1LISBCCqx9RVotOxUu945X343/s1000/Black%20Woman%20loved.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1000" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWw-y_bgTthq0rhRWbeqPQqYDaEGFjSjsgibKeIONGxYE7SFjDiBRNzbF_7wEb5d_r4flKGIyryzcGLGeDnEeGmjpW67MV3kvIfWOSamER1m5nwQcj-pzWhaqsf7M1D8ws-1hIiloRJwCMl-ZCFuyqBL7FmUntNcRweMK1LISBCCqx9RVotOxUu945X343/s320/Black%20Woman%20loved.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p>I told Love that I'd like us to do coffee again in the future- he said knowingly that we'll see one another again soon. When I settled back into home, I pulled up Facebook, and wildly enough, the picture from 10 years ago, to the day, was the picture that I'd posted with Love. Who knew then that we'd meet up one decade into the future and see one another for the first time in 9 years?</p><p>So yeah, only that much energy could bring me out of my online shell. I could have posted that on my new blog, but this day belonged here. This moment belonged here. These feelings belong here. I don't know what things will look like with me and Dex or me and Love. Strangely enough, I don't really care. I'm not focused on it. I'm just in this moment. And in this moment, I feel accepted and appreciated. That's all I ever wanted anyway.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6Te4WYfIBnX36R8pB09jQdGolv6BkVDRBe_4hG6EvTLgPYYbV2hqkGUmUOssi0oElpp6_CazGTASu4rucE0w66DehZGRR5TgZ10AqvLu-DmKsi3f9_lacuz87ruliNAksoFQWlI3n1N0PTP1C5Srrk21W-4JJn9bV5-RVjYAT3GO7auYVog4iY8KB_BS/s1200/Black%20woman%20happy.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6Te4WYfIBnX36R8pB09jQdGolv6BkVDRBe_4hG6EvTLgPYYbV2hqkGUmUOssi0oElpp6_CazGTASu4rucE0w66DehZGRR5TgZ10AqvLu-DmKsi3f9_lacuz87ruliNAksoFQWlI3n1N0PTP1C5Srrk21W-4JJn9bV5-RVjYAT3GO7auYVog4iY8KB_BS/s320/Black%20woman%20happy.png" width="320" /></a></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-17312146763115894892023-04-15T17:41:00.006-04:002023-04-16T09:01:06.053-04:00Mindful Detachment<p>Ugh. So I'm proud of myself, but sometimes I miss my petty side. As I worked on my journal today at work, I had an epiphany of sorts. I need to detach. Earlier in the day, I met with a woman who asked me to mentor her. She's new to town and trying to land a job and meet up with a few people I'm connected with. I told her that I don't play about my mentorship and I'm all about accountability. She said she needed that. I got her resume updated under my care. Then it was time for me to head to work.</p><p>My first caller of the night contacted me and he was angry, and I was annoyed. By the end of the call, the man told me that I should be a therapist and that I helped him so much. I've heard it several times at work from people I speak with and I struggle to accept that. While I work, I picked up my journal and picked up from where I was last.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZt9S0zOFwuBbfDDGzcxwYVmIEgW0AEaPms67U1dY3kwrmoKcBmu0zpOEw-dsPmxY_5xEHuIEFP591O29EU0EcfHAO6jsYKLHVlTYE1z-vJC2clRPFEL5KmsFXsLEz_ejroQ6U5DrJb4fWYm667IWR-P-Rg_VtiAV7TdekZi15aYjJZL3R2s_Tj5lvOQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZt9S0zOFwuBbfDDGzcxwYVmIEgW0AEaPms67U1dY3kwrmoKcBmu0zpOEw-dsPmxY_5xEHuIEFP591O29EU0EcfHAO6jsYKLHVlTYE1z-vJC2clRPFEL5KmsFXsLEz_ejroQ6U5DrJb4fWYm667IWR-P-Rg_VtiAV7TdekZi15aYjJZL3R2s_Tj5lvOQ" width="240" /></a></div>Today's entry was about mindfulness. Right up my alley. It called for me to meditate on my mindfulness intention. Again, right up my alley. But I wasn't being completely honest with myself. I was troubled. I needed to detach. I started to feel that what was mine was no longer mine and it held me in a negative loop. It became clear to me that I need to detach. The beautiful thing is that detachment isn't the hurt to me that it once was. I genuinely find beauty in it now. Leaving things as they are, to be weightless just makes sense when you're being held down by negativity.<p></p><p>In short, I decided that I need to step away from my blog space for a while. I love my blog. It is home. It is my safe space. Or at least it was. I will always write. I will always grow and bloom. But I need to eradicate myself from toxic spaces and forces and be light. Not sure when I'll pop up again. Could be weeks or months. Or I may just rename this and find a new safe space, where I can keep all of my entries collected safely together. Or maybe just start another blog entirely? Sounds like a good idea. I dunno tho. I don't really care. But I know that I owe it to myself to move forward, without the weight of shadows. The crazy thing is that I'm not sad or mad. I'm apathetic, but in the most beautiful way. I'm apathetic because I accept that the extra weight that I'm carrying is not good for my soul and I owe it to myself to pursue what makes me happy. True joy is being able to find happiness internally, no matter what you face externally. And there I was.</p><p>I'll admit, this was a bit of a last minute decision. But the more I think about it, the more I like it. I've outgrown this space. It's still mine. These are my words, and they carried me and sheltered me through a very chaotic period in my life. But I'm ready to move into another space. I deserve that. I don't consider myself "crazy" and I certainly don't consider my life "hard." Those were only things I encountered when I struggled with myself. I no longer do.</p><p>Coincidentally, I've been heavily watching Angela White's transition from Blac Chyna and I have been cheering her on so much. I am so beyond proud of her. I love to see people win anyway, but I light up from inside out when I watch a Black woman win. Some have accused her of exploiting her growth for coins. Obviously, I'll never know what is in the heart of another human being. But one of my favorite videos was when she got her facial fillers removed.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWFBien6eUfwRo-Vi3zeex9xUUgvknxPPtZcwZRZh7BX2XRgEqyvhjr91KoZGlDCXD5r1YTKkYB8o7GWAEoCZiZhBE8duRBVZqoI9vT_ciMmYSMn-1tj3AmkxX8lua9xCrEEasUeA2I1tV0JkdgFUeXQ6pQ6aNIVjg8fssyjdaXKvegwMQPjAtRM0cNA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWFBien6eUfwRo-Vi3zeex9xUUgvknxPPtZcwZRZh7BX2XRgEqyvhjr91KoZGlDCXD5r1YTKkYB8o7GWAEoCZiZhBE8duRBVZqoI9vT_ciMmYSMn-1tj3AmkxX8lua9xCrEEasUeA2I1tV0JkdgFUeXQ6pQ6aNIVjg8fssyjdaXKvegwMQPjAtRM0cNA" width="320" /></a></div>I love how innocent she was during that whole thing. She was almost childlike, her eyes so big. It was all so new and refreshing for her. Her voice high and light. She was clearly stepping into a new space and I was so happy for her.<br />***<p></p><p>So here it is, the following day, since I never got to submit my post from yesterday. I woke up and pondered on my day. With my child away, I decided to focus on some cleaning and decluttering. I already felt lighter. I knew that I needed to finish off this blog the right way. I debated going to my favorite local coffeehouse, but I chose not to. I needed to take advantage of my energy boost and clean up and just focus and go internal for a while.</p><p>My new therapist has talked about me taking meds. I explained to her that my weird tolerance makes it so that my ADHD medication only works for a day or two. Four max. And then it does nothing. It's so frustrating. I've just had to learn new coping mechanisms, but the meds make me so much more functional. I once asked a pharmacist about this, and he said "I don't know, maybe you have a super liver or something." Trust me, that's not nearly as cool as it sounds.</p><p>While I was calling around, I decided to check in with my best friend about my new favorite thing, the Afro Unicorn.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8ej8BHQxyj254ZSIzotcuniPZEAm30IV8iRjBj7j1SmpKBW3202Ygikc6agWQH9on_rWE1FvVpvFPEA75eIo7U9ISubKQeRY8w1Be3D4Vu77hzOu_V8IUgHRFvNnZ0IXtIUTnLIYeSeqVPKmBR7IK1GvOEhxGh4mmnu1SOjwJgjwbk1sD1SpKNOWDqQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8ej8BHQxyj254ZSIzotcuniPZEAm30IV8iRjBj7j1SmpKBW3202Ygikc6agWQH9on_rWE1FvVpvFPEA75eIo7U9ISubKQeRY8w1Be3D4Vu77hzOu_V8IUgHRFvNnZ0IXtIUTnLIYeSeqVPKmBR7IK1GvOEhxGh4mmnu1SOjwJgjwbk1sD1SpKNOWDqQ" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>While there, we checked in on other things. I told her that I'd been chatting with a local artist who is well-known. He invited me to attend an Art Walk in Asheville in a few weeks. I told her that I'm considering it, but I'm really trying to focus on putting all of my money into my upcoming birthday trip. Plus I'm not sure he's ready to move past his last relationship. Truthfully, I don't care. I'd be okay if we're just friends for a while. I'm not in any kind of rush to get serious with anyone. </p><p>I told bestie that I offered a few hundred bucks to a mutual friend of Fred and mine, so I can crash at her spot for a few when I land in LA. She agreed. She's a creative and well-connected. I really like her. Bestie asked if I plan to see Fred while I'm there. I answered plainly, "nope." </p><p>Fact is that I don't have anything against Fred in this space. I don't hate him. I don't resent him. I don't regret our time together. I appreciate the good. And there were a lot of good times. But I'm ready to move into something else. And that's why I think this is a good place to leave this particular blog. </p><p>Far before I began to follow Buddhism, one of my favorite parts in the movie "What's Love Got to Do With It?" was (not the limo scene) when in court, how Tina Turner wanted nothing but her name when leaving Ike. She didn't want the fancy cars or furs or jewelry. She wanted her name. And I didn't get it at the time, but I certainly do now. She detached herself. She did that to be free. Because I finally realized that only when you detach yourself of worldly things can you really be free to live your life without restrictions, worry, and doubt. I get it now. And I can recognize how my attachment here only fueled another person's unhealthy attachment to me, and in order to try to get my peace back, I gotta peace out.</p><p>I'm really starting to see the amazing impact that Buddhism and mindfulness has had on me. I feel freer than I have in my whole life. No excuses. No hostility. No turmoil. I don't feel the need to compare myself to anyone or answer to anyone. I feel perfectly perfect in my own skin. I am eternally grateful for this journey, which was ironically created when I was at my lowest and in the midst of chaos. Yet again, someone causing me pain ultimately saved me from myself. And I'm honestly genuinely grateful. But that doesn't mean that I have to or even should stay here.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgV5APJ5AzqoN956plkpJ0C1fVE89DKs6h5Uc8JPYCVgFrJ17a1FL9_kqsZubWghKL9YMCT0dEeEsMV6WXvuRH-s7u7ePB9NC3CxNcfiOAgwFI4IAR3sSndCgjUw04ZjeEfQDM0HF2PAGKIQyF2f7WCjSwUlMP9E6nnGKlMBhRen-dBLil1ybF9ywlfRg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3333" data-original-width="3333" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgV5APJ5AzqoN956plkpJ0C1fVE89DKs6h5Uc8JPYCVgFrJ17a1FL9_kqsZubWghKL9YMCT0dEeEsMV6WXvuRH-s7u7ePB9NC3CxNcfiOAgwFI4IAR3sSndCgjUw04ZjeEfQDM0HF2PAGKIQyF2f7WCjSwUlMP9E6nnGKlMBhRen-dBLil1ybF9ywlfRg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I took the Facebook app off of my phone. I still occasionally check in, obviously. But I really want to free myself of attachments. I want to be more present for myself and the people I love. I'm excited to be working to bring so many of my family together this summer. I'm going to travel away from the continental States for the first time in my life. I'm really geeked to be getting into a healthy regimen and considering taking up Zumba. My laptop is clearly on its last leg, and the timing could definitely be better, as I have a big trip, followed by a move to a new apartment in a few months. But I have so much to look forward to. New laptop, new places to visit, new exercise regimen, new home. A whole new world and a new me to explore.</p><p></p><p>And I can explore and express that anywhere. Or maybe not? And if I do, does it have to be here? I don't think so either.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhByS7Ts5DXpA8w0rE8wmUAgi10sPN_YItD9CTaXVf-yNR4xgIG9jC6JAKhWXynyyOWq8ib1S7Rd9fxuAllJAiPvlPatV5LQdUC6r_ZEz0FavkssefwLgn21oGpy-qoGlpEgw81mDx6C-gmniOWo-9WOujUP0BrcnwxYvq1ef8RzyZy1d8oQx1c4v9RsA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="600" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhByS7Ts5DXpA8w0rE8wmUAgi10sPN_YItD9CTaXVf-yNR4xgIG9jC6JAKhWXynyyOWq8ib1S7Rd9fxuAllJAiPvlPatV5LQdUC6r_ZEz0FavkssefwLgn21oGpy-qoGlpEgw81mDx6C-gmniOWo-9WOujUP0BrcnwxYvq1ef8RzyZy1d8oQx1c4v9RsA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizNXakmFIFGdSq2o2fpyts1YGRT-6ODvBaFl0QL1VJfp_S-GNfVrdVI-zV5oYQ-forrHNtwLPYPgccyVmQgymU71OuiGr4mvaIE-eYIodHs_bMe-YNnigNjc0CtYFYT_PiG6Js685EKyZ81rmfdxMgnnksV9GSXzwCt7D8Q15HpgSk5GNTTq2D8doAlQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizNXakmFIFGdSq2o2fpyts1YGRT-6ODvBaFl0QL1VJfp_S-GNfVrdVI-zV5oYQ-forrHNtwLPYPgccyVmQgymU71OuiGr4mvaIE-eYIodHs_bMe-YNnigNjc0CtYFYT_PiG6Js685EKyZ81rmfdxMgnnksV9GSXzwCt7D8Q15HpgSk5GNTTq2D8doAlQ" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-41289566136113834192023-04-06T14:35:00.001-04:002023-04-06T14:35:17.383-04:00Replacements<p>When I was a teenager, I had the strange talent of being able to locate 4-leaf clovers. I remember sitting on the ground during soccer practice, pulling up a half a dozen lucky clovers at a time. While they were rare to everyone else, I'd casually give them away to the people around me, quite sure that I could always find another one, if needed. It was often thought that I must be a pretty lucky child, due to my ability to find so many of them. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNVxlOJ2Pc6V_HopiF-G7Qu62S-1n3WbRryti7vh-b3Tq-LcRD_hvIetWXxIYO4q69VVSzz7vTmTizv-yeXt-xUafAygmrXl-MYmVkTn7OgC_kNjstIXL0Kxs4drzpQHVNh_Lwar3HAloVCe9Js1qaXU4g3-YjX0a07hIBZ8zUoNzfOTlHQGgvDHPmcg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1478" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNVxlOJ2Pc6V_HopiF-G7Qu62S-1n3WbRryti7vh-b3Tq-LcRD_hvIetWXxIYO4q69VVSzz7vTmTizv-yeXt-xUafAygmrXl-MYmVkTn7OgC_kNjstIXL0Kxs4drzpQHVNh_Lwar3HAloVCe9Js1qaXU4g3-YjX0a07hIBZ8zUoNzfOTlHQGgvDHPmcg" width="173" /></a></div>Even just a few weeks ago, I was out with a girlfriend, when she'd just bought some cute stud earrings. As we walked back toward the car, she suddenly realized that the stud she'd tried to put in was missing. On the gravel, the earring was practically a lost cause. Even bringing in a 3rd set of eyes to look for it, we started to accept that she may just be down an earring. But I kept looking. At some point, I looked down and saw it! I picked up the small earring, triumphantly. I guess through it all, my luck (and good eyes) continued to work in my favor.<p></p><p>I made no secret that Ali was my entire world. Even just an hour ago, I continue to find so many pics from times we were hanging out together. He wasn't just my cousin or my friend. He was like my big brother. Before he died, I'd met my second cousin Doc, who lives about 30 minutes away. As I grieve my beautiful cousin, Ali, and discuss him at length, Doc has emerged as an important family figure in my life. I've often told Doc that I wish he'd met Ali. They had so much in common. They are even the same height and complexion. I could see them being drinking partners and taking turns on the grill on hot summer days. *sigh*</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYXctazef0M8zhw9kuJDF0v9jFqrT-5mQCdFd0msvPa-O3hHfiWlgDBOpbdSB6-lQQD0bwNlJSClXfCO1RcK0ZVSNy-dyWO1fYaL15LGAbWHJ1dyROKAcenKutCzbSG-ukiGGTGlxNNz7zttc8owiJDHc7gdJgg-pZcccYqd-QM9477V_REVllMVqQBw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="500" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYXctazef0M8zhw9kuJDF0v9jFqrT-5mQCdFd0msvPa-O3hHfiWlgDBOpbdSB6-lQQD0bwNlJSClXfCO1RcK0ZVSNy-dyWO1fYaL15LGAbWHJ1dyROKAcenKutCzbSG-ukiGGTGlxNNz7zttc8owiJDHc7gdJgg-pZcccYqd-QM9477V_REVllMVqQBw" width="320" /></a></div>While I know there will never be a replacement in my life for Ali, I feel that somehow the Universe saw that I continued to need protection and guidance in the form of a cousin/friend/brother. And I feel like the Universe placed Doc in my life around the same time that Ali transitioned, so that I could still be protected and loved on in his absence. Doc and I have grown together a lot in the last few months and I hope he knows how much I love our relationship.<p></p><p>I've heard it said that when God closes one window, She opens another. I completely think that adage has applied to other parts of my life as well. I have continued to be stalked, bullied, and harassed by my son's father. I'll be honest and say that I'm exhausted from his shit. I honestly thought that in having another child, he'd grow up and move on to be someone else's problem. But that doesn't appear to be the case. I can't begin to get into the mind of a man who I haven't graced with this fantastic coochie in over 10 years. Yet here we are.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8PMczCiuuLOaOG7e1kvIOy9oSPhL2e3bO0wofB2SEokKehNBsbuaJl6exeVI3MQXggN07dmwTzxoZJBrP1Wmw-ox41GtPZz6ngrKJ4m62pLhAlOo5Fn8OCu7H8RQ3CaG9ZmwiqthR9bhgu9VtKMEQPwz9yRX3tz1m862FixXECv2TPAw5dIU-UsjHag" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8PMczCiuuLOaOG7e1kvIOy9oSPhL2e3bO0wofB2SEokKehNBsbuaJl6exeVI3MQXggN07dmwTzxoZJBrP1Wmw-ox41GtPZz6ngrKJ4m62pLhAlOo5Fn8OCu7H8RQ3CaG9ZmwiqthR9bhgu9VtKMEQPwz9yRX3tz1m862FixXECv2TPAw5dIU-UsjHag" width="240" /></a></div>But the amazing thing is that literally every time he pulls some bullshit, in the end, it ends up working out in my favor. My child and I have an amazing relationship, because he's gotten to see me under fire. Leaving Atlanta and moving back was an unintended blessing because I came back to great career opportunities, and one day I'll finally be able to make the decent living that I want.<p></p><p>So essentially, every time he does something stupid, like dragging me to court, or even trying to turn my child against me, it never works. It's almost like the worse he does, the more the Universe sets up to replace it with an extra blessing. I know that he's about to drag me back to court. I don't care. I've got my blessings. My son is healthy and blossoming. My health is good. My spirit is amazing. My friends and family are all doing well. So I'm ready and completely expecting whatever bullshit my ex comes with next. It's all good.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9dAM9V46m4q4RrpaPXGkgzZYWkB_NP3zkC1q4df1jeEj_VGrMgHcuHWJPnIj70-eXRXsdz7zbLtXXyRGierBrIAQ_IFrD_z9pqo-6YPwxII9yduvhFYQ0TfzZwVkv9J9Y4IARaPcsdkifk-Ehpkh4xH12EgwjjMsFtCXYeNJOsuP1ZMdVH4k5temVHw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="566" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9dAM9V46m4q4RrpaPXGkgzZYWkB_NP3zkC1q4df1jeEj_VGrMgHcuHWJPnIj70-eXRXsdz7zbLtXXyRGierBrIAQ_IFrD_z9pqo-6YPwxII9yduvhFYQ0TfzZwVkv9J9Y4IARaPcsdkifk-Ehpkh4xH12EgwjjMsFtCXYeNJOsuP1ZMdVH4k5temVHw" width="320" /></a></p><p>There are dozens of plucked 4-leaf clovers to remind me that I got this and I look forward to whatever blessing is on the other side.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpD53IFgRD-MUmDauyGUvVtU5E8n6MqB_BcIgTybntlk6d0O4pZUf2GVXPkD29ahp2D42n8v62oPUx3y-4RbwOR2Q6_ZO5Gj-dAQnUbOmdBwXTnrlN90jeVBJ0sCbfkriE1RWbyxTTbC88kl7ql_4j-H_xyKW5gPKfA80n3i_mMwudBH65JchFTN5agA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="1279" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpD53IFgRD-MUmDauyGUvVtU5E8n6MqB_BcIgTybntlk6d0O4pZUf2GVXPkD29ahp2D42n8v62oPUx3y-4RbwOR2Q6_ZO5Gj-dAQnUbOmdBwXTnrlN90jeVBJ0sCbfkriE1RWbyxTTbC88kl7ql_4j-H_xyKW5gPKfA80n3i_mMwudBH65JchFTN5agA" width="236" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-5569976866606312032023-04-04T00:55:00.002-04:002023-04-04T01:24:55.741-04:00Sandwiches<p>I was talking to a friend of mine about his experience at Chickfila today. My friend complained that Chickfila was out of lemonade and he wasn't happy. I was kind of perplexed about them being out, mainly because I know their lemonade is made by hand. And all it requires is fresh lemons, water, and sugar, things easily obtained at any grocery store. I only know this because I had a friend who worked at Chickfila when we were in high school and he told me how he was responsible for squeezing the lemons for the lemonade, even though on one particular day, he suffered from some papercuts, resulting in an excruciating shift. The ew factor is only now kicking in, since I am aware now of how that could lead to tainted lemonade and lead to sickness, but that's a different story entirely.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGFGmN9aNTHas7CiC7dlaK19cc4Juigu-HdC9QdJFTh2hs9w0tOXGHPXk04hCv2Qk3-NBT1oUpfZnTHs5yBmRjXJw2ZZ_7stoQ1V5lQ05H5Wd2u0G617cq281aY1E4x9Ddd1NY6cq-DcwTkn9OlXXR-CmlXf8ANri8QP8nvwwvTQTSekg7AjNlnfzLKw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1707" data-original-width="2560" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGFGmN9aNTHas7CiC7dlaK19cc4Juigu-HdC9QdJFTh2hs9w0tOXGHPXk04hCv2Qk3-NBT1oUpfZnTHs5yBmRjXJw2ZZ_7stoQ1V5lQ05H5Wd2u0G617cq281aY1E4x9Ddd1NY6cq-DcwTkn9OlXXR-CmlXf8ANri8QP8nvwwvTQTSekg7AjNlnfzLKw" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Thinking back on his time a Chickfila took me back to our many hours-long conversations in high school. Looking back, he was always the man in his household, despite now knowing that he was just a baby. I recall how he'd always had jobs and contributed, the oldest boy in home where his father was absent and his mother struggled to care for him and his younger siblings. As I thought about that today, I realized that Pumpkin is now the same age that my friend was then. It's crazy to imagine that my baby is now at an age where he really could be the man of the house, if needed. He's genuinely that thoughtful and kind that if I were not able to care for us, I know that he'd take on the role, and wouldn't complain once.</p><p>Today was the first day of spring break, thank God. I'm exhausted from getting my child to and from school. I worked over the weekend. I woke up this morning and watched the last two episodes of Swarm. I'd heard so much about the show, but only once Pumpkin started watching it did I really become curious. He finished the last episode today, perhaps an hour before I did. As the final credits rolled for me, Pumpkin and I dissected the ending. He sat on the floor of my bedroom, while we looked online to find out what the hell we'd just looked at. Pumpkin read aloud what he'd just learned, and we bonded over our fan theories of the show. He talked about his appreciation for Donald Glover, which is what drew him to watch the show to begin with. In those moments, I really realized how much my child is becoming his own person. How thoughtful he is and funny. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlzkU7QJ_OBX2vfs5oBQDceiDu_Np5Dryslx7Hgqfrgd9xpnQYeHvbkQChdfcyLjWGGkXytJw_DMtZ7NQ_wveulgJcJQ2TO2y1LeyQZg_ETwfyX1_Bb2qTY769_M7WQX7N3OBq_tuXUgj5Tg_dZf8QiowcNk16wliCU6Mhc5xHr_Va2xWwepVKjQ3JiQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlzkU7QJ_OBX2vfs5oBQDceiDu_Np5Dryslx7Hgqfrgd9xpnQYeHvbkQChdfcyLjWGGkXytJw_DMtZ7NQ_wveulgJcJQ2TO2y1LeyQZg_ETwfyX1_Bb2qTY769_M7WQX7N3OBq_tuXUgj5Tg_dZf8QiowcNk16wliCU6Mhc5xHr_Va2xWwepVKjQ3JiQ" width="320" /></a></div>I left out for an appointment early in the afternoon and returned home to rest. My alarm went off and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sleep. I spend so many days being tired, in constant need of an impromptu nap. My alarm went off, alerting me that the time for my shift was near. I stirred, groggy. I didn't want to get up. I was tired. Mentally drained. Just once, I thought, I'd like for my time to be my own.<p></p><p>Pumpkin was nearby, in his bedroom. He heard me stirring. He heard me vent about how I'm so damned tired and how I just want one day to do absolutely nothing. I'm doing so many things right now, I feel like my brain is always on, and I just want a day where I don't have to clean up, I don't have to tend to the family reunion, I don't have to work. I just want to be! Pumpkin reminded me that we have a beach vacation coming up soon. I told him that just means that I have some driving to do soon. I'm tired. He again chimed in, hoping to make me feel better. I finally said to him "I know you mean well sweetie, and I appreciate it, but I really just need some rest right now." He walked away. </p><p>I know that he feels guilty, as a large part of my tiredness stems from my putting his education first. But I appreciate his efforts to cheer me up. I was reminded again of what a kind young man I'm raising and I'm pleased.</p><p>The ultimate sign of the young man I'm raising happened to come from a family member on Saturday. I was hanging out with Ali's wife when our other cousin, who works at a school, called in. The cousin was on speaker phone and told us a story about a 14-year-old girl who engaged in oral sex with a boy her age at school and later on said that she felt raped by the incident afterwards. The cousin said that she wanted to let us mothers of teenage boys know what could happen if they aren't careful with the young ladies that are on the prowl.</p><p>On the way home, I told Pumpkin that we had something we needed to discuss. I shared with him the story that was shared with me and told him how the boy may now be looking at actual rape charges, even though their contact was consensual. As I struggled to explain to him a good analogy, I finally said to him "have you ever eaten something like a sandwich, and it was good at the time, but then later your stomach starts to hurt, and then you later on regret eating that sandwich?" I asked him. "I feel like that all the time," my young prince responded. "Well, sex can be kinda like that," I started.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMavqSREoJvorNJN6IO3KzlamEv-pGjDJkvNVwPGCkeRdiQzyVZGaPBXNoZLGvzq72IraRaRA6ZCttnyUymKM3_hGAYCLHttOz0_Mr_fLITOnSQnWfMQ59z6vWDvl3LMDQUDmnMd1zP5BrpiDZM6oL4VV30U5QJ_sGJ2X45VtZNFkFWw6B4lKnwobTg/s369/Sandwich.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="136" data-original-width="369" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMavqSREoJvorNJN6IO3KzlamEv-pGjDJkvNVwPGCkeRdiQzyVZGaPBXNoZLGvzq72IraRaRA6ZCttnyUymKM3_hGAYCLHttOz0_Mr_fLITOnSQnWfMQ59z6vWDvl3LMDQUDmnMd1zP5BrpiDZM6oL4VV30U5QJ_sGJ2X45VtZNFkFWw6B4lKnwobTg/s320/Sandwich.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I informed my son that being good-looking, tall, and likely to make a decent living at some point in the future means that the young ladies will be drawn to him. I explained to my son that explicit pictures of young ladies his age constitute child porn and that if anyone sends him a lewd pic, he is to delete it immediately, with instructions not to look at any dirty pics of young classmates that people may have on their own phones. </p><p>And then I explained that at his age, people aren't always aware of what they want or if they'll change their minds. And how sometimes, people can later regret their decisions, leading to problems for the other party. I even explained to my son how that's how Kobe Bryant got caught up, and even once he was dead, people vilified him for a mutually consensual encounter, in which the woman changed her mind and later brought charges.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHHDa2INARcjvaAbilUWDqQZ0KYZhAe-MDtmVUIQa_c0BuPKD3oZ-Mg0kCk1li8Q_9RvKan8m_ZpzBGZhaEXhRm-DwWecIwtGEYBO4iIZGG0BT8CQ2AW6_hRGX-bRf_NBgu3hx_uUuRNkfcv04DXVDHRXqrnI5cr01dBAYGW1dq0ygRfdXzVaTnfjjNg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1435" data-original-width="2000" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHHDa2INARcjvaAbilUWDqQZ0KYZhAe-MDtmVUIQa_c0BuPKD3oZ-Mg0kCk1li8Q_9RvKan8m_ZpzBGZhaEXhRm-DwWecIwtGEYBO4iIZGG0BT8CQ2AW6_hRGX-bRf_NBgu3hx_uUuRNkfcv04DXVDHRXqrnI5cr01dBAYGW1dq0ygRfdXzVaTnfjjNg" width="320" /></a></div>I went down a list of statements a woman could make that indicate that she may not want to have sex. I said "I'm not sure, I don't know, I'm thinking abut it, Maybe, I'm scared..." among the many things which don't quiet constitute a "YES" in a sexual encounter. I told Pumpkin that anything other than yes is no. And just to be sure that he heard me, I asked him to repeat back to me what I'd said. "Anything other than yes means no," he repeated back to me. It's interesting, because his voice has gotten deeper, but somehow I still heard it in his younger voice.<p></p><p>The last few days have really hit home for me the young man that I am raising. He's kind, considerate, thoughtful, and full of grace and gratitude. He thanks me for my sacrifices. He's able to look at morally bankrupt behavior of others and call it out (at least to me, he's still quite shy about approaching others). We laugh at shared inside jokes and discuss movies, tv, and music like we're chatting with old friends. I stopped in to get coffee recently, and he decided to get ice cream nearby as we chatted and hung out. I am raising an absolute rock star, and I couldn't be more proud. He's learning. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_KUAhOdlox-ysf2gTWjUWyZ5OrL1bM1jbui_kjW5vFGvH51jvYInAp7ETGjKCnhmjTaYznDYkJwT8fedrfb4nTd_xGkGxaMk1lMBmGvhLbbDvOnRWCyABI3zLBIWaT29Uq8jxBPHuyERcN2HXaOBkwExG2KnOe-Sw_PEHsldFuaYeD_gdAcxZAHDBw/s825/He%20got%20it%20from%20his%20mama.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_KUAhOdlox-ysf2gTWjUWyZ5OrL1bM1jbui_kjW5vFGvH51jvYInAp7ETGjKCnhmjTaYznDYkJwT8fedrfb4nTd_xGkGxaMk1lMBmGvhLbbDvOnRWCyABI3zLBIWaT29Uq8jxBPHuyERcN2HXaOBkwExG2KnOe-Sw_PEHsldFuaYeD_gdAcxZAHDBw/s320/He%20got%20it%20from%20his%20mama.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-6207048915192849042023-03-28T14:25:00.000-04:002023-03-28T14:25:32.178-04:00Divine Timing<p>It isn't a secret that working in mental health can be a challenge. For every client that tells you that you changed their lives, there are clients and coworkers that are bent on making your life hell. Particularly while working with male clients, it isn't unheard of for them to try us. It really just comes with the territory. </p><p>I'm really fortunate that my supervisor has been good about empowering me to defend myself and redirect clients who get out of line. I've even taken to quoting one of my favorite shows whenever my coworkers are dealing with crap at work:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1qseJ9JK_Jz6pJJuFYBObNUActeD0AIylXy0_wO1JOsnuMTinchqVM6dD4IrKAOW4PO8QKwewvnSd7kJr2SH8zSNq8Ak1OMcCx0cpvYY5dBOK_w9HtDeqpErMMnGBlaGaeO6U9KlzStVUSgSEL-MlZ1mxKG9mNcxUlJGbq6n9uQM18BEV_AjiA0Exg/s498/That's%20what%20the%20money%20is%20for.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="498" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1qseJ9JK_Jz6pJJuFYBObNUActeD0AIylXy0_wO1JOsnuMTinchqVM6dD4IrKAOW4PO8QKwewvnSd7kJr2SH8zSNq8Ak1OMcCx0cpvYY5dBOK_w9HtDeqpErMMnGBlaGaeO6U9KlzStVUSgSEL-MlZ1mxKG9mNcxUlJGbq6n9uQM18BEV_AjiA0Exg/s320/That's%20what%20the%20money%20is%20for.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p>But one day, I had a client that challenged me. I couldn't to it. I was off the next day, and I was good about putting it out of mind. I was. But when I returned to work, I couldn't do it. I had to reach out to a crisis line to talk about what I was experiencing. I hated to do it. I felt so weak and defeated. That's not like me. That's not who I am today. I put it out of my mind largely, just because the thought of it all made me so uncomfortable.</p><p>Meanwhile, life has moved alone, as its wont to do. Working on my books, planning family reunion, raising my amazing child, planning my vacation this summer- I'd say I'm doing pretty well. Of course there's always things I'm balancing lightly. Issues with my parents. My dating life that is nothing short of non-existent, because I just can't deal. It's always there. I just tuck it neatly in a nice little bow, in the back of my mind.</p><p>On most days, I drop my child off at school and plan to stay there in the area, before I drive him home. This morning was pretty rough, so I opted to drop him off and return home to grab a nap. One hour into a planned 2/3 hour nap, I got a call. The counselor that I'd met with from my work issue wanted to know if I wanted to come in today or tomorrow to further talk about my work issues. I was initially going to select tomorrow, but after hanging up, I realized that I already have an appointment at that time. So I guess, today it is.</p><p>I walked in, unsure of what to find. She was a Black woman, a complete godsend. Plus she has a PhD in psychotherapy. I got teared up as I discussed what my issue was. She asked me if I'd been sexually assaulted before. I assured her I had not. Then she asked me about my father: **sigh** I admitted that he's a narcissistic pain in the ass, much like my son's father and most men I've encountered. I admitted that while I understand that not all men are complete trash, enough of them are for me to recognize that they are largely predatory and only concerned about getting their needs met.</p><p>I admitted that I dislike most men and don't trust them as far as I can throw them as I've immersed myself deeply into feminist thought. The therapist listened intently as I talked about work and several experiences I've had for the last few years. Then she asked me about my siblings. More tears. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyN0kYhiNJtP50Tqj9Bx-ETWI1nRidTTBuer1WgC0cGiricOngDkejFU97JReQfSKavZWDiufi-rGRIHF2pEAAocKTiORnR8xC-LkKc9wjEGP0_Ki2HEwajvzyUWdiGM2DOLI-V20HFANKsjrBpG8VFSwQrmTPhdkrSN-vxidjUbvTKfkqkLghte0BvA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyN0kYhiNJtP50Tqj9Bx-ETWI1nRidTTBuer1WgC0cGiricOngDkejFU97JReQfSKavZWDiufi-rGRIHF2pEAAocKTiORnR8xC-LkKc9wjEGP0_Ki2HEwajvzyUWdiGM2DOLI-V20HFANKsjrBpG8VFSwQrmTPhdkrSN-vxidjUbvTKfkqkLghte0BvA" width="320" /></a></div>I expected absolutely none of this. I created my todo list for the day, and not a single thing on the list required me to talk about the deepest parts of my life. I let the therapist know that much of what I told her were things that I've buried deep and wrapped up neatly in a bow. She reminded me that holding on deeply to everything would only eventually lead to it slipping out anyway. And naturally, she was right.<p></p><p>Coincidentally, I'd been looking for a therapist for some time now. If it wasn't the finances, it was some other blockage that kept it from happening. It was in my mind, but never happened. On the radio, "Always on Time" by Ja Rule had been playing so much. And that reminds me of how this therapist landed in my lap. She wasn't there when I called- but damned if she wasn't on time.</p><p>And to add icing to the cake, as I walked into a gas station today, a guy held the door open for me. He complimented me on my hair. I complimented him on his smile. He said he liked mine as well. As I gassed up and expected him to just walk away, he stopped his car and walked up and asked me for my phone number. He wasn't creepy or weird. He didn't leer at me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fNDAVj7o222zXZssBWOPlNeBlAxElCH7g7_c33IwGbhdnKRqk5S8JDZDX2bUEbWsV55NKhlGbfSvN9gojCnPGuwd6SZih_UVXwZWn9mR2lIdzw0zGasaU7vAYsxs9zcAGUVCQ9GBirzO93WqEd03k-gJeJtbTFyPMfMG4IZArYDeJsMKpRRQryaKYA/s480/Perv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fNDAVj7o222zXZssBWOPlNeBlAxElCH7g7_c33IwGbhdnKRqk5S8JDZDX2bUEbWsV55NKhlGbfSvN9gojCnPGuwd6SZih_UVXwZWn9mR2lIdzw0zGasaU7vAYsxs9zcAGUVCQ9GBirzO93WqEd03k-gJeJtbTFyPMfMG4IZArYDeJsMKpRRQryaKYA/s320/Perv.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Lord knows I'm not marrying this guy in my head. Not sure I'll ever even see him again. But it feels nice to be reminded that there are safe spaces, in my head, and in the world. It was all on time. All of it.</p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-90000552829832708342023-03-21T22:51:00.002-04:002023-03-21T23:23:20.504-04:00Full Circle<p>Can't front, this morning was a doozy. I was in my head about so many things. And on the average day, I can process my bubble and blow it away, while I focus on making the present great. But today was far more of a challenge. I try not to always bring Craig into the mix to process my stuff. Fact is that Craig has his own stuff going on (as we all do) and I'm working on being more conscious of when others don't have emotional bandwidth for me. Coincidentally, I realized that I have talked about Craig bits and pieces here over the years, but yeah, I guess he's an official fixture here (for now).</p><p>Nevertheless, like clockwork, Craig called me to check in. I told him about a few things I struggled with today. Right before he had to go into a session, he reminded me of how far I've come, and he reminded me that if I hadn't experienced my challenges in the past, I wouldn't have grown into who I am. Craig also reminded me that I'm human and I need to cut myself some slack. He was right. </p><p>By the time I got home, I was beat. There was a journal I'd seen at a coffeehouse a few weeks ago, and it was kinda pricey, at $50. Right now, all of my spare cash is caught up in savings, so by the time I went back to get it, it was gone. I was devastated, but I didn't remember enough detail about the journal to order it. The heavens must have heard by call, because 2 days ago, I was on Facebook, when I saw an ad for the journal. I immediately ordered it. My copy came today, along with my copy of my homegirl's book that was released today. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5XVwlYRoBOtH44SxbjjNo6L_4RdCLRYfMyTEYnWnCmr4eIb0zJ1MGJ3njZyJ1RSMi2lURDhwIuhRaRacm6L396hBwYrplBs1TCNVHTcy5lda_xDwm-W74GRkgVbyI_PHxYd19k5U66T62y4LJB-FGxiaEvpvIRc4_q5_oSSNBxnavw2qnu9PPC79AOA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="600" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5XVwlYRoBOtH44SxbjjNo6L_4RdCLRYfMyTEYnWnCmr4eIb0zJ1MGJ3njZyJ1RSMi2lURDhwIuhRaRacm6L396hBwYrplBs1TCNVHTcy5lda_xDwm-W74GRkgVbyI_PHxYd19k5U66T62y4LJB-FGxiaEvpvIRc4_q5_oSSNBxnavw2qnu9PPC79AOA" width="320" /></a></div>I was pretty emotionally beat, but her book release was today and I really wanted to be present for it, so I took a 20 minute nap, and decided to go show some love. I saw her for the first time since we saw one another in Oakland some years ago and we hugged. She looked amazing. The energy in the room was electric and I loved seeing so much love being bestowed onto a Black woman. <p></p><p>As she talked about her journey with the book, I started to cry tears of joy for her. I've heard bits and pieces of her story over the years, so to watch her on this stage and literally getting her flowers via a major publication was amazing. I managed to meet two other people who were familiar with her work and I told them about my finished book and even told them about the premise of the one I'm currently working on and they both loved it. I wanted so bad to go home and tear into her book, but honestly, I just got in and I'm beat. I have to wake up and take my son to school tomorrow. I may even hold off on the book, because I'm trying to encourage my coworkers to read it with me. But I'm definitely going to tear into this journal.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiY01tMRaO_9dOQS2chqnx4CU_gkAhd-Qenjw2RHkz4pG858y1BcAGlo6uBUoBRpgQ_2c4hbZSqVSSvLSq5S0yVsCX6m-QIU8d8lnjYOUhVl58NjSg-W3ymNChp_hOrNPuxmeU-jODUv7L2RenFCTmaaa2rC-rg2ed1y6Igk-0SUdl_1P6HJ5uPt-XBDw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="224" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiY01tMRaO_9dOQS2chqnx4CU_gkAhd-Qenjw2RHkz4pG858y1BcAGlo6uBUoBRpgQ_2c4hbZSqVSSvLSq5S0yVsCX6m-QIU8d8lnjYOUhVl58NjSg-W3ymNChp_hOrNPuxmeU-jODUv7L2RenFCTmaaa2rC-rg2ed1y6Igk-0SUdl_1P6HJ5uPt-XBDw" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Saying all of that to say that what I took from this evening was that Craig was right. I was unhappy for so long. I was unappreciated and I was clinging to trauma and unhealthy people. What I took from today was "sometimes God takes you from where you were, to place you where you're supposed to be." I'm not supposed to be in the midst of chaos and trauma. I'm supposed to be celebrating book signings and be inspired to publish my own books. I'm supposed to be finishing writing book two. I'm supposed to be happy and overjoyed and uplifted and in the room with goddesses and gods. I'm supposed to be working on these journals so I can learn so much more about myself.</p><p>I'm supposed to be exactly where I am. And I am grateful.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJbu-Sp3Rzo2P0HbBEpNcmdiG6Ye-6vGiH2tlXTAEkv8n8ikdVNhRUA_mqhc8WlCp5JHlNS6w_RQA3QXJpytfguboYeaIypSEF-_COcAE8ouEcunr1-ZMBzC6YUDgKy-pZlUxZi6DDYcLGtnnEe-IkqCNZ_zhMO8CkOKf3khUJDF8znQEm8xCJl-GwMw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="612" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJbu-Sp3Rzo2P0HbBEpNcmdiG6Ye-6vGiH2tlXTAEkv8n8ikdVNhRUA_mqhc8WlCp5JHlNS6w_RQA3QXJpytfguboYeaIypSEF-_COcAE8ouEcunr1-ZMBzC6YUDgKy-pZlUxZi6DDYcLGtnnEe-IkqCNZ_zhMO8CkOKf3khUJDF8znQEm8xCJl-GwMw" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-69342420739721763842023-03-19T23:51:00.006-04:002023-03-20T00:32:07.898-04:00Learning to Be Okay with Being Okay<p>So there's a guy. I'll call him Craig. Craig and I have known one another for about 5 years now. We're great friends. He works in mental health too. Craig has been instrumental in supporting me throughout my career, he's a bit of a mentor as well. Craig is a therapist who also specializes in sex, among other things. Craig and I have talked about the many things we have in common and having him as a mentor and friend has been invaluable for me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivpi3-n6lwn5Wi7C2EapflI_jWiad1VW1y-zc8aQAUbHDrux-3E8q-zNPm7anV3cHU00u6goTH24vlusKLur_XVyYVsnwmDw8Ngg1ppIp9TSINTel6mh46RJ0ddeL4OjtR9dN2lzCV_PilbQiXhYfLEDtaqYezqGBcPEL9-CcLtbRijkEW2uJ7bqc8KQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="507" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivpi3-n6lwn5Wi7C2EapflI_jWiad1VW1y-zc8aQAUbHDrux-3E8q-zNPm7anV3cHU00u6goTH24vlusKLur_XVyYVsnwmDw8Ngg1ppIp9TSINTel6mh46RJ0ddeL4OjtR9dN2lzCV_PilbQiXhYfLEDtaqYezqGBcPEL9-CcLtbRijkEW2uJ7bqc8KQ" width="320" /></a></div>Craig also happens to be hot. Craig is sexy as shit. At some point, Craig and I started doing "the dance." It hasn't always been easy. Craig is a great friend of mine and things got rocky in our relationship when we were working together. At some point, I started to recognize that I had issues with codependency, and saw that I'd leaned on Craig way too heavily. I called him to apologize. He apologized for how he handled some things as well. Our friendship then grew drastically after that. We've been great since then.<p></p><p>I didn't cheat on Theo with him. But I'll be honest and say that I made a beeline to make up lost time with Craig 2 days after I told Theo we were done. And Craig reminded me of why I keep coming back to him.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFJtHYNJnJFLYbiBkg6Zv33jNzm2z7FDWeTLoYjMZI1gebofgRKldzFsDlDupAzpA9n2n4r5sfK1M0HItXLTB7k4S1foY-hzltjDp8W2jUkmgct1_viVLEEOm_jJuVciO8mffAj5rWWKBHG8fYQuzIVij3R8U03STkCBBeWv4iUU0hFE02mEZkOTf2kg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFJtHYNJnJFLYbiBkg6Zv33jNzm2z7FDWeTLoYjMZI1gebofgRKldzFsDlDupAzpA9n2n4r5sfK1M0HItXLTB7k4S1foY-hzltjDp8W2jUkmgct1_viVLEEOm_jJuVciO8mffAj5rWWKBHG8fYQuzIVij3R8U03STkCBBeWv4iUU0hFE02mEZkOTf2kg" width="320" /></a></div>My issue now is that I'm struggling with how well things are going with Craig. Craig has an amazing body (he works out a lot and is currently heavily into boxing) and he's incredibly handsome. One of my least favorite client's caregiver happened to have a crush on him and I got a sick joy knowing that I was doing things to him that she could only dream of. He's also a great friend. One of my favorite things about having friends that work in mental health is that we can have thorough discussions about nearly anything, with no judgment or hang-ups, especially since he specializes in sex. No topics are off the table and I find his openness refreshing after nearly pulling teeth to get men to open up about what's going on in their lives.<p></p><p>Craig is extremely busy. He is building his business, in addition to being a full-time parent. We don't get to spend a lot of time together, but when we do, we make it count. When I tell him that I have a problem with something he does or says, he addresses it and we talk like adults. He knows how to talk to me to encourage me and to get me to take a good look at my own actions.</p><p>One day, I asked myself if I wanted to be in a relationship with Craig, and I surprised myself by saying "no." I pondered all sorts of circumstances changing, and I still surprised myself by saying "nah." I happened to be talking to some girlfriends at work and I mentioned Craig and how much I thoroughly enjoy our friendship. My friends encouraged me to try to take things there with him. And again, I surprised myself by saying "nah." I explained to my homegirls that I've made the mistake with my guy friends before by trying to make some men into something they were not ready to be. And I learned to be happy with what is.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMNN8tGm5IiVIefSvT5nHmoRPJRLeJotAHSoSTAuFHcRJWdJIoCKZ3K9j84-VA-7ITntGSPdqsFP_tHwlPDLkTJCuctLvkdoXIBXqT-XsPYzHAMeWq69_uQdFVt4wd0qpztxb8yjMoiXValxIM79klZbuOXluxe0X949yrXiVdtme6mRN4q_zw8Kv3Lg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMNN8tGm5IiVIefSvT5nHmoRPJRLeJotAHSoSTAuFHcRJWdJIoCKZ3K9j84-VA-7ITntGSPdqsFP_tHwlPDLkTJCuctLvkdoXIBXqT-XsPYzHAMeWq69_uQdFVt4wd0qpztxb8yjMoiXValxIM79klZbuOXluxe0X949yrXiVdtme6mRN4q_zw8Kv3Lg" width="320" /></a></div></div>So that's me and Craig, I guess. Occasionally, I text Craig in the middle of the night and tell him how much I love our friendship and how weirded out at the fact that I'm not trying to marry him. I'm not even trying to make him my boyfriend, although he's the only person I'm romantically connected with at the time, but that's more of a choice. I want no commitment of any sort from him, outside of our friendship. I'm just over dating. I told myself that I'd do paid dating apps in the future, but truthfully, I don't want to do that anymore. I really don't even want to date. I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want a "get to know you/honeymoon phase." I'm too old for that shit. I'm just over the games and deception that comes with dating these days.<p></p><p>But I'm still struggling with just learning to be okay with having a Craig. Craig isn't a Fred. He's consistent and he's thoughtful. He's kind. He's warm. He's emotionally available. He's sexy af. He's mature. He texts me back! And not even a small part of me wants to be in a relationship with him in any way, and that confuses me. He's gorgeous! He's perfect! He knows that he's too busy for a relationship, and he's certainly not trying to force the issue either. Even if he asked me to do the relationship thing with him, I'd freeze up.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjngvWMEnAQ-v_XlPIaS_1e_PlD_o5qwQ9rj39nkdBPCXbtaEzBSxR8Ew926hiHi25eyZ-2r7r9VNbfDrHA_Pobeix8Feth1TDhQRRbOPkPJlwXzxwA3HmM-Max2uyiUzWY10BAFNKvZgExuRUgz5lq9r9XY6w0fuUNjViJYtBvMVXHEfWOmSVZHCKBgw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1140" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjngvWMEnAQ-v_XlPIaS_1e_PlD_o5qwQ9rj39nkdBPCXbtaEzBSxR8Ew926hiHi25eyZ-2r7r9VNbfDrHA_Pobeix8Feth1TDhQRRbOPkPJlwXzxwA3HmM-Max2uyiUzWY10BAFNKvZgExuRUgz5lq9r9XY6w0fuUNjViJYtBvMVXHEfWOmSVZHCKBgw" width="320" /></a></div>I am really struggling with being okay with being okay with our friendship. In the past, I would have been trying to marry Craig. To make him drop everything and meet me at the courthouse. Truthfully, I don't even know if I ever want to get married. I guess the cognitive dissonance is getting to me. Because, I feel like I'm supposed to be forcing this. I'm supposed to be trying to put a round peg in a square hole, but I'm not. I enjoy our intimate moments and I love his friendship. I don't know what Craig does when I'm not around, and I don't really care. I trust him. I love him. He loves me. And I'm so okay with this.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDnAiiK9JlMV7JQkyqLrImpKhL7KVfjLDuzs2iQgnYssTQwR0qdY2e14C7LJqezL4A5nX3QC-1iaCuiv-mjd-0wd-UNprsEmltiPOTIu7IK1ilboCcQJrEd0lqvb0rwUJ-0LblbmHcvZRjHGTq8V0WsaKDZiT3WZs36lvirEbk6wBmztn_DsRzlRrkog" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDnAiiK9JlMV7JQkyqLrImpKhL7KVfjLDuzs2iQgnYssTQwR0qdY2e14C7LJqezL4A5nX3QC-1iaCuiv-mjd-0wd-UNprsEmltiPOTIu7IK1ilboCcQJrEd0lqvb0rwUJ-0LblbmHcvZRjHGTq8V0WsaKDZiT3WZs36lvirEbk6wBmztn_DsRzlRrkog" width="240" /></a></div>I just can't figure out why I'm so okay with it. I checked in with him. He admits that he too sometimes struggles with accepting when things are good in his life. I think what makes this easier for me to accept is that mindfulness has been instrumental in helping me to learn to be present with what is. I can't control the future and I can't change the past. All I can do is just live in the moment and learn to be grateful for when things are going well. I'm learning to live a consciously mindful life and I'm so used to being a wound up spaz, that I'm struggling to just be okay with things going well and there being no underlying attempts on my part to move the meter one way or another.<div><br /><div>Craig and I fit perfectly into the space that we're in right now. We provide emotional attachment, connection, and support. We know one another on a deeper level. I often poke at him for the amount of time that he'll text or call me when I'm in the process of thinking about him. Neither of us is moving toward more, or wanting, or needing any more. No false promises about getting married at X date under Y circumstances. Not even a bit of consideration about moving in together. And I'm strangely okay with this. Plus I find that dating and relationships really just distract me from my goals of finishing writing and publishing my second book. I don't really want to deal with any distractions and this is more of a support than anything, which is why it works perfectly for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I feel like I shouldn't be okay with this. I'm supposed to be falling in love with him. But I don't want that for us. I'm really just okay with us being okay. And that's weird to me. It shouldn't be weird tho, right?<div><div><div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4gi44IZt8fmMW-BIrshVV99nK4ZPwY5pxc2HP5luP2X52EXkUbd2WyqA1MBEzG_7UPKRSdDO508OXfAiOv_15TIJrUyVHZIk90sjyE3wbYoFnqsOA8SNhcZqqcHcXTr8_7RR_8Cae6r7p4fihn6nlUGCqvTmQH9YbVFbaPonlCHTgnoRNSBH7OC0EVQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4gi44IZt8fmMW-BIrshVV99nK4ZPwY5pxc2HP5luP2X52EXkUbd2WyqA1MBEzG_7UPKRSdDO508OXfAiOv_15TIJrUyVHZIk90sjyE3wbYoFnqsOA8SNhcZqqcHcXTr8_7RR_8Cae6r7p4fihn6nlUGCqvTmQH9YbVFbaPonlCHTgnoRNSBH7OC0EVQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p></div></div></div></div></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-67431443896522562332023-03-16T19:08:00.008-04:002023-04-04T01:00:08.406-04:00On Grieving<p>I spent last weekend at Tene's home (she is the widow of Ali). Tene needed some time away and asked if I'd stay the night to keep an eye on the kids in her absence. Quite truthfully, I was exhausted from work and driving my son back and forth, and not excited about doing it. But she's my family and anything I can do to help her on her journey of healing, I'll do. That, along with the fact that I'm currently in the process of planning a family reunion with my dad's side of the family and it's making me more conscious of building with my family and building bonds, while exposing my son to his family (my side).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgq4TKoR37OYIpGqGZJwMihGu86LQGaW8YrMvgqEbTBWksD-6pG6TC5Mp8bbyase1kUmNxpDi5wCH9LRbKY8bkxeqH8nKyfU_8HERVUZnJJp0s4BBCBwx_iD0n1fcADDiOZmQyPbzbZo2HF-Xo50UnthMeaum0QT36Za-3jaV-Ycw1D1asSNpAsDeWJvQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1023" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgq4TKoR37OYIpGqGZJwMihGu86LQGaW8YrMvgqEbTBWksD-6pG6TC5Mp8bbyase1kUmNxpDi5wCH9LRbKY8bkxeqH8nKyfU_8HERVUZnJJp0s4BBCBwx_iD0n1fcADDiOZmQyPbzbZo2HF-Xo50UnthMeaum0QT36Za-3jaV-Ycw1D1asSNpAsDeWJvQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>As always, I asked Tene how she's doing. She talked about her journey. One thing that I continue to take from my journey of grief is being able to normalize the many steps and layers of grief. When Pete died, I expected a few days of sadness, and then back to normal. I had no idea that his death would send me on a journey of learning so much about myself and ultimately becoming a better version of myself.</p><p>I explained to Tene how my cross-country travels quickly became a large part of my therapeutic process. Most people didn't get that. But that's okay, it wasn't for them to get. I told Tene how when I'd talk to people about my driving between major cities in the desert, I'd often be met with "I could<i> never</i> do that." And what I quickly took from that is that so many people struggle to be alone with and for themselves. That many people would rather work, drink, smoke, and fuck away their problems, rather than look in the mirror.</p><p>Coincidentally, I was listening to Michael Jackson's Bad album recently, and the song "Man in the Mirror" came on. I'd heard this song countless times in the past throughout my childhood and further. I like how the song mobilized us. The world. But one day, while in car, the song came on. And I heard it. I mean, I really listened to it. Mike wasn't just talking about us all getting our shit together. Michael Joseph Jackson wanted ME to get my shit together. He wanted me to look in the mirror. He wanted each and every one of us to look at the woman/man in the mirror and asked them to change their ways.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Lyy7Ec46x7Bsv7zqgC8qSv9KcPD3QtQMIb7Ct-qGC4CbYYIVY0hZIxsrMvlMx-9jlON4koS9tGD1P5AkWU4_QqRvnsWkdboLhf4nsdQmTVMDuIvuZzrHjKxvLlBZwq8I8QVk2hmfvFNTJnajGHMw4UEYMLvMV7BGxHWWaLn8DQsfE73-qFH36hk0MA/s3000/Michael%20Jackson%20Man%20in%20the%20Mirror.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2012" data-original-width="3000" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Lyy7Ec46x7Bsv7zqgC8qSv9KcPD3QtQMIb7Ct-qGC4CbYYIVY0hZIxsrMvlMx-9jlON4koS9tGD1P5AkWU4_QqRvnsWkdboLhf4nsdQmTVMDuIvuZzrHjKxvLlBZwq8I8QVk2hmfvFNTJnajGHMw4UEYMLvMV7BGxHWWaLn8DQsfE73-qFH36hk0MA/s320/Michael%20Jackson%20Man%20in%20the%20Mirror.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Only now, as a mental health professional, can I recognize how impactful that can be. I happened to stumble upon an article yesterday that addressed how antidepressants are not enough to battle depression alone. It is literally impossible to count how many depressed people I've encountered over the years, both professionally and personally, who struggle with depression and get frustrated with the lack of a magic pill that just makes everyone and everything better. Like big shock, you gotta do the work yourself. Even with a pill, if you don't actively practicing loving and loving on yourself, you'll never work through your depression.</p><p>I talk every now and again about when I broke up with my troll of an ex David, how I decided that since his skank of a cum dumpster was going to stalk me, I've give the silly slut something to look at. I bought dresses and outfits and I hit the streets. And I pretended to have a good time, but I surprised myself. Because at some point, I was no longer pretending, I was actually having a good time. I mean, granted, it was still a process, and there was still work on myself to be done. But I was working on getting there.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaBBIsybN85qQ6nw7NAOf1xCzNwAvYREGUkKhgRuTc_wpeTqfODVtZG4Z4U9vjERadcuS5mDLHAQjMJhSZiixkBU48146U5aDsnwRgksxoQXfqMIceMSWhHbHw13NwkWcfJuInmb90CpbSUT_PimqBXcLqn8oZtpTKq7vkEgTNmc0wGw_czsvGD8Gbqw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="740" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaBBIsybN85qQ6nw7NAOf1xCzNwAvYREGUkKhgRuTc_wpeTqfODVtZG4Z4U9vjERadcuS5mDLHAQjMJhSZiixkBU48146U5aDsnwRgksxoQXfqMIceMSWhHbHw13NwkWcfJuInmb90CpbSUT_PimqBXcLqn8oZtpTKq7vkEgTNmc0wGw_czsvGD8Gbqw" width="320" /></a></div>Getting off track here, but my point is that the grief that I experienced after Pete died held a major mirror up to me. I had a lot of shit to take ownership for my life. And it was terrifying. But it was freeing. That experience humbled me. Grief really is the great equalizer. And the best way to tackle it is to be honest with yourself and others.<p></p><p>During the height of my grief, I felt raw. I felt figuratively naked. I had nothing to give. Every bit of energy I had went into bare surviving. All I had the emotional energy to give at the moment was school and later work. But the life and ability to thrive that I enjoy now did not exist. I only got to this point because I made it a priority to work through my grief. And working through it looked different on different days. Some days, I took road trips, and drove and cried until my sight was blurry. Other times I visited museums and felt Pete's spirit with me as I felt him hugging me as I took in the wholeness of what I was experiencing.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg81AsrHjxCkgNTnVS62tE-E5AAMf3p3VPHl6Y5tpq67sByK89vdwFyRzb32a82gj80fw-3KwR4YocwGOitrnEY29efWyU-T2w2Jp4jj6uxeZcwrSlsllmlRQZ2sD996VTSUvyYHtGsqyrJVhkMVjPwX-OH4nYYBGJDgJFVV9KaZT81LAzuFrMZTqKmVw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="920" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg81AsrHjxCkgNTnVS62tE-E5AAMf3p3VPHl6Y5tpq67sByK89vdwFyRzb32a82gj80fw-3KwR4YocwGOitrnEY29efWyU-T2w2Jp4jj6uxeZcwrSlsllmlRQZ2sD996VTSUvyYHtGsqyrJVhkMVjPwX-OH4nYYBGJDgJFVV9KaZT81LAzuFrMZTqKmVw" width="240" /></a></div>Grieving Ali was different though. I remembered how I felt. I literally hurt on a cellular level. I remember feeling like literally every cell in my body hurt. Every hair follicle on my body hurt. But it wasn't a physical pain. But it hurt. It hurt so bad. I recall how I pulled up a chair to the windows in his home and stared out. The whole afternoon, I looked outside and tried to make sense of what was happening. My cousin was gone. My working through Pete's loss prepared me somewhat for Ali's death. I was aware to give myself grace. I refused to hide my emotions to make others feel warm and fuzzy. If I was sad, I cried. And when I needed to drive cross country, dammit, that's what I did. Some people tried to make me feel guilty for grieving on my own terms. And I didn't give a shit.<p></p><p>I'll have to tell Tene one day how proud I am of her. She's not just giving herself busy work. She's not smoking or fucking through her grief. She's processing and taking it day by day. She's not afraid to talk about her husband/my cousin. She owns her feelings and her emotions. She's not afraid to be vulnerable.</p><p>And that's how you work through grief. Ask me how I know.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVNefBg8Zsq9iu_KN62zEW52JmZms0-cYnM1IkZVysdHJvsH1sDc8coIjZNIoPrhbRv5U2eWGYFBV6tBlGbXduasGN48fBEBSamCDPasXMrQgvpGGEzHog1OMivuds87G7ME59c6QHt-i2cR3aqdhLc-OSkrBDRcISVmmc67AYUfI-K7KSPwcD54YBlA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVNefBg8Zsq9iu_KN62zEW52JmZms0-cYnM1IkZVysdHJvsH1sDc8coIjZNIoPrhbRv5U2eWGYFBV6tBlGbXduasGN48fBEBSamCDPasXMrQgvpGGEzHog1OMivuds87G7ME59c6QHt-i2cR3aqdhLc-OSkrBDRcISVmmc67AYUfI-K7KSPwcD54YBlA" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-43001280822165033072023-03-05T19:51:00.003-05:002023-03-05T20:33:28.268-05:00Nurse or a Purse<p>Seasons in life are pretty interesting to me. It's so cool to enter new phases and be able to marinate on what you've learned and how it impacts where you are now, where you intend to go, and how you plan to get there. This new year has been particularly interesting to me, and I know that my struggles last year worked hard to prepare me for the space I'm in now. One of my favorite parts of this season has been connecting that much harder with my family.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5825Fk6WJaTuCTGOeCUHXsq2b2A70QMpizoZJ-8ymFknfkYPxBdv9IJ9HkKSSv_HF5Ijx4p3cyF9U12WsHM8-x9cmsgNUAOWm-cv3TfXZGe0R8epslCws5SYuf_4SMzzKEmWSQfjX8DdqkBKu8LDnTX90aSZDGV0HaKKgBkYR1u64reTouFKUhOhjMA/s2121/Black%20Family3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1414" data-original-width="2121" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5825Fk6WJaTuCTGOeCUHXsq2b2A70QMpizoZJ-8ymFknfkYPxBdv9IJ9HkKSSv_HF5Ijx4p3cyF9U12WsHM8-x9cmsgNUAOWm-cv3TfXZGe0R8epslCws5SYuf_4SMzzKEmWSQfjX8DdqkBKu8LDnTX90aSZDGV0HaKKgBkYR1u64reTouFKUhOhjMA/s320/Black%20Family3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Through the wonders of social media, I have connected with my 2nd cousin, Tiffany. Tip happens to look a lot like me and over the last few years that I've gotten to know her, we've gotten really close and I'm thankful for that. Last weekend, Tiffany, our other cousin, Doc, and I all got together and hung out in North Carolina where my father's family is from. We also went to my mother's birthday dinner.</p><p>I'm enjoying this space of building with my family and rebuilding my relationship with my mother. While visiting Tip, we stayed in her beautiful home. I love that Tip and I have so many similarities. Tip is also single so we get to discuss a lot about how our dating lives are going. I've been in quite a contemplative space regarding dating lately (as if I don't think about it often). I continue to focus on marinating on my own greatness and remembering that I'd rather be alone than to be miserable and/or used and exploited in a relationship.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitubzZIi5C1aQvZ6omkFwEz3YCpvdbs4bE1m89JeSoJRbOkKZ7a0EI75dT03U2zKOj4YPpu2nCxS0yveyeHBUaW5D8Ic2ht_7fHKc_ot8Gc3PfgUZfmdRGE5rB8m46R4ndchKFXeWM-SOTcfCrbnDpSnpl23AMCfL1620io-xIP_PUveYCAS8imwY1Qw/s2400/unhappy-relationship.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitubzZIi5C1aQvZ6omkFwEz3YCpvdbs4bE1m89JeSoJRbOkKZ7a0EI75dT03U2zKOj4YPpu2nCxS0yveyeHBUaW5D8Ic2ht_7fHKc_ot8Gc3PfgUZfmdRGE5rB8m46R4ndchKFXeWM-SOTcfCrbnDpSnpl23AMCfL1620io-xIP_PUveYCAS8imwY1Qw/s320/unhappy-relationship.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I believe that part of my reasoning for focusing so hard on what I do want this time around, is because I spent so much time settling for bad relationships, with the hopes a man would change, that I'm vigilant this time around about not settling. I refuse to be in a relationship, just for the sake of being in one. I am determined to be loved on my own terms, by the right man. Or be loved on my own terms by me. There is no middle ground this time around.</p><p>I recall saying in an online forum recently how dating in my 40s, I continue to come across men that refuse to plan for the future, and I can practically smell their desperation in 10+ years when they get old and alone, and suddenly find the value in settling down. Or they are shocked to find that the 20-somethings that they hope to settle down with are (big shocker) going after men their own age, instead of dusty guys in their 50s. I was surprised when a woman wrote "A nurse or a purse, that's why I'm still single." I thought to myself how interesting that is.</p><p>A few weeks later, I finally caught up to my best friend, after weeks of missing one another's phone calls. I also mentioned to he how I fear that these same guys who can't get their head out of their asses and plan adequately for the future will suddenly be knocking down my door in a few years. My bestie surprised me by saying "a nurse with a purse."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCd6Bxq4tmFbC5tPn3SEW_QXtVqYkFGQP4jPtzYogAYix7g9aUbZk5AB2a-wPZ24u-bgMAcTXl1GZalvzWkLXYctsqtz78_mw7Qo2uXSWakx0lcIAqd-fAvhcMgz2UAZ-c2-SIknIYgAmYLH8XY0jeTWU3QuMzt-hPeqj65vAJHGCgdXivoocXq9E6Yg/s1280/Nurse%20or%20a%20purse.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCd6Bxq4tmFbC5tPn3SEW_QXtVqYkFGQP4jPtzYogAYix7g9aUbZk5AB2a-wPZ24u-bgMAcTXl1GZalvzWkLXYctsqtz78_mw7Qo2uXSWakx0lcIAqd-fAvhcMgz2UAZ-c2-SIknIYgAmYLH8XY0jeTWU3QuMzt-hPeqj65vAJHGCgdXivoocXq9E6Yg/s320/Nurse%20or%20a%20purse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I was pretty shocked at that point. I had no clue that this was actually a "thing." I knew what my dating experiences had been, but I had no clue that this term was actually a coined term regarding men who long to get married in their 50s+, after doing the bachelor thing for decades. I'll also add in that working for a Crisis Line, I talk to desperately lonely men nearly every day. I hear men crying in my ear about missing their deceased wives, or missing their ex-wives who divorced them, and their children who barely take a moment out to visit them, even on holidays. I look at these ridiculous men in my dating pool, and I see their futures. And it ain't pretty.</p><p>While chatting with my best friend, I also remembered about the last time I visited with Fred in Cali. I forgot how it came up, but I mentioned in passing to him that I no longer planned to try to marry him. I thought he'd be relieved that I'd finally let the topic go. Instead, he appeared surprised. I explained to him that there was nothing nefarious behind it, I just realized that I make way more money than him and his communication skills are shit, and that frankly, I'd be more of a come up for him in old age, than he'd be for me and that I'd be stupid to cling to him needlessly. He accepted it. But I could see that I'd caught him off guard.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivMEpp0QtgdUo_-VmW72eJco7HucqvFZ14sx70DIhbIKHkSJKfWXPPM5zdom0BanXrhFR_sXwbVBHGRK_9LJkHiYqA6s5PszZLb1V5aA5J5DMmNH0H23n1fUaumMZgbUvsd1sYE57qxC3edN8RHCcu1e35QQCw2klxHF12j1CvSuh0VGWK7KSoDrsAVg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="680" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivMEpp0QtgdUo_-VmW72eJco7HucqvFZ14sx70DIhbIKHkSJKfWXPPM5zdom0BanXrhFR_sXwbVBHGRK_9LJkHiYqA6s5PszZLb1V5aA5J5DMmNH0H23n1fUaumMZgbUvsd1sYE57qxC3edN8RHCcu1e35QQCw2klxHF12j1CvSuh0VGWK7KSoDrsAVg" width="248" /></a></div>Only later did I catch what was really going on there. He thought he had time. He thought that I'd always be in his back pocket, in case things didn't work out in other areas of his life. He expected me to proudly stand back and be his Plan B in the end. And he was shocked to hear that I decided on my own that I no longer desired to have him as my Plan B. I think he forgot that desirability had to flow both ways, that not only does he have to want me, that I have to want him back. And although I love Fred and I know I always will, the math ain't mathin'. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzshCfKANowfNCI4hmER7NO2_jrtV4kf1uVYf0f1sUTzRQCgXHcpWZGLCo7Qsl9xwRPvi_Uh3moQdHhd5lG_amT5yAciY6CFK49flNi_ZzTWws20a5eK3mLKMCkG5IfGC8sjjje4TM4-bsvlQPI_GS9vv86K5GNCaDzxgjzIPdfxgASjctBqRIKNAhA/s220/Confused.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="140" data-original-width="220" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzshCfKANowfNCI4hmER7NO2_jrtV4kf1uVYf0f1sUTzRQCgXHcpWZGLCo7Qsl9xwRPvi_Uh3moQdHhd5lG_amT5yAciY6CFK49flNi_ZzTWws20a5eK3mLKMCkG5IfGC8sjjje4TM4-bsvlQPI_GS9vv86K5GNCaDzxgjzIPdfxgASjctBqRIKNAhA/s1600/Confused.gif" width="220" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div>I talked to another cousin recently and she asked how I'm holding up financially. I explained to her that I'm check to check because all of my extra money goes into paying down bills, including my car and credit cards. Ultimately, in the next year, I want my bills to be paid off and the only thing I'm focusing on is still paying down my car, in addition to building my credit. And once I move back to California, I plan to continue to stack my coins, with my sole focus being retirement. Pretty good plan, if I do say so myself. This year will be the last year of epic birthday trips. I'll still travel, but not such expansive travels, which require so much money. After this summer, the penny pinching starts, as I get ready to stack my money and focus on retiring comfortably.<p>Being the curious soul that I am, I even went so far as to Google "nurse or a purse." I was stunned to see several articles, warning retirement-aged women not to get entangled with older men who are now looking for a woman to care for them or help them to pay bills. So many women are heading into retirement, or are recently widowed and seeing what the dating game is like. One thing I happen to hear among older women who are newly single (via widowhood or divorce) is how after being the backbone of their past years-long relationships, they have no desire to get married and carry yet another human being's life. And on the opposite side of the same coin, so many older men are desperate for a woman to care for them after divorces or widowhood.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEd7yU4BQcciPm3w7YKVksZ-Zg0OKxCooeF3QMf89kj3aoiBvJFY06xWkPZhJN_GWjtEABKelswpK7xp13-nJeK0cQhQDasUiOLXdKPNj3I9Rlv4pmf7SQunBIvRpDCsgUVNX-qcUjpi53vBV2mzIuQGSocXWvG3vzHysqa2gn8kIABBVqpI6ZJ2mffQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="800" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEd7yU4BQcciPm3w7YKVksZ-Zg0OKxCooeF3QMf89kj3aoiBvJFY06xWkPZhJN_GWjtEABKelswpK7xp13-nJeK0cQhQDasUiOLXdKPNj3I9Rlv4pmf7SQunBIvRpDCsgUVNX-qcUjpi53vBV2mzIuQGSocXWvG3vzHysqa2gn8kIABBVqpI6ZJ2mffQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>One of my favorite things about being solo is that I can make all of my own decisions. I can travel when and how I want to. I can save my money as much as I want, and not have to worry about a man who has his hand out because he mismanaged his own funds. I don't have to worry about a man who is financially floating his whole side of the family secretly, while I struggle to save money for the future. I see the light at the end of the tunnel and I'm proud of myself for doing everything possible to prepare to retire comfortably.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKXweZ5UMIYQv_UEiMTcdJh9e0atxvJ-IvUdY3K6d985Db-QDz0G0tJyeccCzH1gP6h79w8skwAzcwX3ssNlmi_jI696vedZVN4d8c07QqinpWqteAMIyyebrT4ItdMuj54H_Ejme4kkuAQ1nzt6A3mNA93FQOkMwD-qllqA7S0F90njs1O7PCAqefw/s265/Money3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="265" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKXweZ5UMIYQv_UEiMTcdJh9e0atxvJ-IvUdY3K6d985Db-QDz0G0tJyeccCzH1gP6h79w8skwAzcwX3ssNlmi_jI696vedZVN4d8c07QqinpWqteAMIyyebrT4ItdMuj54H_Ejme4kkuAQ1nzt6A3mNA93FQOkMwD-qllqA7S0F90njs1O7PCAqefw/s1600/Money3.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><p>And with all of these plans and sacrifices, why the hell would I take on the problems of a man who couldn't be bothered to get his shit together until he saw the writing on the wall? Why would I suddenly want a man who's junk isn't working and who is sick and hopes that I'll be there to wipe his brow and drive him to the doctor and cook for him and help him to manage all of his medical appointments? Why should I lower my standards and feel sorry for a man who thought he'd just screw around indefinitely, and suddenly get access to the retirement that I have rightfully worked so hard for? </p><p>Another concern of mine is getting married to some dude who doesn't have two nickels to rub together, him running my pockets, ruining the relationship and then later trying to get part of my pension during divorce proceedings.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVCcI1OyEwZmn1NVoR9ZFxS86_TZjJWaogvnuTvx9zmUzxEDsz41CyzzRzWdYuz61vG-mCjl6AFbcYFWH1ZCVmwtdBDb4lqPn_004CfztszfEh2H7G6SaC3ZJ7UrWAbsl2kGTMWxKuf0nC-ABfHj2Pv347kHk3Ye0Qe5qkiYZXW2Whp5Ts0-lSiYrthQ/s600/bitch-you-thought.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVCcI1OyEwZmn1NVoR9ZFxS86_TZjJWaogvnuTvx9zmUzxEDsz41CyzzRzWdYuz61vG-mCjl6AFbcYFWH1ZCVmwtdBDb4lqPn_004CfztszfEh2H7G6SaC3ZJ7UrWAbsl2kGTMWxKuf0nC-ABfHj2Pv347kHk3Ye0Qe5qkiYZXW2Whp5Ts0-lSiYrthQ/s320/bitch-you-thought.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I am Malika. I am a woman. But I am not a nurse nor a purse. Get somebody else to do it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAPpz5XcAt2AbltVQIiDF3yA5aKBWd0fzdsNDAXcLdEU8tQdtwAdwwK3tW3F94ZtL0H4hiHApR7fJMiREtwlUFC9DNc-UEwzw0SpiSLhRcH61_0OnzfAAeatp6XQjPpatgNIx0m23b9J5X-dlJEDrvUHAJcSMyMHom3so-9iSpaXLxDfNzHHeOHothA/s864/Not%20my%20problem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAPpz5XcAt2AbltVQIiDF3yA5aKBWd0fzdsNDAXcLdEU8tQdtwAdwwK3tW3F94ZtL0H4hiHApR7fJMiREtwlUFC9DNc-UEwzw0SpiSLhRcH61_0OnzfAAeatp6XQjPpatgNIx0m23b9J5X-dlJEDrvUHAJcSMyMHom3so-9iSpaXLxDfNzHHeOHothA/s320/Not%20my%20problem.jpg" width="259" /></a></div></div></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-78116403918930902692023-01-16T23:53:00.009-05:002023-03-05T19:58:47.592-05:00Life of No Regret (At Least Not for Me)<p>Some years back, when my father was still married to my step-mother, my dad called me and commented on the fact that my mother had married her long-time boyfriend and recently moved to Florida. "She's in Florida and retired, huh? Boy, I sure messed that up, that could have been me!" Part of my father's kicking himself also stemmed from the fact that he had 2 younger children with my stepmother and feared going through the child support monster again, while my mother's children were all fully grown and out of the house. I will say, knowing what I now know about money and all parties involved, I understand that had my father stayed with my mother, neither of them would have been retired, even without extra young kids, as my father let money slip through his fingers like water. They would both still be working, well into their 70's, not a single dime having been put away. My father is actually still actively working, while both women, are now divorced from my father, and are also retired.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj66JSTBA8SM1UzdSzUrJbblWGJTEzHG7DdgXgp-0Rh3hi2x7nS-scX7euZ3MAY0ELcAIvlzQhb2lOiwtN0Buggkuz7P-TlOlp8fOvwebSkk3ALj4TrHuuPAiGY-M_4SxG6EjhJs55ImEzSyiG9mAqT0hOm8uJX5InC2YB7NV5CVa9j86SBoEF5g-ge5A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj66JSTBA8SM1UzdSzUrJbblWGJTEzHG7DdgXgp-0Rh3hi2x7nS-scX7euZ3MAY0ELcAIvlzQhb2lOiwtN0Buggkuz7P-TlOlp8fOvwebSkk3ALj4TrHuuPAiGY-M_4SxG6EjhJs55ImEzSyiG9mAqT0hOm8uJX5InC2YB7NV5CVa9j86SBoEF5g-ge5A" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I'm now at a precarious space of trying to curate a life of peace and happiness, as I glide into my own retirement in some years. I still plan to return to Los Angeles, only this time, I'll be returning on my own terms. My car will be paid off (or far closer to it), and I plan to live in the Long Beach area. The only thing that I see possibly deviating my plans is if the rain in Los Angeles stays this frequent. Yeah, I'm not moving somewhere rainy. But again, those are <i>my</i> terms. I fully intend to live in L.A. when the Olympics hit in the summer of 2028.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5F2TH2EzQIzkjiWyl_3h0EIrALlv19y1AiXFwuTCUIVAcsf7zk5A2FNTtjHiIcWHTJp6cLHZsAmqlpKG5r-K-r9o9lBk892sy46MiuxOWpn5ku8JpqyM1OUnbHZWdfvs4TnJ5Bl67elw2JXnzipIaxRpHSqab2fUjuKEniqoCASsiv_9fwb8S57XkrA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1917" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5F2TH2EzQIzkjiWyl_3h0EIrALlv19y1AiXFwuTCUIVAcsf7zk5A2FNTtjHiIcWHTJp6cLHZsAmqlpKG5r-K-r9o9lBk892sy46MiuxOWpn5ku8JpqyM1OUnbHZWdfvs4TnJ5Bl67elw2JXnzipIaxRpHSqab2fUjuKEniqoCASsiv_9fwb8S57XkrA" width="150" /></a></div><br />The little bit of dating I've been doing has been frustrating as of late, because while I am focused heavily on moving my life in a certain direction, I'm finding that men my age are still waiting tables, and barely putting money to the side (if at all) or they're looking for a mommy/bangmaid, who will care for them like tiny infants. I have zero interest in either.<p></p><p>Anyway, I chatted up with an old friend last night. While I tend to fall on the feminist side of the spectrum, he's far more masculine centered. It creates some pretty interesting debates for the two of us. I still occasionally tip my toe into the dating pool, but I find myself recognizing that as I get older and closer to many of my personal goals, the men just aren't up to snuff. Hearing my friend's thoughts on dating only makes my dating experiences that much more interesting. I confessed to my friend that as I get older and focus more on the relationship that I want for myself, I'm seeing more and more how men just aren't cutting the mustard anymore.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisQ0RZpZzM1oD0-Osm7eOKJsyp9Iz6_jwUnhnY82ZV7-x0jq-n0IcNZvSyx9SdSBTTL1UdfO7IqGpBjMqO9H8dKNO0R--mnJnFL8AovidzGGIsmIjkUT081g35CFvQ5DfwZM7OLDuZobp7V37Qes4Th1E31Uk5MYFdZzTcPy-rRy6pkgcO2Lpl7O-aMA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisQ0RZpZzM1oD0-Osm7eOKJsyp9Iz6_jwUnhnY82ZV7-x0jq-n0IcNZvSyx9SdSBTTL1UdfO7IqGpBjMqO9H8dKNO0R--mnJnFL8AovidzGGIsmIjkUT081g35CFvQ5DfwZM7OLDuZobp7V37Qes4Th1E31Uk5MYFdZzTcPy-rRy6pkgcO2Lpl7O-aMA" width="240" /></a></div><br />I told my homeboy how I feel like so many of these guys really just aren't where I am, and I fear that many of these guys will look up and realize that I'm securely on the West Coast, living my best life, and all of sudden, the "hey stranger" text messages will begin.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6j68QWRNncQtJ2jFx4-UGXEAeUehpKqXEzAWeORVx5SBWGY2EHEChtCdf_2GXJ2EXYOh6FSdb-YThFhE46O3e4YmbFNxhAG3aaB2brLL768WwktF-WiuW2L7gFlTt8ttBlRJJ01TBbIAil1jSsh-tXpZpZHAprCpNMb0nwdz27zBeOACdCqNIMRfLJg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6j68QWRNncQtJ2jFx4-UGXEAeUehpKqXEzAWeORVx5SBWGY2EHEChtCdf_2GXJ2EXYOh6FSdb-YThFhE46O3e4YmbFNxhAG3aaB2brLL768WwktF-WiuW2L7gFlTt8ttBlRJJ01TBbIAil1jSsh-tXpZpZHAprCpNMb0nwdz27zBeOACdCqNIMRfLJg" width="240" /></a></div>While I'm being careful about all of my life choices moving forward (financial, sexual, friendships, career, etc.), my fear is that the same guys that played me to the left will realize that their options are running low and they will suddenly look up and find me as far more of a viable option than they did when they were just sticking their dicks in any hole they could find. And those same guys will suddenly recognize that as their bodies slow down, and their dicks stop working, and the rent gets more expensive, and as they realize that they're thisclose to dying alone, they will suddenly remember what an amazing woman I am.<p></p><p></p><p>My guy friend referred to those guys as "hospice husbands." Men who spent their whole lives running the streets, but suddenly want to get married in their golden years, in order to be taken care of. Being that I worked in hospice roughly 6 months ago, and saw closely how lack of proper planning could land someone in the most horrible position, the term hit home. They may experience blindness, back problems, Alzheimer's, cancer, diabetes complications, all kinds of other fun stuff... and suddenly they want me to step on in and save them from their bad decisions. Or at least significantly soften the blow of dying of sickness. Reminds me of a person I know who's dad had been running the streets and when he finally got sick and ready to take his final dirt nap, he up and married the side piece he'd had for 30 years. Yeah, he was ripping and running for 30 years, babies and all, and only once he got old and about to die, did he decide to marry her. What the fuck kinda consolation prize is that?!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzbqc4x9gqRdq_ZTZ3dwbzK82iDpximwW6db9mE1DrGJxpEZ-J5Snlig2dM2y0fTL_S-QUwJtsrCizWA8_JNgRUSS1qVtxM7MolhTSS4NCDTw4nkehpbfahie_tTTJo1d320yvIfCSa4xkNhcrzJjHOa2Z8B9W-d-H7hC0na1HyNalzvgsGZoInOOWmA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="450" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzbqc4x9gqRdq_ZTZ3dwbzK82iDpximwW6db9mE1DrGJxpEZ-J5Snlig2dM2y0fTL_S-QUwJtsrCizWA8_JNgRUSS1qVtxM7MolhTSS4NCDTw4nkehpbfahie_tTTJo1d320yvIfCSa4xkNhcrzJjHOa2Z8B9W-d-H7hC0na1HyNalzvgsGZoInOOWmA" width="318" /></a></div><p>Watching people grow old and sickly is sad. It can be a long, painful process that requires changing diapers, losing sleep, navigating the bureaucratic red tape of insurance companies and benefits. It's long, complicated, and arduous. I know how the process goes, because it's basically been my job for the last decade and a half. And I'll be damned if I'll put forth that sort of effort over someone who couldn't even be bothered to work with me and hold me down, while I planned for our perfect life in our 60s.</p><p>It's so cliched, but true. My life is good and it looks like it can only get better. My home is peaceful. I recall a few months back when my cousin came over and she commented how she could tell that I'd been meditating in my bedroom because it was so tranquil. My friends are doing well. It's been a slow stretch, but I'm finally starting to pay down bills and save some money. My skin looks good. Can't front, I look damned good for my 40s, almost 15 years younger. I can run a mile without getting winded and I'm buzzing my way through writing book number 2, so I can start the self-publishing part for both books.</p><p>When you feel this amazing, and your life is this breezy, it only makes sense to continue doing what you've been doing to create that space. Buddhism, mindfulness, and meditation certainly ushered in this feeling of peace and happiness and I'm fiercely protective of it all. It someone so much as sneezes too loudly, I politely step away. I no longer feel like I owe anyone an explanation for why I refuse to entertain them. I have finally accepted that it is on me and me alone to protect my peace and move into a space of further growth and light. I'm noticing a lot of difficulty around me. Welp. Not my monkey, not my circus.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieyhVJyhA_OtCdZDzmjZI40IAZrvBJk1eC3NpIA_gfTC3Go97qz-7tB0EbfQyHxsHyP_VoTrPSbBAE2kphIjI08uEq7WEaZQ6IfVwC4v5fmKk-wzufzYZ2RQUzdfdq2cIKSY8H0zVBAhzZJQvbub2itRoHMsIeDg023mwLpv50kniEcgy91tV_eSdOqQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieyhVJyhA_OtCdZDzmjZI40IAZrvBJk1eC3NpIA_gfTC3Go97qz-7tB0EbfQyHxsHyP_VoTrPSbBAE2kphIjI08uEq7WEaZQ6IfVwC4v5fmKk-wzufzYZ2RQUzdfdq2cIKSY8H0zVBAhzZJQvbub2itRoHMsIeDg023mwLpv50kniEcgy91tV_eSdOqQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-88539994618544579002023-01-04T02:08:00.005-05:002023-01-04T15:04:41.586-05:002023 and Beyond!<p>When the weather started to turn cooler, I started looking for my favorite sweatshirt. It's kind of a faded black shirt, and a bit thin, made from a thin cotton blend. I mean, thick enough for a cool, breezy day, but thin enough to not have you be a sweating mess on a warmer day. It was my favorite sweatshirt. On top of it being just cozy enough, it also had the outline of the continent of Africa on it and I got it on clearance for like $6 from Target. So not only was it warm/cool enough, it was also a great price and fashion staple for my Blackity Black Black ass.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio7npajak2MjritGE6Z2ZA-312-Cmn1ZTzDyqdvmw87tBCgd6I4xF25G-s5JkgYSGd-9QGI2hDiOVWoQxLfN-uLWd1LWGRGYSP00oBnSCfzaHziVE6HKKxGKoPLDY1ybsJcx_anXiT_eNP26yd90yF6I_kX1xt3dllB5lJIxbuw9ZVtFZ5XBXLEleKxw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="995" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio7npajak2MjritGE6Z2ZA-312-Cmn1ZTzDyqdvmw87tBCgd6I4xF25G-s5JkgYSGd-9QGI2hDiOVWoQxLfN-uLWd1LWGRGYSP00oBnSCfzaHziVE6HKKxGKoPLDY1ybsJcx_anXiT_eNP26yd90yF6I_kX1xt3dllB5lJIxbuw9ZVtFZ5XBXLEleKxw" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>As soon as I noticed it missing, I figured <i>he</i> took it. Ugh. To contact Theo about my favorite sweatshirt or not? As I read the words of Lama Surya Das, I was amazed at the timing and decided that it wasn't worth the headache involved to get back my precious shirt. I would let detachment win this round, and decide that sometimes it is simply best to let go and accept that nothing really belongs to any of us anyway.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZIut9VJ90INuFZGmlGXDEQxhdDrobNgjGDwmbBczqF0mOJw4ATlXjLpgeU628NnUpugz1PUeIfTd4Fc7h0z_rL_atwDTlbW9GrVYzEtrZ-Z1I-jX8BesEpkTPzGmM3yBralTluESXn1xRHHzytHBzIYmAse2j0xEFpozwSR1vgyXS-BZw7Z7bcVamAQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZIut9VJ90INuFZGmlGXDEQxhdDrobNgjGDwmbBczqF0mOJw4ATlXjLpgeU628NnUpugz1PUeIfTd4Fc7h0z_rL_atwDTlbW9GrVYzEtrZ-Z1I-jX8BesEpkTPzGmM3yBralTluESXn1xRHHzytHBzIYmAse2j0xEFpozwSR1vgyXS-BZw7Z7bcVamAQ" width="240" /></a></div><br />I was really excited about the New Year. Perhaps it was the viral prison known as COVID, and just all of the shit of the last 3 years, but this year felt like the first time in forever that there appears to be a collective sigh of relief. People seem genuinely happy and excited about the future. People are ready and anxious to move forward and leave the trauma of the recent past behind.<p></p><p>Personally, I can honestly say that after the mess that was 2021, followed by the first half of 2022, I'm seeing so much to be happy about. Things are falling into place. I'm excited about my professional and creative prospects. I'm ready to start planning my next epic birthday trip. Although, I decided that based on some upcoming goals, the 2023 birthday extravaganza will have to be my last one. At least for now. Fact is, I still want to focus on saving some money for my child to go away to college, in addition to saving for me to move back to Cali, in addition to my desire to pay off my second biggest expense, my car note. There will plenty of time to play in the future, but those 3 items are at the top of my immediate savings goals.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUqDP86FCmQDYMTrTpQPLTs4ShnQXa-aGCR4OZFL4HBSzSlZDBOS-QuZjmO6ecv2ofwYb5YCfOi79L9Oq3Rc_FoePW_VOIq7y76qlQKxD-hNAAl-LshdqNI3_iTHnQRi54qjP5oXj_WfJQmQsLcxiXaexKs1KXxsyZWxI9k7rXNQCtcwQSsQS0nVzwdg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="280" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUqDP86FCmQDYMTrTpQPLTs4ShnQXa-aGCR4OZFL4HBSzSlZDBOS-QuZjmO6ecv2ofwYb5YCfOi79L9Oq3Rc_FoePW_VOIq7y76qlQKxD-hNAAl-LshdqNI3_iTHnQRi54qjP5oXj_WfJQmQsLcxiXaexKs1KXxsyZWxI9k7rXNQCtcwQSsQS0nVzwdg" width="320" /></a></div>My son is 15. My baby is 15. I've been experiencing some extreme cognitive dissonance lately, as I watch "The Boy" turn into "The Man." I really miss that fat baby that I brought home from the hospital. That gorgeous toothless smile and still melts my heart when I view old pictures of him. And now that baby is no more. I knew this day would come, but he's taller than me. Like way taller than me. His voice is noticeably deeper. I looked down the other day and observed hair growing out of his legs. I'm not nearly as weird as I thought I'd be about it. I guess it's because the Universe kind of slowly prepares you for it. But does it really?<p></p><p>My fear was that I'd become one of those moms who is unable to let her baby go, especially since he's my only one. But I've always been baffled by those people whose whole identity is tied up in their relationship to someone else. Sure, I love feeling needed and wanted by my child. But I have so much respect for the young man my son is growing into. He's kind, thoughtful, intelligent, funny. Every now and again, he and I will share a moment, where he tells me that I'm more like a friend to him. That warms me. I don't have to force him to tell me anything. He feels comfortable in that space. He and I support one another, although I am obviously mindful to keep proper boundaries. I love watching him grow into the man that he is becoming.</p><p>My other fear was that if he didn't shape up, I'd be dragging my middle aged son along with me for the rest of my life. Not that I wouldn't gladly support him in any way that I can. But I think that ultimately, as parents, we hope and pray that our children are independent enough to make intelligent decisions, so when the day comes that they are no longer under our wing, we can trust them to be able to care for themselves. And that's what's beautiful to me. That at the rate things are going, one day, we'll be on opposite sides of the country, or even the world, and I will know and trust in my spirit that my child is okay and able to navigate life on his own.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlw4_MkMkhpG-PWsbNbZtivVs_6qxByn-W4MpmYhK0fi1LVjHMFZpf45IUkt59jWDBlDhVj3nNZFjqaCRzqFZ4GVnbdDNPpGbUeCWZokZYhXSg3bURL750ilU9BKlJ7tHjZ3BdkIpNVkRmg1PD5_xB_5680t3nnxH_c0PCE4C8PuYzCZ-Y53iG2Qq9YA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlw4_MkMkhpG-PWsbNbZtivVs_6qxByn-W4MpmYhK0fi1LVjHMFZpf45IUkt59jWDBlDhVj3nNZFjqaCRzqFZ4GVnbdDNPpGbUeCWZokZYhXSg3bURL750ilU9BKlJ7tHjZ3BdkIpNVkRmg1PD5_xB_5680t3nnxH_c0PCE4C8PuYzCZ-Y53iG2Qq9YA" width="320" /></a></div>Anyway, all of this looking forward stuff has been awesome. New Year's Eve was a decent day. Busy as hell at work. I opted not to work that night, nor did I go out. Ever since my car accident around Christmas time last year, and the subsequent brain injuries that came from it, I'm terrified of being out around reckless drivers. I got an invite from a cousin of mine to attend his major NYE party, but I opted out. My last two car accidents may have seemed minor on the surface. But they left me with brain injuries that resulted in loss of proper mobility, plus a pronounced stutter. After both accidents, I remained terrified that I'd be stuck permanently with the brain injuries. I try not to focus on it too hard, but I remain terrified that one day, yet another careless asshole will slam into my car. But rather than stuttering for just 2 weeks, it'll be "the big one" and I will be unable to easily bounce back from another brain injury. At 42, you unfortunately don't bounce back like you once did. So I stayed home.<p></p><p>As the clock struck closer to midnight, I couldn't help but to think a bit about NYE last year. I was here with Theo, observing the fireworks going off in my complex. To their credit, my neighbors do amazing fireworks displays, comparable to that of professionals. I was also thinking about the fact that my ex, Steve, bought me the most adorable smudging set and I needed to use it. Time to clear negative energy from my home.</p><p>I peeked out my bedroom window, just after midnight, when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. "Happy New Year" I hear a voice say. "Happy New Year, who is this?" I responded. </p><p>"It's Theo," he said.</p><p>"Oh, hey," I uttered.</p><p>I wasn't angry. I wasn't even really excited. I was just shocked. Like what the hell did he want? </p><p>"Well, I'm moving back home," he offered. "Where is home"? I countered. "Detroit," he said. </p><p>"Oh, okay" was the only response I could give. I mean, just all around confusion at this point.</p><p>"Well, that was all I wanted, just telling you happy New Year," he said. "Thanks, you too" was the only thing I could think to offer. </p><p>I got off the phone far more confused than when I answered it. Why the hell did he call? What did it mean? It certainly wasn't the kind of conversation I thought we'd have if we ever spoke again. And I didn't really think we'd speak again.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgJ4b0uZc_Nnuj8WS3BzMONBECD2nJQW-MWaE6f5-rXsJtqde_GTDSUP3ZWILvE_5prNalXsaQ_cB0YpiFz19hkyOsyU_XaLQb25FW6JN-c7E9gSJeBRvnA3X30vJRusSfLtrbMo4qWg1vSyIl3bViLIeNu3F-op17EbGOLmeXZ4kiv0BVd0O2yzOPiw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgJ4b0uZc_Nnuj8WS3BzMONBECD2nJQW-MWaE6f5-rXsJtqde_GTDSUP3ZWILvE_5prNalXsaQ_cB0YpiFz19hkyOsyU_XaLQb25FW6JN-c7E9gSJeBRvnA3X30vJRusSfLtrbMo4qWg1vSyIl3bViLIeNu3F-op17EbGOLmeXZ4kiv0BVd0O2yzOPiw" width="320" /></a></div>The thing that sucks about having news at midnight on NYE is that people are either out or knocked out, cuz #old. No one picked up. I had to sit with what just happened. <p></p><p>Then it occurred to me. He called me because he'd been thinking about me! You sure as shit don't just happen to call someone at midnight on NYE unless there is some kind of planned something there. And just like that, I went into 2023 that much better. I felt lighter. I truly felt weightless. I mean, I wasn't planning on going into the new year thinking about him. He was genuinely in no way part of anything good or bad that I was feeling going into the new year. </p><p>But the way he left when shit got bad was just wrong. And I felt so cheated, because at the end of the day, I was always there for him, and he knew it. He single-handedly fucked up our relationship, and he knows it. And what always stung me the most was how he walked away, as if I never mattered.</p><p>But then he called me. On New Years Eve. At midnight. I don't particularly care what it was for. He contacted me, letting me know that despite all of the bravado, he thought about me. Once I sorted through my thoughts, I realized his intention was to tell me that he was moving back (not that I really cared). The fact is that as soon as he moved out of my home, he moved back to Detroit. I knew that. He couldn't make it here on his own. And I wasn't going to continue to let him be my problem.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6tfIZooTlSfRInBKva9vpLl2IIym422g6pkOUDYMBhGT2kN1O_a-yqJjIVe3ycZRT-hDyVOhM12UcxW_KFFfQuaV3jK8Xp8-Cq3SqD2tz5zQhHTYw7acskcul-2r3bpg9Id_kS2r4Y85S8iZJd8BQoy_OGvkbUmFrN5UskG86Q54jYLohHDl3IR-Bkw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6tfIZooTlSfRInBKva9vpLl2IIym422g6pkOUDYMBhGT2kN1O_a-yqJjIVe3ycZRT-hDyVOhM12UcxW_KFFfQuaV3jK8Xp8-Cq3SqD2tz5zQhHTYw7acskcul-2r3bpg9Id_kS2r4Y85S8iZJd8BQoy_OGvkbUmFrN5UskG86Q54jYLohHDl3IR-Bkw" width="180" /></a></div>Only minutes after we got off the phone, it occurred to me- this would be the perfect time to ask about my shirt. I didn't give a damn about anything else. But seriously, I miss my shirt. I texted him to ask if he'd seen it. No response.<p></p><p>I woke the next day, still slightly confused. And again, concerned about the location of my missing hoodie. Since he didn't respond to my text, I took him off my block list on Facebook and inboxed him to ask if he'd seen it and asked if he'd accidentally taken it, would it be possible to mail it back. He quickly responded that he hadn't seen my shirt.</p><p>So there we have it. The end of an era. I can't explain how good it felt to get such a stupid phone call. No matter what his ridiculous reasoning was for calling me, it gave me what I needed. To know that as much as he showed his ass on the way out the door, at the end of the day, he still cares what I think (which is why he lied about moving to begin with). </p><p>I'm able to go into this year with my head held high. My goals are in sight. My loved ones are healthy and nearby. Everyone who is supposed to be in my life is here. I couldn't ask for anything better than that.</p><p>But I still don't have my shirt.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidxsggi7h4igYtdyByi-dYq90Lg0Zjv31rCjq8UfOkIqTbz9towKIgE-K1GVkyW31YlSd10p2iz0mWX821u6JB073kfVECe57SImEUcXgAQrQ6wf1-hl5jakCgnyvY5XbjWt8N8AjSznMW_VdPONK8m3BHHu4lPumf_Zbjd9VMP0z4rxzqM9h4AbKT7A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidxsggi7h4igYtdyByi-dYq90Lg0Zjv31rCjq8UfOkIqTbz9towKIgE-K1GVkyW31YlSd10p2iz0mWX821u6JB073kfVECe57SImEUcXgAQrQ6wf1-hl5jakCgnyvY5XbjWt8N8AjSznMW_VdPONK8m3BHHu4lPumf_Zbjd9VMP0z4rxzqM9h4AbKT7A" width="160" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-66425336722632133512022-12-21T01:22:00.004-05:002022-12-21T01:22:45.879-05:00Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be<p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFeTu3ruV31cmyUJ86FP87AQnXwVjwfIhD84a70r7z_sPtkxPZ9ynhOiH-dElvGpWpkhMoGx3cyFX5UxjOWMYYuNHB4PMffU6_gu0FrlOfA1r2jvuyzWHxAONPQK7kNfTKmuknCgTkjID8ot1E_aAhlgKL3r5ljK9u4sg1ImQbrowEkOa5bRZLbioYSQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFeTu3ruV31cmyUJ86FP87AQnXwVjwfIhD84a70r7z_sPtkxPZ9ynhOiH-dElvGpWpkhMoGx3cyFX5UxjOWMYYuNHB4PMffU6_gu0FrlOfA1r2jvuyzWHxAONPQK7kNfTKmuknCgTkjID8ot1E_aAhlgKL3r5ljK9u4sg1ImQbrowEkOa5bRZLbioYSQ" width="156" /></a></div><p></p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-IvrYEghyyHtrLPKcLE0ecE6ASM7WmA-ahJZF-xcSmZp2a7rXfpBzEoo3OYVve8hC0IBoeEKddouFSTmbvgt97QvdvqkXjuv08IyB2Amvonr3t89Vg5AtLEtXTueKNlPQSv-I16FrMCB3WN48PzfZLcHjYtOquAvcfGXaXRcT2B9OwTZc3UbA-guAzw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="212" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-IvrYEghyyHtrLPKcLE0ecE6ASM7WmA-ahJZF-xcSmZp2a7rXfpBzEoo3OYVve8hC0IBoeEKddouFSTmbvgt97QvdvqkXjuv08IyB2Amvonr3t89Vg5AtLEtXTueKNlPQSv-I16FrMCB3WN48PzfZLcHjYtOquAvcfGXaXRcT2B9OwTZc3UbA-guAzw" width="145" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVryvnfm4vyQttgjL6aAQHW7DLicgeMBQAx1CrsE6IL22WCJMQP5V2PWnNlOxFksp234EpE9VdiR-7kML0XqQxqL7v6UrvJst98wX1dnwIrPNBCWKsuNPR_-GQbHbT_f5n3g88FKEoCaIE-lF41va3Nsf4AKUdIa351wtMpZZ3aKQ8SZOvDWl4WMKh7A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="455" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVryvnfm4vyQttgjL6aAQHW7DLicgeMBQAx1CrsE6IL22WCJMQP5V2PWnNlOxFksp234EpE9VdiR-7kML0XqQxqL7v6UrvJst98wX1dnwIrPNBCWKsuNPR_-GQbHbT_f5n3g88FKEoCaIE-lF41va3Nsf4AKUdIa351wtMpZZ3aKQ8SZOvDWl4WMKh7A" width="168" /></a></div><p></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipKop4_r7kcpoozDI0-dgk9l8eJoNyFgzxRtKVBjPKVjxtejeBKJv_osENznYd7_lVhPU5fBRQyCPuP7GZ19dNAacTyYPGarpHStAbGcYhT0aQYbsy8dNFfb5Bv-bQMOZ2QS72q9A7MlUxPfa0ztrNtr6n7m3OvGtnipA4Wl06YyReVl7A4RUs_cjJBQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="630" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipKop4_r7kcpoozDI0-dgk9l8eJoNyFgzxRtKVBjPKVjxtejeBKJv_osENznYd7_lVhPU5fBRQyCPuP7GZ19dNAacTyYPGarpHStAbGcYhT0aQYbsy8dNFfb5Bv-bQMOZ2QS72q9A7MlUxPfa0ztrNtr6n7m3OvGtnipA4Wl06YyReVl7A4RUs_cjJBQ" width="320" /></a></div></div>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.<p></p><p>(side bar- This is quite possibly, the most difficult post I've ever written)</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharxfOs8_8Y5--F_HRs00nrcoYZIdS6LG8jdUg7_P5zL-7RSvrS6LWZoAK9KXej_CZWnpHNKSYKOcTjFJGhnWX8N0A6Pz010NCtoXDA6AIirMoe93YaULqd0J_NBHeBGZppxrYLZwtRt3_uKCYP0XxVDkChYcQzylAxpNqQicVQ9ov2xDUrE4_jkZTUA/s400/Black%20Buddha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="299" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharxfOs8_8Y5--F_HRs00nrcoYZIdS6LG8jdUg7_P5zL-7RSvrS6LWZoAK9KXej_CZWnpHNKSYKOcTjFJGhnWX8N0A6Pz010NCtoXDA6AIirMoe93YaULqd0J_NBHeBGZppxrYLZwtRt3_uKCYP0XxVDkChYcQzylAxpNqQicVQ9ov2xDUrE4_jkZTUA/s320/Black%20Buddha.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-73195472118641117112022-12-15T15:18:00.002-05:002022-12-17T15:50:13.916-05:00Lessons and Legacies<p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4jNzNXqpDTKKsot1wHP8Duuuv72csedCiXoV8JFZ55BzSYTBOY506lwAYt7gipK0mfZrBrwy4cP91h7sMRE1ehSsY729tIKT0D5BO5BP-jygqOrFLaylaOJboxFocn2jsMu94TQaYs3tCQ7IzeK4PyAuk7jnX0b13rgZg-IsDd6kx3gED93xAd9BORQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2200" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4jNzNXqpDTKKsot1wHP8Duuuv72csedCiXoV8JFZ55BzSYTBOY506lwAYt7gipK0mfZrBrwy4cP91h7sMRE1ehSsY729tIKT0D5BO5BP-jygqOrFLaylaOJboxFocn2jsMu94TQaYs3tCQ7IzeK4PyAuk7jnX0b13rgZg-IsDd6kx3gED93xAd9BORQ" width="218" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6doz0hvF7f8D2bCVdqJnAYkIKo_cjWi4lOPRMZzyy6lZNln5vyfHBotCcrBWgdC-KbzavfViY6RTRYdt67MOV75vTpKhWI1kbQHpEIxPZRkNxKoVYUEFa5CugK6Bs9RqCmh8w7IzC4oLi87debFUXMxGgvpGzH0frJ0y8KtbA035I9rkUCUvFe2ldqA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1000" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6doz0hvF7f8D2bCVdqJnAYkIKo_cjWi4lOPRMZzyy6lZNln5vyfHBotCcrBWgdC-KbzavfViY6RTRYdt67MOV75vTpKhWI1kbQHpEIxPZRkNxKoVYUEFa5CugK6Bs9RqCmh8w7IzC4oLi87debFUXMxGgvpGzH0frJ0y8KtbA035I9rkUCUvFe2ldqA" width="320" /></a></div><br />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. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjP57H5ZbIp8lUOqPAr5fnoKOgAAQU-XQk1OdJbgaNXJgTbSLFJ0LFCSIrZThxnERpXMJYDZItlyuiUBDxLO81cQlduBnpmkG6ZDHyn2MFnzQdiJuhK9XrpqGD6KzsYF40AS2Z_-VPFAEn4tZ0iztbXUAVVQaZanC6CbZyql4E_6UXE5a-_IchXzKk4w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjP57H5ZbIp8lUOqPAr5fnoKOgAAQU-XQk1OdJbgaNXJgTbSLFJ0LFCSIrZThxnERpXMJYDZItlyuiUBDxLO81cQlduBnpmkG6ZDHyn2MFnzQdiJuhK9XrpqGD6KzsYF40AS2Z_-VPFAEn4tZ0iztbXUAVVQaZanC6CbZyql4E_6UXE5a-_IchXzKk4w" width="320" /></a></div>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? <i>Me?</i><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHFwfUUoAApESXZuHQHO5-KadldERk3vmxq4IIctXuXIq73SIdzUp5YrNlHkorZPxO8NcdwuuP2CeCwmb8WrSo9lTFq3D79nAUiddE9mru-A4Wz7gJT8JUQxi_5R9Ufn3kEwHAt6brpepDvgD8BRo4gKMF6i-uQS0NU3fLMF1_DfT4GnsSN2gJxMbQiQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHFwfUUoAApESXZuHQHO5-KadldERk3vmxq4IIctXuXIq73SIdzUp5YrNlHkorZPxO8NcdwuuP2CeCwmb8WrSo9lTFq3D79nAUiddE9mru-A4Wz7gJT8JUQxi_5R9Ufn3kEwHAt6brpepDvgD8BRo4gKMF6i-uQS0NU3fLMF1_DfT4GnsSN2gJxMbQiQ" width="320" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjahZxb207Clv28ist0ZxutH0LdNiS5IlTlUI_eEJJh0aug_mUWX2gJ76wLTB4iUyh6mvlQJtOIuvAEaZz75fYPJFB0f24Wz9sTqc1gi-2eqina2d_5rEn5tm5FqvtRMDLelv7LZmCpSiN2JZC2D7MIEQjvNE4-llEVIwe8O81u2x6GIt69xGyq947OXQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjahZxb207Clv28ist0ZxutH0LdNiS5IlTlUI_eEJJh0aug_mUWX2gJ76wLTB4iUyh6mvlQJtOIuvAEaZz75fYPJFB0f24Wz9sTqc1gi-2eqina2d_5rEn5tm5FqvtRMDLelv7LZmCpSiN2JZC2D7MIEQjvNE4-llEVIwe8O81u2x6GIt69xGyq947OXQ" width="289" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-56061438792833464562022-12-11T18:34:00.003-05:002022-12-15T14:32:37.797-05:00Navigating New Nails<p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmBWeQGSskIcR2bthK_aW9vAmSXUa5NeUhR52iKcG6aXw8lM4nejqACFTgi1emn8TENdaCHGlrcHu1KMR5EInZEnQ-swCnfJAqcwFASAR0pTFRUVaZLeoOe6q1rsuH4tJGN-IjE6g9kf4_-AdWA6v7QItyDdXI5cHL6LCWlRmsBhcBWUlLNREBXUmfeA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="466" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmBWeQGSskIcR2bthK_aW9vAmSXUa5NeUhR52iKcG6aXw8lM4nejqACFTgi1emn8TENdaCHGlrcHu1KMR5EInZEnQ-swCnfJAqcwFASAR0pTFRUVaZLeoOe6q1rsuH4tJGN-IjE6g9kf4_-AdWA6v7QItyDdXI5cHL6LCWlRmsBhcBWUlLNREBXUmfeA" width="233" /></a></div></div><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaZbNMcsKs91GKJ-K_ahWNteBaTkIQkvCiuL-Z7ZNSRqJGZTLmbvje0PTpoKqdsRch_FRypmVt0WdB5lTR45VsJjM63Sb2t87XbmADyC2_uVQjFUxMoVH9xpO6LbEO8K2MPupG34pRhMpyV__reD0vdx-fG0lKTajp2m-yg4PA7n1XeYVvoTxTTjaQqQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaZbNMcsKs91GKJ-K_ahWNteBaTkIQkvCiuL-Z7ZNSRqJGZTLmbvje0PTpoKqdsRch_FRypmVt0WdB5lTR45VsJjM63Sb2t87XbmADyC2_uVQjFUxMoVH9xpO6LbEO8K2MPupG34pRhMpyV__reD0vdx-fG0lKTajp2m-yg4PA7n1XeYVvoTxTTjaQqQ" width="180" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p></p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiZdRj85XhMkXXVkvdfP2w-gtKUhN18BjjlW6f13P9hbNfQjY__POEtgXZNjsSKffFiu9-EYARHDH9cixIITvcA_jfUh8xANRDYjVTH6K8rdCTJALlfD_zdznyzW7ldp8nePYtMHzouXWlJLn8KvXOKPYIwoy7oU2M8pKLJPQAQg2hgKzDbrMMbeLxQ/s800/Ouch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiZdRj85XhMkXXVkvdfP2w-gtKUhN18BjjlW6f13P9hbNfQjY__POEtgXZNjsSKffFiu9-EYARHDH9cixIITvcA_jfUh8xANRDYjVTH6K8rdCTJALlfD_zdznyzW7ldp8nePYtMHzouXWlJLn8KvXOKPYIwoy7oU2M8pKLJPQAQg2hgKzDbrMMbeLxQ/s320/Ouch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilQJ8l9rAI6jxEU7vjaNPhZMZLGEzWU2Ixs7zObjlnGioHUHeTuGCdX9JXEUKq12826s3qyoIy_d_JOZYE-UnEJFzQu3A-VR_Mr_n7ALTsFLeQBWnt4VCDaT6iTD7RF7i3NN3zur1fdjeT-wi-3PIk4JTrjH_1xYG2QMErLZElEu5Nl_0Na5fj0t7E-w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="580" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilQJ8l9rAI6jxEU7vjaNPhZMZLGEzWU2Ixs7zObjlnGioHUHeTuGCdX9JXEUKq12826s3qyoIy_d_JOZYE-UnEJFzQu3A-VR_Mr_n7ALTsFLeQBWnt4VCDaT6iTD7RF7i3NN3zur1fdjeT-wi-3PIk4JTrjH_1xYG2QMErLZElEu5Nl_0Na5fj0t7E-w" width="240" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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? </p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJZ5e0NOM14qg2NUoXro_TVuSCT35gyjiyLrZvGikereYbiR2AGR16sq-zS6uulWDCRvZF8VSxUAgsW1GRFGcIJ17xd3k9kWHGXS_Ysb4caZ0xeFJ0IO8tARu2vyFvzB5DsY5Z_enGNWRBvEa_ULqFp51EUs_aOFpnt6xkiGaXa01l-iZLCdYXLJEldg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="509" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJZ5e0NOM14qg2NUoXro_TVuSCT35gyjiyLrZvGikereYbiR2AGR16sq-zS6uulWDCRvZF8VSxUAgsW1GRFGcIJ17xd3k9kWHGXS_Ysb4caZ0xeFJ0IO8tARu2vyFvzB5DsY5Z_enGNWRBvEa_ULqFp51EUs_aOFpnt6xkiGaXa01l-iZLCdYXLJEldg" width="320" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1xas_LsH29dL3G3F-AZQnj0GoP0ebkWQjoY6Xenzcd-VbUlQpLeTyCfRCgChgsnEiHS1oCTaHoHFOlqjgUH3GwXdjlVsG8LXs4e7aczcgML7d7lrTBbJd6Ou9-gyTJDRgjJanxj0nmZIk1L4Cz_oX-VY8BVdnWI4iGBl2Lkw3H1oVSVC6PY_RLtnVg/s1000/New%20Nails.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1xas_LsH29dL3G3F-AZQnj0GoP0ebkWQjoY6Xenzcd-VbUlQpLeTyCfRCgChgsnEiHS1oCTaHoHFOlqjgUH3GwXdjlVsG8LXs4e7aczcgML7d7lrTBbJd6Ou9-gyTJDRgjJanxj0nmZIk1L4Cz_oX-VY8BVdnWI4iGBl2Lkw3H1oVSVC6PY_RLtnVg/s320/New%20Nails.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-85781964385966067342022-12-08T14:22:00.001-05:002022-12-08T14:22:53.484-05:00Healthy and Happy<p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeSvl3m4g9cX2SYhb7bbhfipC9KhiphJb--i2HEP8m546MdAeV_AdkkSDz8wnLcxdJbNoXGoLyi6UI1q38Og5QllAzl9okZJHFDQScm8z1UT8f1ECAYYIo1xRHA9itvJRKwXbL6gmSpFnGpKRCGgrz4ROBPEl0ylsMpwSdLilenxoir2OadOQ4dcGLkg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1000" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeSvl3m4g9cX2SYhb7bbhfipC9KhiphJb--i2HEP8m546MdAeV_AdkkSDz8wnLcxdJbNoXGoLyi6UI1q38Og5QllAzl9okZJHFDQScm8z1UT8f1ECAYYIo1xRHA9itvJRKwXbL6gmSpFnGpKRCGgrz4ROBPEl0ylsMpwSdLilenxoir2OadOQ4dcGLkg" width="320" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYUUHgK_W5c_-EPSSZ-XKhXOiBfVRt_rIiqHMaoKIFeB9yZi0pkeozQIdlAcqQr_nUTqeeOCN09AAGgDMoC82HDPdP0ih4AozoEwiMclTs-xm4SxlGCT6evXbczHskJZ8BItPdY0c5Q1X0xB67pdRl3ZebDpdzF4x8see8VOksZ5IzpZRCMGRp4J455w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYUUHgK_W5c_-EPSSZ-XKhXOiBfVRt_rIiqHMaoKIFeB9yZi0pkeozQIdlAcqQr_nUTqeeOCN09AAGgDMoC82HDPdP0ih4AozoEwiMclTs-xm4SxlGCT6evXbczHskJZ8BItPdY0c5Q1X0xB67pdRl3ZebDpdzF4x8see8VOksZ5IzpZRCMGRp4J455w" width="320" /></a></div>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!<p></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgTjvJCkT1lMfRithrXeEmwnKgZt0RQ8nSbKOIbILsrk_9zAL9DpTn1VxdBcZbD5lpw85xtlz-RnO7Me2bRX5aIHExpBFYPj8PKOSFdndCf07AaOjxgoEkZwnU9PmrsNfbbY3THX1AzgVqBLeWsJHbhf_1NUssue65Ww_-_p-z9TAf5pDegPlweP4vjw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="880" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgTjvJCkT1lMfRithrXeEmwnKgZt0RQ8nSbKOIbILsrk_9zAL9DpTn1VxdBcZbD5lpw85xtlz-RnO7Me2bRX5aIHExpBFYPj8PKOSFdndCf07AaOjxgoEkZwnU9PmrsNfbbY3THX1AzgVqBLeWsJHbhf_1NUssue65Ww_-_p-z9TAf5pDegPlweP4vjw" width="299" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p>Christmas is coming. My soul is at ease. I am happy.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1MKdovhm2kTLBQjKWdpdPTq93cBSF6UGwnUYCJ3FP3sVCZQZmBQfCFO7pBJxt_GYkBCn7pg7sPATcIEcgLvP9YC4wJP6CAPh-0_SPRLCk_48BZSzz3MmCxr6dMZY2yiVB-6z1tr4Y6L1m107MmGTObRLUtYQYZe18JdH9AbeaLHUCs8PUnV2sD6i3JQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="768" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1MKdovhm2kTLBQjKWdpdPTq93cBSF6UGwnUYCJ3FP3sVCZQZmBQfCFO7pBJxt_GYkBCn7pg7sPATcIEcgLvP9YC4wJP6CAPh-0_SPRLCk_48BZSzz3MmCxr6dMZY2yiVB-6z1tr4Y6L1m107MmGTObRLUtYQYZe18JdH9AbeaLHUCs8PUnV2sD6i3JQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-91563282740114892222022-11-23T14:07:00.007-05:002022-11-23T20:05:51.142-05:00Past, Present, and Future<p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4qdE_nfpG6cq6owVQ1EgGgQpuEDvDzvDJrL-1W_i6i_REmHB1vDdGH9-PW1o9Ro7i94grOgDtHSekAhRzA3Nfv0P4NxVQTwKOE3fTOcq6gjyDY0O9IrHnsXkHh8PfvayCvCa3r8hzmBrG5yFxYy_iagGa_T_GSAdoyRvDUhEx5lQv717MPoohfXoCw/s275/Hope.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4qdE_nfpG6cq6owVQ1EgGgQpuEDvDzvDJrL-1W_i6i_REmHB1vDdGH9-PW1o9Ro7i94grOgDtHSekAhRzA3Nfv0P4NxVQTwKOE3fTOcq6gjyDY0O9IrHnsXkHh8PfvayCvCa3r8hzmBrG5yFxYy_iagGa_T_GSAdoyRvDUhEx5lQv717MPoohfXoCw/s1600/Hope.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2Q79vOfQ34V1In5_yb7iB-R_0OhJ6QWSMlL3nvVPe4mCwFEX75rFTNDx1k2HQJ-k2mJRfJDgPTs5olKoTPvnYrVmapMOGhuhsjDozI4civhia89zW1_n708lJNQc9R5FoFjlnEj5TBDkYMuWdo3lTmkYUGePvi3CmuHoo4wpWRIqz10uLhkpix7tzg/s275/Happy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2Q79vOfQ34V1In5_yb7iB-R_0OhJ6QWSMlL3nvVPe4mCwFEX75rFTNDx1k2HQJ-k2mJRfJDgPTs5olKoTPvnYrVmapMOGhuhsjDozI4civhia89zW1_n708lJNQc9R5FoFjlnEj5TBDkYMuWdo3lTmkYUGePvi3CmuHoo4wpWRIqz10uLhkpix7tzg/s1600/Happy.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPOrauy0oXgqEd_GeUWCh85yQLjJXhwXwzsyCwG3Iv-B7-zAhjmG0bvRSp6lsY5sdfa6g_1_vUKdP5JFwc9gi-qBKgk0TLeApB2sKU55Lkrd5MtxyibSUJn568fAOvEcu0H_AQ3Ut5T9QHX4EUw3n2jv9jbB67TfgXlaVDIL0gJN6B8oTB3PBk-12i6A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="620" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPOrauy0oXgqEd_GeUWCh85yQLjJXhwXwzsyCwG3Iv-B7-zAhjmG0bvRSp6lsY5sdfa6g_1_vUKdP5JFwc9gi-qBKgk0TLeApB2sKU55Lkrd5MtxyibSUJn568fAOvEcu0H_AQ3Ut5T9QHX4EUw3n2jv9jbB67TfgXlaVDIL0gJN6B8oTB3PBk-12i6A" width="186" /></a></div>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 <i>were</i> no good memories. At least not for me.<p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeXxhPfzm6ulvsXgmJsrHpqeS2SLmM1s0XPkMJEpCwZ-h2NVoY_wMaCcDjxXQlKXiYWmDRCZffFaFoYH-IbG1QGAESQ_W6DDtWqwB_XvyRRv0bcTqG30PjxA1BAIZMPEje17SKvuLqRxoBec8B14Y121ZWV1Zysrk2jgcC1qtIn25KEjiI0o1u9ptZhQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="794" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeXxhPfzm6ulvsXgmJsrHpqeS2SLmM1s0XPkMJEpCwZ-h2NVoY_wMaCcDjxXQlKXiYWmDRCZffFaFoYH-IbG1QGAESQ_W6DDtWqwB_XvyRRv0bcTqG30PjxA1BAIZMPEje17SKvuLqRxoBec8B14Y121ZWV1Zysrk2jgcC1qtIn25KEjiI0o1u9ptZhQ" width="250" /></a></div>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. <p></p><p>Good times? Fucking really?! Where?! WHEN?!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistaCCeTOdGHfK8K34QOenXY5D4aMIHPVGUPvGwzeUwh321SoJifbIqGWjhMI9BjC4NZRg2Ipf2ILUtx6-k82mtGk_0cH8mKOy24REmei4e1AO-MeOtG-s1F0rlE_VGNAupZ6rfo5mqt5Npg0KOjXH-O2nDucQBhUzOPJkNbEuYCbYrFC2cVe4_03S5A/s309/Villain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="309" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistaCCeTOdGHfK8K34QOenXY5D4aMIHPVGUPvGwzeUwh321SoJifbIqGWjhMI9BjC4NZRg2Ipf2ILUtx6-k82mtGk_0cH8mKOy24REmei4e1AO-MeOtG-s1F0rlE_VGNAupZ6rfo5mqt5Npg0KOjXH-O2nDucQBhUzOPJkNbEuYCbYrFC2cVe4_03S5A/s1600/Villain.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p>(So now that I got that out of my system)</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzsFjZBeRM9GlpitNEPP35KK4wpGbuCVlrXka-BSP6nCGtQfa0wGPc637wzqPhLRGbmTsTyC9SjesV2gixD8aiCuOeVV29I_r3_ViNzsUDutlJTb_IEATxIN22aLuASiwhI55ey1s5FgZDg0u3VYK-zUzvHOpEbvNESjx53jXVCSTYwZlNAK0nkOA_g/s612/Boxer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzsFjZBeRM9GlpitNEPP35KK4wpGbuCVlrXka-BSP6nCGtQfa0wGPc637wzqPhLRGbmTsTyC9SjesV2gixD8aiCuOeVV29I_r3_ViNzsUDutlJTb_IEATxIN22aLuASiwhI55ey1s5FgZDg0u3VYK-zUzvHOpEbvNESjx53jXVCSTYwZlNAK0nkOA_g/s320/Boxer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-79770596231251058412022-11-20T16:30:00.002-05:002022-11-20T16:40:01.160-05:00Tricks or Treats?<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Anyway, a week before party time, my friend called me and said that she still plans to go <i>plus</i> 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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXW0Uc8zGLH_hn7YaqePqiiiloweCIy_LD9kdPZ-QWSTTVT5glpZuHiUqyClCh9N_S84QIfz0cj5dO92Mggmu61KDFfpUVFEcAM2d8a3KObEVOCM_m6FcUz_jXGvcX0XlXsVL2f9rnHupzAmWmVk-IJTAwuwsyZ07dyr1Qd8jImlVA6HpquLItquwJNg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXW0Uc8zGLH_hn7YaqePqiiiloweCIy_LD9kdPZ-QWSTTVT5glpZuHiUqyClCh9N_S84QIfz0cj5dO92Mggmu61KDFfpUVFEcAM2d8a3KObEVOCM_m6FcUz_jXGvcX0XlXsVL2f9rnHupzAmWmVk-IJTAwuwsyZ07dyr1Qd8jImlVA6HpquLItquwJNg" width="314" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVD94qbiLVHNVxClW9HAboPDE9Ui_caSorZbHBgczQm0JLYGF9jbhFVmcIlBt45Nwa4qkoqwDmuwp1QcTqRfpITikky5ZAOUYWwiqbTfylXYMmJvkrZI3Nni0dOqLOHym0wdXw8StQ3pznwsCQEgJFRa5kd6Z72iNdhb5vH9x64K6AavLMH9a657OJLA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVD94qbiLVHNVxClW9HAboPDE9Ui_caSorZbHBgczQm0JLYGF9jbhFVmcIlBt45Nwa4qkoqwDmuwp1QcTqRfpITikky5ZAOUYWwiqbTfylXYMmJvkrZI3Nni0dOqLOHym0wdXw8StQ3pznwsCQEgJFRa5kd6Z72iNdhb5vH9x64K6AavLMH9a657OJLA" width="320" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Devon walked me to my car, like the gentleman he is. We hugged. But it was kind of a<i> long</i> hug. A nice, warm hug, of embracing a long lost loved one. I instinctively pecked him on the lips. He smiled.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSeEaSsvNyTJSnN-Q-PKaa7KaW08mJLXxaQQ2dHqZZMW8lK1DA3DBH254UnYdaj3Qm36W4dNokiynuZ2ZCG4LgY2ynuCtWqxThmoU4GOvUk_zQwty6dHeSwNNfhlaQTTfhA71sRR_Sr5tQr5-S64VVuHcZoEKL6nwPJRjoCYVyIUAnyDQyGghotYwig/s268/Cardi%20Impressed.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="268" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSeEaSsvNyTJSnN-Q-PKaa7KaW08mJLXxaQQ2dHqZZMW8lK1DA3DBH254UnYdaj3Qm36W4dNokiynuZ2ZCG4LgY2ynuCtWqxThmoU4GOvUk_zQwty6dHeSwNNfhlaQTTfhA71sRR_Sr5tQr5-S64VVuHcZoEKL6nwPJRjoCYVyIUAnyDQyGghotYwig/s1600/Cardi%20Impressed.gif" width="268" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFQhLfTh2MqtBUP7jwpRA9RtwpVZcYA3r4ZouImZ906U6TT-y2gp9X25rhafEVGuJdDTfyp7PIshgK9JT8IkCNU0Ksq_dSIvT_gpB_sJcYaJJHLnK_ZO-gM-lJOwd0QFcK-mKYMeSL9MIAtOT7kGUc9hSH5-nnLvif6NTm_QDTG1aSBBOiyWp25jygOw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2343" data-original-width="3527" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFQhLfTh2MqtBUP7jwpRA9RtwpVZcYA3r4ZouImZ906U6TT-y2gp9X25rhafEVGuJdDTfyp7PIshgK9JT8IkCNU0Ksq_dSIvT_gpB_sJcYaJJHLnK_ZO-gM-lJOwd0QFcK-mKYMeSL9MIAtOT7kGUc9hSH5-nnLvif6NTm_QDTG1aSBBOiyWp25jygOw" width="320" /></a></div>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<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaVb35Oak2AOwgaWUjVMkxTMkFQDSb_cKF8nWwookpHBWvsYpNabv1qyYgf1Y3t6HOiZWFQk3HtDlQNebl_ShXFyOHgnykLuRyjNDMiYvAALU7fTgRHF_Ggm_67FlcboPkMmzpcQHPR1nQjeY-2IAOqYV1LeAwmpw1Si9ExtBXE8DQw1ru7rdIAH1JbQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="700" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaVb35Oak2AOwgaWUjVMkxTMkFQDSb_cKF8nWwookpHBWvsYpNabv1qyYgf1Y3t6HOiZWFQk3HtDlQNebl_ShXFyOHgnykLuRyjNDMiYvAALU7fTgRHF_Ggm_67FlcboPkMmzpcQHPR1nQjeY-2IAOqYV1LeAwmpw1Si9ExtBXE8DQw1ru7rdIAH1JbQ" width="320" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Pty7Sn0wBnSB2CdAUdN3QmAOzXYEOtlaZQVM9-WCMlaHminZi84gAh88WJEhDCsUZTGzpuTxEFYgAKpuJzQ4vOGr022SODUROld9aScK0sSm8BUc5j4d-prblENSxMo1rfQ80ZaArfWDvuz5M35xPqf1J4fzvFGQ6UMfu205DU5pBFLD3GcHZs8FFg/s612/Alcoholic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Pty7Sn0wBnSB2CdAUdN3QmAOzXYEOtlaZQVM9-WCMlaHminZi84gAh88WJEhDCsUZTGzpuTxEFYgAKpuJzQ4vOGr022SODUROld9aScK0sSm8BUc5j4d-prblENSxMo1rfQ80ZaArfWDvuz5M35xPqf1J4fzvFGQ6UMfu205DU5pBFLD3GcHZs8FFg/s320/Alcoholic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQnY6f-Sp2EvR4-wJViy2UItDpAgh87WIghlfpYlR0mtsdRqGvSoER3AWPz3-GyV67GbwOwlHsmxOEGTBfKMy73SoX0qxRWapHiF3d3I3e-_7_dPPsUqWE8rxYrtDgADpCQ_UvBNcd5x7wojm8u13fzqTrIiEf48ORIJT6kwUiFnNWvc-cWnraB-xwBA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQnY6f-Sp2EvR4-wJViy2UItDpAgh87WIghlfpYlR0mtsdRqGvSoER3AWPz3-GyV67GbwOwlHsmxOEGTBfKMy73SoX0qxRWapHiF3d3I3e-_7_dPPsUqWE8rxYrtDgADpCQ_UvBNcd5x7wojm8u13fzqTrIiEf48ORIJT6kwUiFnNWvc-cWnraB-xwBA" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-77625691378436676822022-11-10T00:50:00.002-05:002022-11-10T01:07:20.002-05:00Ain't No Way<p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4FhmyCjNB_WbPkaGc3IpqUg7KgbMGBHPK1zDWtSodddSE9FKEt4zEh-2nkOuF-u-6wAfr_jkHaqeIYn5YGI3iR-ijKexMGsYnAAoYIi5m9yWMEx6mf9RzGS6qU78-Sqp_hyXmGM6buZEO7R0jQWbrv9ExjJo4_MP31q-CyCDIVvUBotSAhXWaP1-jw/s1500/Elf.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4FhmyCjNB_WbPkaGc3IpqUg7KgbMGBHPK1zDWtSodddSE9FKEt4zEh-2nkOuF-u-6wAfr_jkHaqeIYn5YGI3iR-ijKexMGsYnAAoYIi5m9yWMEx6mf9RzGS6qU78-Sqp_hyXmGM6buZEO7R0jQWbrv9ExjJo4_MP31q-CyCDIVvUBotSAhXWaP1-jw/s320/Elf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYEJB5odfxsRB8IQ5pJq7rx628tJSgWG4wG8rX9q-gaIJJFRwIuEFxPpZmqiJhEg8bV3Nhoc02haFJ97etq91GyfxOlh_AsJOOuZJKUNw65flNttM89h3B_u9xxiY0xarKvR--zoRa6at-_t_-K3-tY_KcAJ6fgCaQAMDhWxEAYv7_duAmgUC4mmkc9A/s480/Help.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYEJB5odfxsRB8IQ5pJq7rx628tJSgWG4wG8rX9q-gaIJJFRwIuEFxPpZmqiJhEg8bV3Nhoc02haFJ97etq91GyfxOlh_AsJOOuZJKUNw65flNttM89h3B_u9xxiY0xarKvR--zoRa6at-_t_-K3-tY_KcAJ6fgCaQAMDhWxEAYv7_duAmgUC4mmkc9A/s320/Help.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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 <i>jazzy.</i> 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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZR5KpLP8V5Crc5H58cnQn1uAY9f7p5AhDmB8-cVN9AepxCis_2sZTldnET0kohJEU72dAgKIMZtpzOBqtjSNbaf0BQ981cZmUcIZ3_SkH3SKeZq_Z2b-CDA7nv_gIaYJYFiu7qhA-P62EZCaq8fs5tnfcVfLxC0sI5VPDsiPMsux35hu7IEfiSheAPQ/s640/Pookie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZR5KpLP8V5Crc5H58cnQn1uAY9f7p5AhDmB8-cVN9AepxCis_2sZTldnET0kohJEU72dAgKIMZtpzOBqtjSNbaf0BQ981cZmUcIZ3_SkH3SKeZq_Z2b-CDA7nv_gIaYJYFiu7qhA-P62EZCaq8fs5tnfcVfLxC0sI5VPDsiPMsux35hu7IEfiSheAPQ/s320/Pookie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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 <i>annoyed </i>that she cared enough to reach out to get him help.</p><p>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!!</p><p>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!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib4dTEaKdgkq9GNM8_EXCJqClK29955zrvxY6VM0E3CipxMbSj3F6B8NO0TuvFucv60Kd1xpzMVsB7VnB5vytYgHBuKYzW9Fa-SeHY6XM2EicftHJmPi6dL2LtVSsnROKC-pas3iFFcPJCstnnyHkMBzGk4YJU81X6dD0rr-lRqd2EytbGvUtZkmaVhw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="950" data-original-width="950" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib4dTEaKdgkq9GNM8_EXCJqClK29955zrvxY6VM0E3CipxMbSj3F6B8NO0TuvFucv60Kd1xpzMVsB7VnB5vytYgHBuKYzW9Fa-SeHY6XM2EicftHJmPi6dL2LtVSsnROKC-pas3iFFcPJCstnnyHkMBzGk4YJU81X6dD0rr-lRqd2EytbGvUtZkmaVhw" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>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. </p><p>*"He sneezes too loud?! Girl, you don't gotta take that, leave his ass!" </p><p>*"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!"</p><p>*"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!!"</p><p>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.</p><p>She is either a better person than me, or a better wife than me. Cuz...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxurYgBXR_lqwmzINP9Yn9y55Wm4tywQPwnfsu2H8BihRYkr2XEXzxlirO5P9zysvcSu3u5CyeoMg6HuKADjjXeo0J8TurZMVhyIh6tEcRSEqvinYi1zS8gs2dVtE7mdJMcZDTbFsskf4EnVz0HV7DPYSFshuZfx9zzdtSivZy83szbvXxVfoKG04CA/s1080/Ain't%20No%20Way.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="1080" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxurYgBXR_lqwmzINP9Yn9y55Wm4tywQPwnfsu2H8BihRYkr2XEXzxlirO5P9zysvcSu3u5CyeoMg6HuKADjjXeo0J8TurZMVhyIh6tEcRSEqvinYi1zS8gs2dVtE7mdJMcZDTbFsskf4EnVz0HV7DPYSFshuZfx9zzdtSivZy83szbvXxVfoKG04CA/s320/Ain't%20No%20Way.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2147897870935247498.post-43827263283031512242022-10-21T21:33:00.004-04:002022-10-28T17:33:24.971-04:00Going With the Flow and Reaping the Rewards<p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDiQKFE3RIBDQkrp7KlM4qGy5lqIzrVj-zDaQDALHwG0BRIQTUQ62rmiTYhRLt780LlWBo_gxUsA_srvTF5rrRBkv2yzs6eJTANOybD4bPIHN7un8t3to_oGgYl6HcKUngtgaFrw5vfX8JrhHTduAEH808UpaaLot3OPLOmamVce_KRgtRoikIW8adDA/s2450/Pen%20and%20Ink.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1668" data-original-width="2450" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDiQKFE3RIBDQkrp7KlM4qGy5lqIzrVj-zDaQDALHwG0BRIQTUQ62rmiTYhRLt780LlWBo_gxUsA_srvTF5rrRBkv2yzs6eJTANOybD4bPIHN7un8t3to_oGgYl6HcKUngtgaFrw5vfX8JrhHTduAEH808UpaaLot3OPLOmamVce_KRgtRoikIW8adDA/s320/Pen%20and%20Ink.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH6tky-u46uSxknIK94aNprYi7LOblby-rsy4EkCgGK8i3Eao_mVoYgNHN0KH2V7Zdz7l-VmFqQ80JGStulQxP4Vcuc1wzEGzDN0W7pItcWGqJ07lwNZON0AbiNEivzqv9SvB4uI7G71n2I9AGtEBBHB9mfoCH7DZGL7AhTrQVaW6sFtcJ9nBquZkhLA/s1024/Waiting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="1024" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH6tky-u46uSxknIK94aNprYi7LOblby-rsy4EkCgGK8i3Eao_mVoYgNHN0KH2V7Zdz7l-VmFqQ80JGStulQxP4Vcuc1wzEGzDN0W7pItcWGqJ07lwNZON0AbiNEivzqv9SvB4uI7G71n2I9AGtEBBHB9mfoCH7DZGL7AhTrQVaW6sFtcJ9nBquZkhLA/s320/Waiting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Q7FfgNzyYKkTX-HFpVLr_mQJAO0t6EnsZ3zY81BnYaQEtNWnkx_J92j1yaLbyXxhkWZuRmi8gSXZ65_bb8h1fg6DfckpCawb8NZyPFbjPLBge6zAN7oesgMFEmyEgizQ7ZB6_uZx3MW3IzsdkTUrWPnI2ArvahpTG42Smne0isf-7eWGYZWAC6edPA/s2929/Smash%20the%20Patriarchy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1969" data-original-width="2929" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Q7FfgNzyYKkTX-HFpVLr_mQJAO0t6EnsZ3zY81BnYaQEtNWnkx_J92j1yaLbyXxhkWZuRmi8gSXZ65_bb8h1fg6DfckpCawb8NZyPFbjPLBge6zAN7oesgMFEmyEgizQ7ZB6_uZx3MW3IzsdkTUrWPnI2ArvahpTG42Smne0isf-7eWGYZWAC6edPA/s320/Smash%20the%20Patriarchy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqGd6KgpkgvXKFILHqAheUf8c3L-wYAyM3_jU9Vd7FtCKZuySDh_j68zogXnLb_U5uOSOwUNCVI2JR_nR6eXyeyPjSWPaMQXkfFC8xbwsmFndWSBo7LuO1FN8KvEXG-VviO-hlRC1KkuTAXt7Tf-i9sGSDwoNewrLIvpZbGctbkvPYH1PT58CMFlqGQ/s200/Andrea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqGd6KgpkgvXKFILHqAheUf8c3L-wYAyM3_jU9Vd7FtCKZuySDh_j68zogXnLb_U5uOSOwUNCVI2JR_nR6eXyeyPjSWPaMQXkfFC8xbwsmFndWSBo7LuO1FN8KvEXG-VviO-hlRC1KkuTAXt7Tf-i9sGSDwoNewrLIvpZbGctbkvPYH1PT58CMFlqGQ/s1600/Andrea.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Malikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638218036309666944noreply@blogger.com0