DARVO

Brandon and I have bonded over our shredded shit shows that were once called relationships. It feels good to be able to lean on him as another person who was wounded by someone that they let in too deep. I've also leaned into Reddit as a way to learn far more about how patriarchy has been an absolute menace to society, making my decision to remain single that much more vital. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that all men are trash. I just think that patriarchy has taught far too many men and women that women are weak and stupid, and are for the sole purpose of being used, abused and discarded by men. In other words,  "I'm good luv. Enjoy!"

Anyway, I stumbled across a Reddit board the other day, where a woman talked about how her boyfriend of 8 months showed his entire ass when she refused to allow him access to her bank account. Many of the commenters referred to his behavior as "DARVO." I happened to have come across the term recently when I was listening to a podcast where a woman discussed how a man infiltrated a bunch of doula/lactation online groups, and caused a lot of confusion, including encouraging the mostly female respondents to do porn. The weasel went on to sue the women that began sharing information about him in order to warn others. To add insult to injury, the bastard lives in Hawaii so many low income women (and mothers at that) were having to spend money they did not have (and taking away from their children), just to fly to Hawaii to fight him for charges they did not deserve.

After hearing this term repeated twice in a really short time, I decided to do a quick Google search. My jaw practically hit the ground.

It was all too familiar with a few of my exes, and most recently Theo. There was a moment in time when he acted an entire ass and later on tried to make it seem that he was the actual victim. I didn't respond, because I knew that what he was claiming was an offense was just manufactured drama to take away any responsibility for his bad choices and refusal to change. He wasn't a victim and I wasn't going to allow him to pretend to be one.

Anyway, it also sounded similar to quite a few things Brandon had gone through with his addict ex-girlfriend and her unwillingness to admit fault in a few of their issues. Brandon was just as shocked as I was to know there was an actual name to this tactic. He then admitted that yes, his ex was quite proficient at playing the victim role whenever he pointed out some of her poor behavior.

During our conversation, I asked him how things are with his finances, especially since he pays his ex-wife (mother of his children) a pretty large sum of money for child support. Brandon admitted that his ex-wife told him that she's currently seeking a higher paying job, because she recognizes that anything could happen with him and she'd need to be able to care for the kids with no help from him.

I was floored. Poor financial management was a large part of what led to their divorce. "If only she'd had that mentality when y'all were married," I offered. "That's exactly what I said," he countered. Brandon had also told me that his ex-wife had been going to counseling and that she admits that she may have slipped into a depression, leading to a lot of her lax behavior toward their household and her overall responsibilities while they were together.

Then I asked Brandon, "you ever thought about getting back with her?" "Hell nah!" he quickly answered. "Well," I started. "It might be worth you giving it another shot." 

I talked to him about how much he's spending in child support to care for the children, well over what a judge would order. Things with his most recent ex-girlfriend (whom he'd left his wife for) are dead in the water. This woman is the mother of his children, and they had over 10 years together. Plus she's taking the time to work on herself, including therapy and taking a bigger role in being responsible for her finances. The fact is, all the issues he previously had with her, she's working hard to resolve them. And unlike the ex-girlfriend who thinks he'll stick around, the ex-wife really sees and values what he brought to the table and would like to remain with him, especially after seeing that he'll dip if she doesn't straighten up. I also offered that his eventually divorcing her for a woman who (at the time) did all the things he told her he needed, showed her that the man she thought would never leave, could and would in fact, leave. And not just leave, but set up home with another woman. His ex-wife saw the writing on the wall, and stepped up to get him back.

Brandon also admitted that his ex-wife has offered that he can come back home any time he's ready, and has routinely tried to sleep with him, although he has declined to not blur the lines of their relationship. I told Brandon that quite honestly, had my ex put forth half the effort his ex-wife did when we separated, I would have seriously considered getting back with him.

It made me think about something I read recently where Shaquille O'Neal discussed Nia Long's long-time partner being caught out there with a coworker. Shaq said that with everything he's accomplished and all the money he made, what he wishes he had most is the thing he screwed up the most. He said he hurt his wife and missed his family.  He remarked how he missed being able to come home to those 6 people that made him feel the most important. And that really stuck with me.

Sometimes I look at my life and I honestly think to myself that my ex and I would both be doing a lot better had he just opted not to be such a raging asshole. I mean, I'm certainly not eating beans out of a can, and nor am I carrying a Birkin bag on my shoulder. But I am a far cry from making $8/hr at Petsmart. My refrigerator is full, as is the tank in my 2022 Honda HRV. I travel pretty comfortably now, flying around several times a year, and I even just finally opened a Delta Sky Miles account. He and I would be making well over $100k as a unit, and probably about to buy a second or even third rental property. But he chose violence. So we will absolutely NEVER get back together. Lord knows that I tried to keep us together. But just like Shaunie, I reached the point of no return and I opted for my peace and sanity over a man who didn't value the ultimate gift I'd given him. And just like Shaq, he has to sit with knowing what he missed out on.

Meanwhile, Brandon admitted to being surprised to hear me say that he should return to his ex. He knows that historically, I wasn't all that fond of her (more so, after I witnessed a bitchy thing she said about him). But I give credit where credit is due. She lost out on a good man, and while in the process of working on herself, she's closer to getting back her husband and living the life that she wants for herself. And I'm not mad at that.

Detachment

So I've been Buddhist for nearly 15 years now. Not sure if it's okay to call myself that, but I align myself with the principals, although I could do much better in practicing. But in following Buddhism, I have grown pretty enamored the concept of "mindfulness" which stems largely from Buddhism and Hinduism. Buddhism has given me strength and purpose, when I felt at my lowest. I'm not traditionally one to go and say "XYZ religion saved me!" But I can definitely say that Buddhism played a large role in my development, down to the business that I started, followed by the book I finally finished.

While I've read about Buddhist principles for 15 years, it has only been recently that I have allowed myself to fully grasp and implement mindfulness in my life. While Buddhism can be a little difficult to grasp in some ways (it's literally so simple, that it's complex), I have gravitated heavily toward mindfulness and all that it encompasses. Letting go, moving forward, forgiveness, self reflection and accountability- all things I had to struggle to learn to embrace. And the most recent of the principles that really grabbed me was detachment. 

I did not recognize how much my new lifestyle really started to take hold of me until a few weeks back. I'd been spending a lot of time with Jon and I liked him, although there were a couple of things I'd been wary about. Jon is a great friend, and I learned a lot from him. But I was hesitant to keep seeing him in a romantic way, because I was unsure of his intentions. Sure, I like him, but I'm not really in the market for a fuck buddy at this point in my life. I've acknowledged that I cannot have sex without getting attached, and I no longer want to attach myself to a man emotionally, unless I know that we are moving toward a relationship. No judgement to others, but I have decided to establish more boundaries for who I allow to access my body, and for what reasons.

I saw Jon recently, and after a little drinky drink on his couch, I decided to ask him the question that had been plaguing me. I looked at him and asked "are we fucking or dating?" Jon looked thoughtfully for a second, before answering "I feel like we're fucking. My dad is in his 80s and still doing him. My dad mentioned how me and my brother are both single. I'm enjoying this." And then he followed up with "I know that's not what you want to hear." My response almost surprised me, "all I wanted to hear was the truth."

Wow. Yeah, I'd enjoyed my time with Jon. But I wasn't glued to him. I didn't cry. I wasn't even sad or bummed. He simply told me what he wanted and I accepted it. I didn't try to convince him to be with me. I just accepted it. And that felt good! I was proud of myself. Because I learned to be in the moment and detach, I wasn't focused on what I expected our future to be, I just worked with what was in the moment and I responded appropriately. That level of freedom felt almost intoxicating.

In looking within, I had to accept that my attachment to people and things stemmed in part from my fear of being alone or without. I've always felt that my role in life was to be of assistance to others. And while I still try my best to help others, I no longer feel that is my obligation. If someone loves me (romantically or platonically) and we hit it off, stellar. If not, that is okay too. 

My attachment to items is a bit different. For a large part of my adulthood, I struggled as a member of the working poor. I would often buy items in bulk, things like dish washing liquid, laundry detergent,  toilet paper, toothpaste, lotion, and paper towels, all because one of my biggest struggles stemmed from being down to my last $20 and being low on gas and needing to buy deodorant and toilet paper. So when times were less lean, I tended to stockpile household items, fearful that the day would return that I'd be down to my last $8 and needing bar soap and hair grease.

And since graduating school, I'm fortunate that I am no longer merely $50 away from homelessness. I can afford to get my nails painted professionally (they are currently neon yellow and I couldn't be happier). And at the same time, I had to accept that the dozen perfumes that I have are a bit overkill. It was finally time to just use what I have, and allow the pile to dwindle.

My move last year to California taught me that as well. I had to toss several items, and still ended up moving way too much stuff with me. As I set my sights on moving back, I have promised myself that next time around, far less unnecessary items will make the trip. Time to start using what I have and want, and purging what is only taking up space.

The other day, while working from home, my former boss stopped in briefly. He hugged me tightly before we caught up. He looked around my living room and zeroed in on the books on the bookshelf. He pulled out a book about psycho therapy, before putting it back. I then pulled it out, examined it quickly, and handed it to him. "You don't want this?" he asked me. "Nah," I shrugged. In spite of my tossing over 100 books before my move last year, I still held on to at least 100 books, which were quite heavy to move cross country. "You're not using this for work?" he probed again. I assured him that I do not need the book and will not miss it.

It served as yet another reminder that I am fully allowing myself to detach. While I previously held on to books by the shelf full, I no longer need them to validate me or make me feel safe or worthy. If me passing on that book brings him joy or will help him to be of service to others, I was proud to pass it along to him.

I've long viewed life as a journey. The ebbs and flows, the goods, the bads, the uglies. I'm here for it all, as it twists and turns. And I'm loving how much detaching is now part of my story. It's like we all pick up pebbles as we go through life. And some of the pebbles are ugly and jagged, like low self-esteem and insecurity. And after relinquishing those pebbles, I'm learning that I can walk a lot further with my hands empty and my heart full. I'm enjoying this.

Addictions Aren't Just for Drugs

I have a homeboy who got divorced around a year ago. When I met him nearly a decade ago, he was head over heels and firmly dedicated to his wife. As time went on, she started slipping (in quite a few arenas, to be honest), and he too began slipping. And he slipped into the arms of his female best friend. In spite of his wife having a baby in an effort to save their fleeting marriage (never a good idea), he pulled the plug anyway.

My homie, who I'll call Brandon, was giddy like a school girl when he'd started to realize that his best friend might actually be "the one." She possessed everything he felt like his ex-wife was missing. She was supportive of him, financially and emotionally. Make no mistake, Brandon is no slacker. But like most of us, he occasionally needed $20 to eat between pay days. His wife, (in spite of working full-time) would always either claim not to have it, or talk shit about him needing it (although he was the breadwinner of the home, even during those times when she squandered the bill money or incurred late fees because she couldn't be bothered to pay bills on time). Meanwhile, the best friend gave up the money, no questions asked. And once Brandon's money started to straighten out, the best friend reaped the benefits of believing in and investing in him.

We were happy for Brandon, although guarded. Things seemed so rushed. He went literally from his marriage, straight into the arms of his best friend. I'm not a hater. I want to see my friends happy, and doing well. My issue/fear was that between both relationships, there'd been no time for him to decompress. I encouraged him just to take some time to fuck around and feel around for what he wants and needs in his next relationship. But the man was undeterred, and in love. He wanted his best friend.

Around the same time things started to fall apart between me and Theo, Brandon confided in me that things weren't going well with him and his best friend either. He'd talked about her ex being around, and he almost left because of her seeming refusal to let the dude go, even though he clearly had no intentions of wifing her the way Brandon did. Also, she spent a lot of time at casinos. Like a lot. Like a WHOLE LOT.

I listened patiently to Brandon. I know that he wanted things to work with her. But between my woman's intuition and professional experience, I knew that she had a whole lot of trauma to work through, before she'd be capable of giving him what he wanted and deserved.

As time went on, she continued to struggle. At least the guy from her past was no more, but Brandon started to see more cracks. I was cautiously guarded in telling him that I think he needed to toss her back. I assured him that I never thought that she was a bad person, but she just had tons of shit she needed to address. He waffled. He saw the red flags. But he was in love.

One of the things that kept coming up was her time at casinos. He identified it as an issue early on. I tried hard to explain to him that addiction is addiction. So often people justify their addictions by pointing out things like "I haven't lost custody of my kids" or "I get up and go to work everyday" to downplay the issues they are facing. I saw her justifying and I pointed it out to Brandon. He agreed that she was justifying, but they continued to have conversations where she swore that she was done with the casinos. I knew she wasn't. But it wasn't my place to plainly say it.

I tried to explain to Brandon that the average addict needs to address whatever leads to their addictive behaviors, otherwise they either relapse or find another, just as harmful, addiction. Again, he was in love. Honestly, I started to feel like he was hiding the worst of it from me, fearful that I'd again encourage him to rethink this relationship. But hey, he was in love.

A few weeks back, Brandon confessed to me that he'd ended it. He could no longer deal with it. He started to see that she wasn't quite as ready to face her demons as he'd hoped. They tried to continue to work on their friendship, and cohabitating was a big part of that, as they'd just signed a lease. And in all honesty, he never wanted to lose her as a friend. But he learned that not only was she lying to him about her time spent at the casino, she' also lied about her old guy friend. He was blocked. But now he's not.

I can't lie, her guy friend reminded me of my time with Fred. How up until fairly recently, I was willing to possibly sacrifice any chance at a real relationship, to keep Fred in my life. Like all of the other things I've had to stare down, I had to look at Fred and determine if he was worth sacrificing a healthy relationship with a good man. The answer is of course, NO.

But Brandon's best friend isn't quite at that point. I can't help but to almost sympathize with her plight. Granted, my addiction was never drugs or casinos, but I definitely got a dopamine fix from my time with Fred. Working in addiction allowed me to see how attached I was and how non-beneficial that attachment really was. It also allowed me to identify other addictions I wasn't even aware that I'd had.

If it wasn't for the fact that this is really hurting my friend, I'd almost sympathize. She doesn't even recognize what she's giving up, all while chasing her high. It almost reminds me of something that happened at one of my jobs. A woman was so dedicated to her sobriety. She had my last name, and although I could never say it to her, I considered her my cousin, so I cheered her on that much harder. She'd been in rehab several times before, but this time, we just knew that she was gonna make it to the end and get her kids back. But then one day, she decided she was done. She wanted out. Some old ass dude pulled up in a shitty car to pick her up from rehab, despite her being only halfway done with the program. We all begged and pleaded with her. "Think about your kids!" we'd plead to her. "You've made so much progress," we said. She was undeterred. My "cousin" left.

To make it that much more painful, the next day, her kids came through to visit their mom. But she was gone. No one had told them. It broke my heart to imagine those poor kids showing up, hopeful that this would be the time that mom would get her stuff together and get the kids out of foster care, and they could all be together again. But mama picked her addiction, over doing what was best for everyone else. Just like Brandon's now ex-girlfriend.

Working in addiction taught me so much. Namely that most people don't know that they are addicted. That most people have to hit absolute rock bottom before they'll admit that they have a problem, and even then, some still won't. That some people will justify and even choose the most fucked up situations, all because their addiction is familiar.

Kinda sad, ya know?

Goals, Again

I've always been a bit of a hippy. And I've always believed that everything happens for a reason. That said, a few years back, early in my time at Clark Atlanta, I was speaking with a man. He said that I seemed like the kind of woman who would attend a particular school out in California. I'll call it Stansbury (an ode to Jesse Spano from Saved by the Bell). Anyway, he said that I would fit in well in the Stansbury crowd, being that I was a bit of a hippy. I had no idea what he meant, but I did go home and look up Stansbury at some point. It looked nice.

Fast forward some years and during one of my road trips, I happened to end up on the Stansbury campus as I looked for a used music store in the area. I loved it! I stepped into a used bookstore that had that "old book" smell, books stacked to the ceiling, graced by long rolling ladders, for anyone brave enough to climb them. I felt so at home. I imagined calling myself one of the students. I saw myself staying up late during study sessions with peers, debating among scholars. I saw myself studying in local coffeehouses. I told myself that I wanted a PhD in African American Studies from this school. Crazy enough, I didn't even know if Stansbury offered a PhD in Af Am Studies, but the fantasy floated in my head anyway.

While walking through the massive campus, I pulled out my phone to look up if my imaginary program existed there. It did! I looked it up a bit more, before deciding that as a single mother who barely made enough to cover bills from month to month, attending Stansbury was simply not in my future.

A few more times during my excursions to California, I would again stop at the Stansbury campus. Always falling in love again. Enjoying the book stores and loving watching the people, but accepting that it simply would never be my fortune. I didn't have the money, the connections, and frankly, at the time, I didn't have the desire. My master's degree from Clark Atlanta absolutely wore me out! But I always kept the fantasy of Stansbury in the back of my mind. Would today be the day? No. A girl can dream though, right?

Anyway, a few years back, I considered attending classes at Emory University, which was in my old neighborhood. I decided against it once I read how lonely the experience tended to be for Black students. I happened to be on the Emory Campus the other day, when I was reminded of my love of academic environments. I was even triggered to share with my friend how I'd previously had day dreams of obtaining a PhD in AfAm studies at Stansbury.

I decided to share on Facebook that if the stars aligned, I'd hoped to obtain my desired educational ticket from the esteemed school. I was really just talking shit, ya know, discussing the maybes. And suddenly, an old chum starting razzing me, the way he always has. I knew that he was just being goofy, but someone looking in may not know the difference. I was surprised to see how many people countered my friend by telling me to go for my dreams.

One of the women even did her own post and tagged me in it, encouraging me to reach for the stars and to apply to the college. I couldn't believe it. Maybe they were right, maybe I should actually reach for this. I'm counting down until my son is out of high school. In 3 and a half years, he'll be off to college. And I'll be back to California. Ideally, I plan to live in Los Angeles for a spell. But afterwards, I dunno.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt like it may just really be a possibility. I looked up the prerequisites for the program and saw that I have many of them already, particularly, work and experience in Africana studies. I went to an HBCU, where I obtained a Master's degree in Social Work, it doesn't get much more Black than that. Plus I put together a food pantry that serves the students of the Atlanta University Center, and the pantry is still in operation today. Add to that my book that's currently being shopped to a publisher, a book who's primary audience is Black woman, coupled with a social media presence that is geared to the same group.

The funny thing is that I hate academics. But I love academia. Many of my peers are highly educated people. Many of them are amazing. Many of them are blowhards. And they are, in a way, a part of my extensive tribe.

I can't believe that I'm actually getting excited about all of this. I'd love to take a peek at the campus for a few days, but with me starting this new job soon, I won't have the availability to do that just yet. One thing I'm so appreciative of is that my former boss gave me a lot of grace as it came to traveling when I first got out of school. I later found that many bosses were not quite so gracious. It'll be a few years before I have the kind of rapport with a boss that will allow me to float around as I'd like. I was considering taking a trip to this campus this upcoming summer, and I still might, but I was planning for a birthday cruise, and naturally, my son has invited himself. Perhaps I'll be able to do both and bring him to the Stansbury campus as well.

I was considering to myself that I may never get married if I make this pilgrimage. The beautiful thing is that I don't even care. I've been unmarried this long, nbd. If nothing else, I have consistently found that attaching myself to men has hindered my educational, professional, and entrepreneurial endeavors. If I have to be alone to achieve this goal, so be it.

I'm excited. I'm nervous. I'm doing it. Goals, yo.

Not My Problems

I had a girlfriend, I'll call Cheryl. I'd known her from work a few years ago. Poor thing had a rather unfortunate life, starting with parents. I normally wouldn't make such a claim, but I heard her on the phone with her mother and woo chile, you couldn't pay me enough to deal with parents like that. After that, she was in an abusive marriage, and was separated from her children, her youngest who eventually died of cancer at the age of 12. Followed up by a narcissistic psychopath of a boyfriend (she referred to him as her husband, but they didn't have any papers, so I refused to acknowledge him as such).

The whole time we worked together, Cheryl was with psycho boyfriend. She'd show up to work, covered in bruises. She'd explain how she'd like to leave, but her check is directly put into his account. I offered more than once to take her to the bank to obtain her own account. She always had an excuse or two why she couldn't go.

She did manage to leave him some years later, but as you can imagine with such trauma, it wasn't easy. She had a goofy ass "friend" she'd lived with and the friend continued to allow him access to the home. I explained to Cheryl that no real friend would allow that asshole to have access to her, especially knowing their years of abusive history. 

Some years later, Cheryl broke free and became a truck driver. I was beyond proud of her, and watching the progress she made. She did it! She was free! She was making her own money, and no longer subjected to the whims of shitty parents and abusive boyfriends. Time went on, and the details are fuzzy here (not accidentally, I'm sure of it), but Cheryl lost her job as a truck driver.

I was doing pretty well, so I offered to let Cheryl crash at my place. While there, Cheryl was the worst house guest I've ever had. Left her luggage in the middle of my floor, didn't cook or clean up, when she did cook (once), she didn't clean up after. I don't expect maid service, but I've let enough people crash in my home and I've done it enough to know that when you are calling someone else's house your home, you do everything you can to minimize your presence.

Cheryl continued to speak to her goofy ass friend who'd kept her ex around. I warned Cheryl about her. More than once. I'm not a hater. But I see toxic ass behavior and I call it out and I remove myself accordingly. I'd tried to explain to Cheryl that the reason she was so drawn to her shit show of a homegirl was because she'd lived in dysfunction so long, that she didn't know how to just enjoy moments of peace that were genuinely drama-free. My words fell on deaf ears.

One day, Cheryl just disappeared. I was given word that she was safe, which was all I cared about. I love her, but I didn't miss the occupied living room, nor did I miss her sad energy. She also drank heavily (something that didn't surprise me). Again, not a trait I missed. I also felt that she kind of expected me to baby her, which I refused to do. Her son lived only a mile and half away from me, and even though she hadn't seen him in years, she didn't want to walk there, she wanted me to drive her. No ma'am. One, even though you're skinny (lucky heffa), exercise and fresh air will do you good. Two, you're crashing on my couch rent free, I'm not going to be your taxi service to someplace you can easily get to. Or taxi service to anywhere. I've done my part, you figure the rest out. You're a big girl. It was tough love, but I knew that if left to sulk, she could easily fall into a depression (if she wasn't already) and I wasn't going to enable that.

Anyway, Cheryl was gone. Out of my hair. I'd wished her the best. But then, one night, about two weeks later at 3am, Cheryl called me and asked for directions to get to my home. Huh? She explained that the goofy ass friend got mad at her out of nowhere and put her out of the car and they happened to be in my area at the time. Even though my neighborhood was pretty safe and I've walked it at night myself multiple times, I wasn't going to have her lost and walking around in the middle of the night. I climbed in my car to pick her up.

*exhales*

The next morning, I told her, point blank, that if she hopes to continue living with me and getting any support from me, she cannot be friends with goofy ass anymore. I'm not your mama or her mama. But the moment I have to climb out of my bed at 3am, you're making y'all's problem my problem. And I don't take on problems that aren't mine. My friends are good people who support me and keep me safe, even if we don't see eye to eye. I don't keep people around me who would do something like drop me off in the middle of the night. My life is drama and problem free, which is how I prefer to keep it.

I'd never realized how much of other people's problems I'd taken on until Pete died. Afterward, I went into a deep funk, and pretty much isolated myself, going into a very basic survival mode, enough just to pay bills and keep my son fed. But once I emerged from said funk, I realized that I had no problems. Like NONE. I wasn't worrying about some sorry ass dude cheating on me or lying to me. I was the sole person paying household bills, which I was able to do. Health was good. No drama, no games. What I took from that period was that my problems tended to stem from other people. And that I was the one responsible for weeding out the problematic individuals. Granted, there were moments that I back slid into problems, but nothing like before.

So with Cheryl, I wasn't with the shits. We were also in the middle of the pandemic at the time. I wasn't trying to entertain foolishness. I let Cheryl know that if she continued to be friends with goofy ass, there would be absolutely no returning to my home. She had plenty of examples of goofy ass being, well, a goofy ass. She was spoiled and toxic, enabled by a family for her clear mental illness. I wasn't trying to take that on. Cheryl said that after being put out of the car, she was fed up with goofy ass and was absolutely severing times.

A couple of weeks later, Cheryl disappeared again. I didn't care. I had my own issues to worry about (as we all did, during the pandemic) and I was ready to enjoy peace in my home again. The few times I called to see if she was okay, she was vague. I gave up.

A month or so later, I looked on Facebook to see that goofy ass had tagged Cheryl in a pic of them in the club. Wow. Word sis? Look, okay. I'm tapping out. You win. Have fun and I honestly wish you healing.

I'd gotten in touch with Cheryl again when I moved back from California. She'd been living with her son in my old neighborhood, and as he had roommates, she was crowding their space and they were nicely asking her to leave. She'd had a job previously, a contracting job that allowed her to work from home and save money, but the contract ended suddenly. She was up the creek again.

She'd taken on a roommate who basically tried to bully her out the moment after she paid to move in. She never asked me to move in with me, but I could practically smell the question on her breath. She wanted my couch again. Yes, I was sleeping on the floor, but at least my housing was secure. I waited for her to ask. She never did. And I never volunteered it. I held firm in what I said. You go back to fucking with goofy bitch, you'll never call my home your home again. Because I don't take on problems that aren't mine.

***

Tim is heavy on my brain today. All those times we spent cuddling on my floor and with all of those drunken phone calls, in a million years, I never would have suspected that he'd just drop one day. Like I said before, he made it known that he was into me. And I had a major crush on him in the beginning. I dunno, perhaps if I'd met him before Theo, things would have been different.

But because Theo was in my life, Tim had to play the role of friend. And I learned a lot about him, without the rose colored glasses of a relationship. He'd often call me, discussing his frustration with trying to do for others in his life. There was his heaping mess of a brother, who had mental illness that he refused to manage. There was his spoiled daughter, and her reluctance to care for her own children, hoping that he would instead. There was also the cousin who he was hoping to find an apartment with, the hotheaded lesbian who stayed in fights. She also had money problems. Tim called me often, discussing his frustration with his family. I reminded Tim that he was homeless, so trying to save grown ass people from their own mistakes is just ridiculous when you're house hopping yourself.

When Theo and I broke up, naturally Tim called me and started hinting that we hook up. Sure, I'd admitted to him early on that I was into him. But that was before he made it known to me that practically everyone in his life was dysfunctional as hell, in addition to being codependent. What tf I look like getting involved with a dude who I know is going to constantly be trying to save alcoholic family members from their own problems? Tim shared that he loved how warm and welcoming my home is. I do that on purpose. Because first, I have good energy. Two, my goal of any home I live in is for people to be relaxed and at peace. But I'm not crazy enough to bring anyone or anything that is going to disrupt what I work for. My home is my castle. I stand by that.

Today was my first time hitting the gym in a while. The diabetes medication in addition to a healthy, low-starch diet that I'm on, has me melting off the pounds. I'm starting to enjoy my silhouette for the first time in forever. My problem at the moment is that I need to focus on toning the loose skin on my stomach and arms. The last time I lost weight, I never got to fully enjoy it, because of the loose skin that took on the appearance of fat. I don't want to do that this time. I'm taking collagen vitamins and going to try to get in some aerobics and strength training, so that I can tone as I lose.

I was talking to Fred, a man who has a body that most men his age would give their mothers for. Fred is the one that encouraged me to hit the gym in order to tone as I lose weight. Ya see? THIS is the kind of problem I want! Something fixable! Something drama free! Going to gym allows me to socialize, especially as I transition to my new work from home position soon. So it solves a few problems. For just $30 a month, I can tone my midsection, and I can socialize and make friends.

I love that I'm in a space in life where peace comes before everything. No drama. No toxic friends. My bills are paid. My son is happy and healthy. I'm doing the single thing and I really enjoy it. This is how life is supposed to be.

#7- Tim

I met him about a year ago. And I wouldn't feel right if I didn't at least include that last year this time was among my low points in life. I had to return to Atlanta, after not finding housing in L.A. My relationship with my son was being rebuilt after my walking mistake of an ex tried to turn him against me through lies and all out kidnapping. I was first working as a pool monitor, later at bullying-prone community mental health organization that talked to me like a mentally challenged child. I finally secured housing, where I literally slept on the floor for the first few months as my possessions were scattered across the country. It was a dark time.

That's when I met Tim. We took to one another instantly. Our insult trades became legendary in the workplace. And even though I was exploring things with Theo at the time, Tim and I were always tight. At the job where we first met, I recall that one day I was having an issue with some of the employees. Tim called me that night to check in on me. I appreciated his friendship at a time where I was in an environment where I constantly felt bullied and blamed for shit that wasn't my fault. Tim was awesome in explaining that the toxic nature of the environment was unfortunately all too common. He also confessed to me that a lot of the women there were kind of jealous because my education and professional accolades meant that I was in a far better space than most of them. Not sure if he knew that to be a fact, but regardless, it made me feel a lot better about the situation.

I also admired how good Tim was with the clients. He treated them like the father that many of them lacked. He had compassion with the clients, even on his worst days. And these aren't just simple clients. Many of them had intellectual delays in addition to mental illness. He knew how to handle it all. It was like water off a duck's back. They looked up to him. He ruled with laughter and light. They were drawn to him, and although he welcomed basic friendly behavior from them, he was clear in his boundaries.

As we began to chat, Tim admitted that he was staying with some family and having a hard time. I told Tim that although my home was sparsely furnished and I was sleeping on the floor, he was welcome to crash at my place. At work, we traded jabs. But when work let out, he'd come to my home. We drank and laughed together. He brought a dog to work one day and was unable to care for it. I took pity on it, and allowed it into my home until he found a new owner, his cousin.

Tim told me how comfortable my home was to him. That I made him feel welcome. That when I cooked for him, I made him feel loved. I'd picked up that his childhood was painful and he wasn't accustomed to a lot of love and affection. I always treated Tim well. I had no reason not to. Tim confessed his feelings for me quite a few times, but by then I was head over heels for Theo (stupidly).

Even after Theo, Tim would continue to drunk call me and (justifiably) talk shit about Theo. Actually, when I began to tell him that things weren't going well with Theo and that I wanted out, Tim told me that I was just creating problems where there were none. When Theo and I broke up, Tim accused me of obviously doing something wrong. I'd had enough and I told Tim that it was quite condescending to assume immediately that I was to blame, in spite of him witnessing my dedication to Theo early on. Tim apologized, something I didn't quite expect. He also apologized once after he met my son, and asked if my freakishly tall child plays basketball. I later on explained how much my child hates that question, and Tim immediately stopped what he was doing and went to find my son said that he meant no disrespect.

As time went on, Tim continued to struggle with finding housing. I'd warned him early on that the person who was supposed to help him looked like they were pulling out, but he didn't hear me. Eventually, he tried to get housing with a cousin of his, another person who seemed like a shit show. He called and asked my advice on finding housing with her, but she was an irresponsible hot head. In the same conversation, he had to hurry up and get off the phone to stop her from physically fighting with someone. Tim asked me if my apartment had vacancies. I checked and they did not. I told Tim to take a day off work to look for housing and just drive from place to place. He didn't. I gave up.

Funny enough, after witnessing this with Tim, I created a dating rule for myself. If I give a guy friend advice and he doesn't take it and he gets fucked up, I won't date him later. I loved Tim as a friend, but his talent for chasing down toxic people and saving them, while literally sleeping in his car at times (while employed full-time) was just too much. 

As time went on, time did what it does. This summer got to be pretty busy. Plus add on my grief of two beloved relatives, and I was pretty absent and barely holding on mentally in my own space. Certainly not much emotional support to share with others. At some point, I realized that I hadn't talked to Tim in a while. Whenever I called his phone, it went unanswered. Eventually, it was disconnected. I was again annoyed with him. That was the kind of shit I was talking about. How tf are you a grown ass man and your phone is cut off?!

I called Tim again, hoping he was well. I got an answer. Finally! I chatted with him for a moment and talked about things in my life, but something was different. His voice was dragging in a way that I hadn't heard before. I realized it wasn't Tim and I immediately hung up on the imposter. I figured by then that he'd gotten a new phone number.

I'd considered going back to the old job to check in on Tim, but I have nothing but disdain for that company, so walking in there could possibly get sticky (even though those greasy bitches owe me money). I decided against it.

Last night, I called an old coworker from there to check in. My plan was for her to tell Tim to get off his ass and call me! I wanted him to finally see my apartment being fully furnished, and no longer sleeping on the floor. I was even willing to let him crash again. I just missed him and his friendship.

As I talked to my coworker, I did the basic check in with her, asking questions about how she's doing. Like me, she knew it was a toxic environment. I heard that she'd been reduced to tears quite a few times, although I opted not to share that tidbit with her. I assured her that I knew she deserved better and should move on. 

Eventually, I moved the conversation on and asked if Tim still worked there. She casually responded with "oh, Tim passed away in May" as if she was discussing the weather. What?! How?! My heart stopped. How could this happen?! She explained that the day after his birthday, he'd had a heart attack. I wondered if he'd had a heart attack from drugs, but I immediately remembered that although Tim drank like a fish, he didn't do drugs, not even weed.

My heart sank. My friend was gone. I thought back on the discussion he and I previously had where he'd insisted that he never wanted to be cremated, it reminded him too much of burning in hell. I said to my coworker "please tell me he wasn't cremated." "They buried his body" she assured me. It all felt so unclosured. All of the things I wanted to say to him, I never did. He never came by my apartment again. I'd hoped to advise him on the young woman he'd been talking about making his new girlfriend.

All I could think was another one. Another fucking person that I love has died. Not just people in passing that I saw once or twice, these were all people that I saw and talked to and shared my life with, on a regular basis. And they're all just dropping. Not crime, no accidents. The closest would be the fentanyl in Andrea's coke. Otherwise, it's all health stuff.

I recall a meeting that I'd witnessed between two older people as they sat and for a few minutes asked about and discussed the mutual acquaintances they'd known who'd died. And how I felt like what a strange existence that must be, to be able to rattle off names of so many loved ones so easily. I'm only 42. In the last 5 years, I've lost 7 people. Seven. Four since the beginning of 2022 alone. People I loved and talked to, and celebrated. All gone. I wish like hell that there was way to call "UNCLE!!" to the heavens and stop this, at least for a while. Just long enough to heal and make sense of it all. Working in hospice isn't helping. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad to be stepping away from my current job, even though I love it. Exposure to too much death really does have away of making you emotionally raw. I'm good as long as I don't focus on it. But once I do...

I happened to be listening to the most recent Kendrick Lamar album today. I'm almost ashamed to say that today was the first time that I gave the whole thing a real listen. Kendrick really went there. He talked about therapy. Dear God, I can't wait to get back to therapy.

I got to the coffeehouse today, knowing that I needed to process and write. I needed to get it out. I thought about Kendrick's words and what therapy did for him. His words caught me and I barely kept myself from falling into a heap of tears on the sidewalk.

I grieve different.

Communication is Key

I met a woman at work last month. It was clear to me that the woman had anxiety. Perhaps it is how closely she resembled a former coworker I had, but she had an anxious energy to her. I asked how she was coping with the decline in her mother's health. The woman shared that she colors in coloring books, does yoga, and utilizes mindfulness. Based on all of those things, I could smell her anxiety diagnosis a mile away. But hey, not my concern. Live your life, see you next month.

This month, I tried to contact the woman and she asked that we do a call the following day. Much easier than an in person visit, no sweat. So I call the woman at our agreed upon time, no response. I called again yesterday. No response. That fucking anxiety is rearing it's ugly head again. I texted the woman, telling her I was just checking in. She hit me back with a short response that they were doing well. Wasn't quite sure why I was so annoyed at the time, but I was.

Truthfully, it wasn't even her that irritated me. It was more so that I really can't understand how grown ass people in 2022 seem to have defaulted to just disappearing. I can understand anxiety, I can understand feeling overwhelmed. What I can't seem to grasp is when adults are called upon to handle adult responsibilities, and they just shut down. That was never an option for me growing up. Shit got rough, but you stand there and you handled it. You might cry in the car on the way home, but goddamn it, you handle your shit.

Falling apart was never a viable option the way I was raised. When my parents separated, my dad went back to school and my mom got up and took her ass to work to take care of us. I've never witnessed people that just walk away from their problems. And every time I've ever ignored problems, they always magnified almost over night, so I learned early on to handle my shit.

So I just don't understand how I seem to be surrounded by grown ass people whose default seems to be to stand still and not say or do shit when things are falling apart. People quit jobs on a whim. Not even putting in notice and looking for other jobs, they just stop showing up and stop answering phones. Friends fall off the earth. Motherfuckers just don't know how to deal and I can't deal with them.

I normally would just accept that I hate that shit, but what made me figure out that I need to figure this out is that I'm a mental health professional and I need to find a way to work through my obvious bias. I called my best friend, a teacher, in order to get some perspective. She asked how I'd handle it if one of my clients acted in this way.

In case of this particular patient's daughter, although she is my client, it isn't my role to do intensive exercises to work her through her anxiety. If I were her actual therapist, I would have her to complete exercises, and coach her through establishing and building boundaries and learning when and how to say yes and no. But I'm not her therapist. It's simply my job to support her and her mother through the mother's decline, no more, no less. It's not really my place to say to her "perk up, your failure to communicate is ineffective in allowing you the space to fully provide support to your mother and yourself."

I tried calling another friend, but he too was stuck in what to say to help me through my aggravation at this phenomenon. Then I decided to call my former boss. I enjoy talking to him about what I learn about human behavior and he always does a great job helping me to process my feelings.

I happened to have coffee with him the other day. I shared with him about Theo and about an incident where I'd gone downstairs and started reading a book, when Theo came down asked if I was coming upstairs. I was enjoying the book, and told him that I was comfortable where I was and that I'd be up eventually. He asked again, but I assured him that I'd be up when I was ready. I figured he just wanted to make sure that I wasn't trying to sleep downstairs.

The next morning Theo and I had a spat when he said that he'd tried to get me to have sex with him the previous evening, but that I declined. I reminded him that he asked me "are you coming upstairs?" which did not, in any way, constitute an invitation for sex. He said that I should have known. I responded with "so you want me to be a mind reader?" to which he incredulously responded with "yes!"

Hold the phuck up! I am exceptional in numerous ways, but I am not, nor have I ever been a mind reader and I couldn't believe that this dude was mad at my inability to do the impossible. My former boss shared with me how as a therapist, he often has to work with couples who feel that others should just know what they mean, even when they aren't being clear. When I'd suggested to Theo that he do therapy, he suggested that we do couple's therapy. I declined, based on the fact that I've done the work, and I continue to do it. But I was not going to be his crutch while he worked through his issues.

I asked my boss about my existential communication crisis. Why the hell am I so angered at the inability of people to effectively communicate? My former boss admitted that he too struggled for many years with an inability to communicate. I couldn't believe it, he and I have gotten on famously since the day we met. He explained that what changed him was after his friend killed himself. Former boss wanted to know what it was that drove his friend to the unthinkable, rather than communicate feelings of hurt and hopelessness? My colleague then began to quiz the men around him and realized that many of them lacked the basic ability to communicate feelings. Even if they needed to communicate that they don't know how to communicate. So often, these men will shut down or even get angry, because they lack the ability to calmly and in a healthy manner express feelings.

That was the first time I'd began to feel sympathy for Theo. I knew that he had shit to work through, but between what my former boss said and things I knew about his past, I started to recognize that he's genuinely an unhealed child that never learned how to properly love and be loved. He pretended to know (while we were dating early on), but once he moved in and could no longer hide, it was apparent that he had no idea how to just be a basic person at ease, so he created chaos. At that point, I'd started to wonder if I should have gone to therapy with him, but even still, at the time I had a child to care for and my own emotional scars to work through, I was in no place to begin to be responsible for his self-work. But at the end of the day, I realize that Theo could never have worked through his shit if he didn't want to. I could have begged and pleaded, but until he was really ready to stand on his feet and do the work and recognize the role he played in many of his own failures, he'd never fully see things. So I was best to end it when I did. Before it got detrimental.

I like to think of myself as an effective communicator, based on the fact that I literally LOVE communication, to the point where that's what I majored in while attending Kennesaw. I'm fascinated by how people communicate and what drives us. I'm fascinated by the media and how it impacts us, the messages that we continue to give and receive. I'm so fascinated by communication and my enjoyment with communicating, that I still blog here, over 10 years after I started, hundreds of posts later. Writing and effective communication are genuinely my first loves.

But I guess even I fall short sometimes. Things are still going with Jon. Slowly, but surely. A few weeks back, I spent the night at Jon's home. I didn't really want to fall through, I was hanging with Fred and a mutual friend, having a good time, when Jon encouraged me to fall through. I was relatively close, so I went by afterward. Some things went down that evening that I wasn't keen on. One of which involved the fact that Jon keeps his home almost freakishly cold. I continued to utter that I was cold, but nothing was done to remedy that. The following morning, as he got dressed for work, I tried to address my feelings, but Jon explained that while getting dressed, he has a particular order of things, and discussions in the middle of that would mess up his groove. I quit talking and waited for him to walk me to my car.

I drove home, deciding that things should end. I felt ignored, and slightly disrespected. I'm not desperate enough to enter into anything that doesn't make me feel good. Jon and I didn't speak for a few days, so I guessed he'd felt some kind of way about me as well. So be it. I was a bit disappointed, after knowing Jon for years as a friend. But what stuck with me was some years ago when a day or so after Jon and I fooled around, he called me on his own to apologize for some things he did that he felt were out of line. One day, I decided that fuck it, I'll tell him how I felt about our last encounter, so that he'll at least be aware of how his behavior impacted me. 

I texted Jon and said "You probably won't care, but I felt really disrespected after the last time we hung out." He texted back almost immediately, asking what was wrong. I explained that it was a lot to type, but asked him to call me. He said that he was at a family function, but that he'd call me afterward.

And sure enough, he called me. I told him about the things that I'd encountered the last time we hung out and how they'd made me feel. He assured me that he'd had no malicious intentions and apologized if I'd felt disrespected. Then we discussed the unbearably low temp in his apartment. He explained that he shouldn't be expected to be burning up in his own home. I told him that he didn't have to burn up, but that offering me a blanket or a sweat shirt would have been sufficient. "Okay" was his response. 

A few days later, we were in a good space again, back to playing Words with Friends and talking shit via text message during our work days. Jon invited me back to his home. I agreed, happy to see him again. I asked, in all earnestness, if I should bring a sweatshirt. It wasn't my attempt at being catty, it was my attempt at being efficient. I figured I'd get to his home and just see how things went.

As I arrived, we hugged and I told him that I hate him, which is customary for us. As I went back into the bedroom, I saw on my side of the bed, a beautiful fleece blanket. He listened. He heard me. No snide comments from him, no intentionally making me freeze, while pretending not to hear me. The last time I'd been at his home, I asked him to turn the thermostat up to 70°, which resulted in me freezing my ass off. On this particular night, as we settled into bed, I heard him say "Alexa, turn the thermostat to 66°." I wrapped my fleece blanket tightly as I grabbed his hand and smiled to myself.

I realized that part of why I was afraid to tell Jon how I'd felt was because I'd been conditioned by men to ignore my needs or have them play stupid or play head games by intentionally doing exactly what I'd asked them not to do. Or based on what I'm learning about men, perhaps they really didn't know how to do the right thing? I don't feel like trying to figure it out either way. 

I remain unsure on how things will go with me and Jon. So early. But I'm learning a lot. I like that we take things slow. I like that I'm not as needy with him, although he wouldn't allow that anyway. I love that he's a concise communicator. I love that he's a communicator, period.

Family Dynamics

One thing that I'd noticed early on at my current job is that my Black patients' families are a lot more likely to be high drama than my White patients' families. Don't get me wrong, White families have a good degree of ass showing too, it just seems to be far more common in the Black families I've worked with.

I get rather annoyed when it seems like relatives are trying their hardest to make me pick sides in their petty drama. I want so hard to say to them "look, I don't care" but obviously, I can't be so blunt or harsh. The fact is that I've seen my fair share of personal family drama and I have zero desire to get in the middle of anyone else's. My only desire (and job) is to ensure that grandma or grandpa is not in pain and is resting comfortably as they get ready to take their final journey. All of that other shit is extraneous to anything that matters to me.

As someone who understands how stressful it can be to deal with family dynamics, I empathize with individuals who feel at the end of their rope, especially when coupled with a dying relative. I'm currently working with a family with what I can only describe as a "shitload" of problems. I spoke with a family member recently, who asked that I meet with the whole family, in order to get on one accord for the patient's care.

The woman seemed excited to finally have a social worker, a backer to help sift through the layers of drama. The only issue is that social worker does not always translate to miracle worker (although I've certainly had moments where I managed to blur the lines). I tried hard to manage the woman's expectations of what was to come of our meeting. She indicated that her cousin has been particularly problematic in the past, and she hoped that now that the family has a social worker, he can speak with me. I explained to the woman, that the fact is that if this person had these issues before, I highly doubt they'd just up and talk about their problems with a stranger that she brought in. To be honest, most of their problems seemed like they are literally older than me, family beefs and lingering grudges.

It's crazy that as an adult, you learn just how dysfunctional a lot of the families are. Things that were completely oblivious to us as children are suddenly discussed openly and you pretty much learn that essentially damned near everyone is fucked up. 

I'm glad that I'm aging out of having more children. I don't want to be tied to anyone else. I don't want anymore entanglements from generations-long beef that originated before I was even thought about. I don't want to be at more funerals where you have knots in the pit of your stomach because you'll be in the same room with someone you try your hardest to avoid. Or having to avoid family gatherings, because you'll be subjected to a family member making slick ass comments that you're trying your best not to respond to.

Even if I ever get close to getting married, I intend to fully vet the man, along with his family, to ensure that I will not be expected to get in the middle of family beef that spans centuries. I value my peace. Family drama tends to take away from that.

Insurance Assurance

Not unexpectedly, working hospice and having so many people die around me, or having people who have people die around them, makes you think about your own demise. After Fred's mother died and watching how he basically mentioned that she'd had life insurance and that he's not worried, I decided that it's time for me to go ahead and start looking for life insurance to care for my son in case things unexpectedly end for me.

I decided that the perfect person to consult about life insurance was my old friend, who I'll call Ethan. Ethan and I go back to high school together. We met at 15, two awkward kids, who met at Shannon Mall. We shared so much of our young lives together. Ethan ended up meeting his girlfriend, who later became his wife, around the same time.

Ethan got me my job at the store, which held me afloat when I really struggled financially. Ethan is, for all intents and purposes, my brother. I've called him that since we were teenagers. His wife knows me, and I know her. But my relationship with Ethan is sacred. We've spent countless hours on the phone together, talking about life, death, sex, politics, religion, everything in between.

He and I hadn't talked much over the last year. He and his wife have adorable kids, and life does what it does, so I was never mad when he was unavailable to me. I always figured that he was dedicating time to his family, which I understand.

Anyway, I called Ethan for the first time in nearly a year. I'd heard that he left the store and was selling life insurance full time. I was glad to catch up to him.  His wife and kids are well, and he's glad to be done with the store. Our talk reminded me of when we were kids, talking for hours about everything. 

Eventually, we got around to talking about how life takes so many twists and turns, and discussing how it seems like people are literally dropping like flies. I talked about how Fred was able to take time to himself to get his mind together after his mother died, and did not have to immediately go back to work. Ethan said simply "that's how it's supposed to be when someone dies." We eventually talked about my health, and I would wait to hear back about how much they'd charge me for coverage.

Ethan called me back the following day and we discussed how much they'd charge me. As we got ready to end the conversation after the business part, Ethan said to me "in the interest of being transparent, I have to tell you something." I held my breath. Most bits of good news don't start out that way.

Ethan then explained that there was a reason behind his falling back on his friendship with me. He explained that he'd entered therapy because of some issues he'd been facing and he felt that having a close relationship with a woman outside of his marriage wasn't conducive to things in his life. To be fair, he was more detailed, but my fear is that someone that knows him will read this, so I'm trying to be as private about that as I can. Anyway, he said that in therapy, he faced some things he had going on, and decided that he needed to focus on his home life.

Ethan apologized for being so absent all those times I just wanted to get together for an innocent lunch. He explained that his wife never had an issue with me, not that I expected she did. He just felt like it was something he needed to do. His confession made me so freaking proud of him! Damn homie, you're in therapy?! WORD?! That's what's up!! I told him how much I know that took a lot for him to do and to tell me. I expressed pride in his willingness to work on himself and dedicate himself to his family.

Him mentioning his time in therapy made me think about Theo. I actually think about my time with Theo far more than I discuss in here. He broke my heart, honestly. Theo was, essentially, a shit show. I saw the worst in him the moment he thought I wasn't going anywhere. Theo had what I'll essentially call a breakdown one day, and I demanded that he go to therapy, or we were over. I meant it. My life is okay on its own, and I was not about to take on the emotional load of a grown ass man who wasn't ready to deal with his own shit. Theo agreed. At first. But weeks later, once he thought that things were okay with us again, when I pressed him about therapy, he told me that he had no intentions of going. 

I broke up with him shortly thereafter. Anyone who has followed me since Pete died (or even before), knows that I've had to work on my own shit for years now. The tears, the apologies, the realizations, the pain, the ownership, all of it. I had to sit in it. I had to accept it. It was my shit to work through. And I did. And I still do. I spend every day working on those aspects of my life that need it. Some days get more than others.

Listening to Ethan made me so proud of my childhood friend, but it also made me wish like hell that Theo had listened to me. That me ordering him to therapy wasn't a punishment. It was me saying that I liked him enough to want to keep things together, but I had no intentions of being a doormat and I needed him to face his shit. One day, Theo said something to me from his past, and I told him that's why I recommended therapy. He needed a professional to help him with things in his life. He said "I just need a woman to help me." I told him how selfish that was, to expect a woman to deal with his shit, when he was unwilling to work on it himself. So anyway, we broke up.

I've honestly wondered if he thinks of me, and if he regrets not doing what was needed to keep me around. He told me frequently early on that he'd never met a woman like me. Part of me thinks that was more than likely true, because I'm definitely unique. Part of me also wondered if that was just game to gas me up. Sometimes I think he just sabotaged things between us because he knew that I had things going on for myself and that I didn't really need him. There were times he'd even say to me "you're just saying that because you don't need me" during discussions. Not that it was something I'd ever thought about. Sometimes I think he was just insecure because the fact is that I was way out of his league (even though I didn't see it at the time). Other times, I think he was just a narcissist who love bombed me and showed his ass once he thought he had me and that I'd be open to the headaches that came with him. Maybe it's all 3? Maybe more? I guess I'll never know. Sometimes I wonder if he'll reach out to me and apologize for being so fucked up, when I was genuinely good to him. Again, I doubt I'll ever know.

I don't regret the breakup. I'm happy. I love my life. I'm proud of myself. I worked damned hard to get where I am. I'm so proud of Ethan for working on himself and putting himself and his family first. And I don't know where Theo is now. And it's not for me to find out. I just know that I put myself first. And I'll never regret that.