A lot has happened for me since my last birthday. Thirty to thirty-one has been the wildest ride. There’s been a lot of growing, but there’s been a lot of pain in that growing that I never thought I would deal with. Or anything that I should deal with. But life doesn’t really let you choose.
Well… it does. To an extent. But then there are some things that are absolutely out of our control. For example, you can choose an endless amount of possibilities for yourself on a day to day basis. But you can’t choose how those events unfold. You can speculate. You can have a good idea of what will happen in the choices you make. Like in Oregon Trail when asked to ford the river or caulk your wagon, there was a stronger probability you would get into some shit if you tried to ford it, but you had a much better chance if you caulked.
There always existed the possibility it wouldn’t work, but it was as good a choice as any.
I was lied to in a really big way recently. By someone I trusted. In such a way that I can honestly say has never happened to me before. Sure, we all tell little lies on a daily basis, but we don’t say anything that would have such an impact that it would affect the way that one would see us or our character.
I was lied to in that kind of way that you don’t see coming. The kind of lie that burns bridges. The kind of lie that you know will just stick with you for a long time coming, if not for life, and you have no way of scrubbing it off.
I’m not okay. I will be okay eventually, I’m sure. But for now, I’m not okay. And please don’t read this as me being suicidal. I know I’m writing this on the tail of the deaths of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain respectively, but that’s not what this is.
I’ve always been about staying transparent and right now I’m fucking devastated and I have every right to be devastated. I have every right to feel what I feel. I chose to open my heart up and be honest. I chose to be with him. I chose to fall hard. How could I not? We cooked together and he’d send me cute texts wishing me good morning and good night. We’d talk throughout the day even if we couldn’t be together. He built me a shelf and baked me a cake for my birthday. I chose him.
He chose to stick his dick in someone else.
I didn’t choose that choice he made, but now I have to deal with that fact that he made that choice. And really, for as long as I’ve listened to The Read, that choice is clear, even if it isn’t easy.
For those of you that don’t know, The Read is a popular black podcast that is hosted by Crissle and Kid Fury. They often have a listener letter section that 90% of the time is strong, capable women dating fuck boys. So much so that The Read has capitalized on a sweater that says ‘break up with him’ because that’s usually the advice. The advice that you deserve better and he would choose not to be a fuck boy if he wanted to go all in.
And listening to that section, I fucking get it. I hear it and I think, sis, you deserve better. Yes, break up with him!
But now that I’m on that end… now that I’m that girl… I get why it isn’t easy. That’s not to say I’m going to go back, but this space that I’m existing in now where I’m not quite okay and everything feels upside down, I just want to feel okay and going back feels like the thing that might rectify this fuckery.
But I also know that’s not the case.
It can’t be rectified because everything was built on a lie in the first place. How can I look at him the same? How could I ever trust him again? How could I after knowing that he looked me dead ass in the windows of my soul AND STILL decided to lie? And continuously stick his dick in someone else and omit that crucial fact?
Why did Beyonce stay with Jay-Z’s fuckboy ass when she’s motherfucking Beyonce?
Part of me wants to run away because that’s always my response. I’ve been a master at the smoke bomb when shit gets real. But I have nowhere to run because I’m really trying to outrun myself and these feelings that have found their way heavy on my chest. I’m trying to run from myself. But how do I even begin to ground myself after this?
I don’t hate myself. If anything, this time spent being single has taught me to be my own best friend, but even in being my own best friend, I can’t think of a single thing to do for myself that would make me feel better.
This seemed like a solid start. This writing. Not numbing the feeling with alcohol, which I desperately want to do, but I won’t. I am very present and I very much hate it. I am very awake and I don’t want to be.
While all this is going on, I have a lot of really good things happening at the same time. I start a new job soon. I’m a weekly contributor for an awesome publication. I’m watching my dreams slowly actualize and come to light.
I’ve been fucking lied to.
I’ve been making awesome strides to become a freelance writer across several blogs and have been successful so far!
And I’ve been fucking lied to.
I have an amazing support from a group of friends who are angry and devastated on my behalf and all tell me how great I am.
And still, I’ve been fucking lied to.
Despite all the good things going on, these things exist independently of each other and the things that I consider ‘good’ are things where I absolutely had control of those situations. The bad things? A lot less so.
The bad things had less to do with my decisions so much as they were things that I couldn’t control. The bad things feel more like a nuclear bomb going off. I’m far enough away that I don’t get incinerated on impact or feel the heat, but the fallout makes me sick and I have to deal with it now that it’s here and I must.
I’m doing the best I can. And I know that things will get better… eventually.
They say that pain makes us stronger, but sometimes pain just fucking hurts.
And I’m tired of being hurt.