A helpless romantic.

     I'm a helpless romantic. I know people usually say hopeless, but no- I mean helpless. As in I cannot for the life of me help my damn self. I have been all my life. In love with love- the idea, the act, the falling, the songs, the films. So here I am again, subjecting myself to another show about love. In particular, Modern Love on prime. I can't help but cry my little eyes out. 

    I've had all kinds of love- unrequited, fireworks, even the kind that just simmers. I've broken hearts, and had mine absolutely shattered.Yet here I am, bawling my eyes out watching these differing stories unfold. I can relate to many of them, others I can only empathize. Of course in moments like these, I can't help reflect on my loves, and trysts.

    The first girl I kissed, and slept with. The ones I snuck off and kissed because I wasn't ready to tell everyone I was a flaming queer who preferred the ladies. 

     The time I actually at one time was a borderline child bride, (alright I'm exaggerating. I was all of twenty one). Still, that's the longest relationship I've had to date. Wrapped within the same story is the high school sweetheart who was also an alcoholic, who happened to step out on me as well. How I allowed that to take up space through being twenty six... the amount of learning of good, and absolutely poor habits that came out of that one. Woof.  

    Or the gallivanting I did afterward. The rediscovery of my love for women, my putting that on a shelf for the guy who looked good on paper, and I almost moved across the country for. I was such a mess after my marriage, I let that one think everything he said and did was gold. Anyone who thinks silent treatments are a good idea to punish their partner can just fuck right off. Then when we were faced with the idea we could become parents, he ran for the hills. With finality,  and complete certainty. 

    The real heartbreak after that one because I almost gave away the damn farm, to more cavorting again to distract myself from the fact I realized I wanted to be a mum. To meeting her. 

    Oh man, she really almost ruined me. She may or may not deserve for more to be said, but really she was the final straw before I realized I couldn't just love them harder to get them to love me back. Maybe I should pack it in, get some therapy, and sort out myself.

To more trysts- the first lady after getting my heart properly stomped on, another one who said I love you too damn soon, to a guy who did the same. Between the people who do that, or the ones who continually try to get into my pants even years after we fooled around... still not sure if I should wear those moments as badges of honor, or wonder what I'm putting into the ether. I can't decide if it's flattering to still be considered fuckable. Being a woman is weird. 

To now- having an unnamed lead who may or may not remain unnamed. Ah well, I did say I was a helpless romantic. Fucking helpless.

Watching, reading, and listening to every kind of love story, looking at mine and wondering what any of it means, or if it means anything at all. 

Wondering if I'll always be helpless. If its still me taking myself out at the knees by choice, or the universe reminding me I don't control shit.

Back to these stories though- reminding me I'm not the only one. 

    

empathy.

"we're good right?"

 I respond in a manner complimentary to you.


You leave, and I'm torn.


Because you see, this isn't just a discussion. This isn't just a differing of opinion. I haven't had too much to drink, and you're not wrong. This is a constant state for me. This is living, and dying in my skin.

But the instant violation I feel. The having to tamp down on my emotions, because somehow emotions negates everything I'm thinking and feeling...you don't understand this is triggering for me, and I don't know how to help you to understand. You'll never stand in my shoes, nor me yours.

Just because you don't get it. Just because you cannot fathom my fear, my distrust, my entire existence... why does that cancel out all I am thinking? I'm feeling? Because in the moment I can't quote statistics for you? Because the overwhelming feeling to double over, to make myself small, to retreat... it's less real, because you do not understand it? Empathy.

And you don't see it.

I'm left in a painful place. A place I always have to live in. Don't express too much. Don't open up, because I do in moments of an extra drink, a vulnerable place- and it doesn't count. It never counts. Don't you see, I feel safer here. the loosening of my tongue... but you don't want that. Keep it an even keel.


So I self soothe when you leave. I excuse. While I'm torn apart.

All whilst you sleep. Because I told you we're good. And I'm not.

Behind the smile is bleeding.

How do I tell them?

I'm the one who slays the dragons. I'm the one who quells the fears. The fixer. The planner.

What happens when my capacity lessens?

I'm not good at it, you see. Being other than all those things.

Maybe it's fear of being let down. Maybe it's trust. Maybe they won't stay once I tell them. How do I tell them?

I'm a wreck more regularly now than ever. I'm doling out my anxieties in chewable bites, because I don't want it to be indigestible to others. I'm good at finding sunshine in the cracks. A gift, or a curse.

People can't seem to imagine I have an in between. My gray doesn't feel allowed. "But she's so happy..." I can be happy. I have my glimmers. I have this too.

What if they can't handle it? People are starting to see it though. I'm bleeding, and I can't stop it. I'm not alone.

They all have enough on their plate though- I feel so selfish ruminating on me and mine, and they don't ask. They don't ask. So I don't tell. They don't know the rule of three. Ask three times. The truth is in the third.

Falling back on acting skills honed over a lifetime.

Waking from nightmares. Crippling anxiety attacks. Crying in corners with my fist in my mouth- even I'm unprepared for the emotion being released.

I've protested all my life. In my mothers arms, then walking, running. Being the voice my father couldn't be. Screaming from rooftops, carrying signs. Being spit on, hearing slurs. Knowing I could die for this. Being in a place now I barely have the capacity to go out.

Can you imagine the warfare someone must feel to ask for basic common decency? What a privilege it is to not have the supreme court of a nation to decide you are valid- and you have rights too? Don't be mistaken- the women's vote, the civil rights act, the freedom to marry... things others took for granted. A past gone assumption for a few. Yet I wait for when my rights will be torn away.

I have never doubted in all my days my life is considered less valid. My country tells me so.

Don't tell me otherwise. In today's climate, it would make you a liar.

It doesn't help when people tell me they're worried. You think I'm not? I don't want to carry the burden of your worries- I'm tired enough. So I don't. Keep them to yourself. Stop telling me you're worried.

I'm tired. So tired.

 Losing people close to me, to a preventable illness. What if my father has another stroke from all the stress? When will I touch my mother again? As if it wasn't enough, watching society catch up to something I've known all along- I'm a second class citizen in a world I have to work twice as hard for half as much, and this is an epiphany for all of them. Then they keep piling up. The possibility of losing a business I've built all by myself... This is my reality.

I don't want a pity party. I don't want to bleed so people can see. Rationally I understand it's not weakness, but how is it not? To break in all the places that can break.

"Find solace in others". I'm not entirely sure I want your solace. They want to tell me we have these things in common- do we? They tell me they understand- do they?

I'm far from special- but imagine people who can't understand- socioeconomically, or by skin color, or gender, how I feel...

No- you fucking don't. It's okay, just don't pander to me. Please.

My nightmares are not yours. My fears, my torments. My coping mechanisms. Even as they break.

Goddamn it, don't you see? How can I ask you to hold space? You could be gone tomorrow. So could I.

How do you comfort the planner? The fixer? The slayer of dragons? How do they quell my fears?

a breath away.

How do I create it?

Space between our bodies? Separate myself from you?

I struggle to make space, to push you away.

What is it you want from me? I wish you'd just say it.

But I know you won't. You never really do. Just talk in lazy circles.

I swear I want to break away, I want you out of my head.

Then you say the word, and I'm lost again.

Goddamn it.


I don't like my thoughts being entangled, but yours are not.

How do I create it?

Space from you?

Of lesser value.

What if I'm next? What if I know someone who is?

Staring in the mirror, assessing my value.

A woman.

A black woman.

A queer woman.

Another step, step, and step. Down, down, and down.


It's not enough to be light-skinned, or thought of as pretty. Educated, or eloquent. This week reminded me I'm still less. My body is seen as less. My life is seen as less. My value is seen as less.

Now I've hit a breaking point.

Encouraged since childhood not to seek it from outside of myself- be my own champion, my own advocate. My first love, and cheering section.

This is the first time in my life I can't hear it. The inner voice telling me it'll be alright. I've been down before, but this is different.

Will it ever matter how hard I work, or how much I dream? Will it ever matter how hard I fight, or how loudly I scream?

Will anyone know if something happens to me? My life isn't really mine. The reminders lined up like headstones.

What if I'm next? What if I know someone who is?

"Sick and tired of being sick and tired."

I'm exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally spent.

I can't watch another viral video, see one more body violated. Watch another slew of condolence posts, in memoriam, then calls to action.

Then the intermittent silence. We cycle again. Most of us just waiting for the next, knowing it will be forgotten as quickly as the last. Some will hit us harder, others we'll shake our heads but be unsurprised. This is our normal.

I'm expected to go about my day, try to function as if it's just like any other. It isn't normal to have a constant warfare command the use of all your senses. Daily micro-aggressions, very oftentimes followed by more. Over, and over, and over.

I'm far from alright. I'm almost always far from alright.

Don't try to take this feeling away from me, by comparing my experience to those who might be less fortunate elsewhere. Don't diminish my legitimate fears, when people who look like me, are like me, are related to me, are not valued. Are violated. Are murdered. Are then torn down in death, because a system touted to keep us safe is a system used to keep us down. Stay small. Be less than. Know your fucking place.

"Work twice as hard for half as much." "Keep your head down." "Don't make a scene." "White people are looking at you." "Know your limits." "This is how you stay safe from..." "Don't make eye contact." "Keep your hands visible." "Know your place." Know your place.

We're taught to fear. We live double lives, and by double standards. We dream big, just to be reminded daily our dreams will only come true if they are the service of those who don't look like us. Read that again.

Tell me it isn't true- then ask yourself why you feel the need to say it? Why you need to point out what, "they must have done wrong" why you need to point out, "well look at them looting". Look at your language. Us. Them. You distance to make yourself feel better. I distance full well knowing my value differs from yours.

You can turn off the TV. You can hide your social media feeds. You can set yourself apart. You can choose to stay quiet. You can choose. You. Can. Choose. I can't. We can't.

If you aren't as tired, as heartbroken, as violated, as fed up- ask yourself why not? And ask yourself, really ask yourself- if you even fucking care?

This isn't the job of people like me to educate you. You should want to learn. You should want to change. You should understand your privilege isn't a slight, it's a truth. It's not your brother being slowly executed in the streets, chased down like an animal, beaten in full view of others. So many murders...

There were white freedom riders too. Remember that.

I'm tired of challenging your lack of humanity, your lack or courage. And I'm allowed to be tired. This isn't just a black problem. I don't know what else you need to see, to hear, to read, to wake up and realize that.

And now I'll go back to my high functioning way of life. Back to carrying the burdens of everyday life, all while having another level of functioning below the surface, a constant survival mode.  I say high functioning because I live fully aware in truth, I control nothing. I could have all my rights taken away, my life taken away in a way you possibly will never understand. Yet I still smile, dance, go to school, fall in love, dream, cry, scream, hope. Always so many levels.

And you'll click off here.

badminton.

I lean into their chest, tracing circles there, and we begin our seemingly monthly verbal badminton match- both of us going back and forth, digging deeper into thoughts and truths, me quenching my thirst with questions I've had brewing since the last.

I feel insecurities burgeoning up, ones they haven't given me reason to feel. Yet there they are. The narratives I allow to take me out at the knees- my belief in false promises from the people before, my putting trust in them, not believing I myself am deserving of... all of it. Not smart enough, pretty enough. It's the only reason I can explain why I've done this dance over and over with the ones before you. Am I seeing in them what really is? Or what I want to see? My biggest fears of them all, the last two.

Niki- focus. Listen to what they're saying. Laying out their reasons for why they feel as they do, why they're reticent. Giving another glimpse of their past, how they view whats happening here. Laying themselves bare- don't you dare make this moment about you.

I remind myself what they're saying isn't about me. They think and feel as they do because of people and moments predating me. My questions flow freely, they answer and answer, both of us not hesitating. Even if they might not like the question, and I might not like the answer. Some of their answers even come without prompting.

You're not the only person who has been hurt in this room.

Then they circle back to me. Circling around words I wish they would say. Believe them, they haven't given me reason not to trust.

What do I want? The fantasy? To be wildly pursued? To have them not want a moment without me? To make me theirs, saying the key words and phrases we're taught to expect- or how do you know it's real? Do I want to be swept up, carried away? To be enthralled, and them also? I've never been here. I've falsely had all of the above.

Most of how I've done things fails to streamline with societal tradition, and yet I fall back on these archetypes to tell me if this is real. So why then do I feel the most authentic with them? Look past your false logic, girl. Never, not once have I easily fallen into things- and yet I feel all the unease and friction thus far for us has been manufactured within the confines of my own mind. There I go, putting the onus all on my shoulders again.

I fixate on a lack of reciprocity, emotionally. Inequity in current feelings, because of course everything is fifty fifty... my eyes roll far back into my head when I type this last line.

Refocus- so much progress is coming out of this conversation. I reiterate what's important to me. They divulge more of themselves, and I finally realize I'm not the only one constructing differing narratives in my head. They just don't feel the need to down a glass or two of Cabernet Sauvignon to get there. Ah well, maybe we both do. Need the wine, I mean.

The next morning they say if I wasn't important, they wouldn't spend time with me in the first place. For whatever reason, it clicks. I am important. Something quiets in my mind, even just for a little while.

Trust the quiet, Niki.