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| Notes to a Negro - A Love Story |
It's time I hit the nail on that coffin and call it the end. It would be, if only we didn't live in the same estate and attend the same church and jog on the same connector bridge twice a week. Every time I see his black ass while I'm getting my Jesus on or getting my adrenalin going, I just gasp: There's that Bastard who ruined my Christmas. It instantly sets me off track. I hate to be enemies with someone, especially someone whom you once enjoyed (several) intense sexual experiences with but it is what is as Bastards go. Someone who practically used to be inside me almost every week. Pfftt...Now, we don't even speak when we jog past each other. Isn't it funny that the closer you are to someone the more extreme the fight would be?
I talked about this discomfort with a couple of my girlfriends and they felt, as a Christian, that I should be the bigger person and try to mend fences so we can at least be cordial. After much personal rummaging, I took their advice and thought about my man Jesus the way he loved his enemies even though they nailed him on the cross, so I extended an olive branch to say, hey. He immediately thought, this is classic Anita, she gets mad, says things, and then regrets it and wants to get back together. Nope Negro, I'm just trying to be civil so I don't feel like I strangled your puppy or something when we pass each other on the bridge. Then you'll go, "Oh yea, there she go, that broad who snuffled the life out of my puppy." Nah, it aint that deep. You crossed me. I showed you what happens when someone crosses me and now you know not to cross me again, or any sista for that matter. We demand respect. I demand respect.
So far, based on the mending fences exchange with Negro, he appears to still be a bit miffed, a little twisted over the events, especially the part about my sharing our indiscretions with The M and the rest of the world. I'm amused by it now. I'm amused that I let my rage get the better of me. I'm amused he thought it would be any different when he decided to cross a writer.
I'm just a little disappointed in myself that I let myself go through all that drama just for good sex, and the chance to have someone hold me in bed. When you're going through a tough time like I am, having someone hold you in bed makes all the difference to comforting you. It gives you that feeling that everything's going to be fine at least for a little while, and that you have a friend who's shoulder you can rely. I used to hike almost 15 miles to his place just to have him hold me in bed, have our limbs intertwine, our naked asses kiss in bed as we slept. Sometimes I think, such a simple motive yet so flawed in execution. It's worse that the object of the plan doesn't want to cooperate - what stops him for being the shoulder for me to cry on, what stops him from being the man to my (temporarily) broken woman, what stops him from being a friend and a lover?
That's really why I continued with this whole charade this long, just for that loving, comforting feeling. That's why I let myself be treated like something less than what I am for someone who clearly did not value who I am, who did not see me, for something so toxic. Was it all worth it? To go through such a toxic demeaning relationship hoping someday that person will turn around and see you for who you are, or appreciate your self worth. Was it worth the toxic remarks, knowing I was a booty call and ignoring the warning signs just because...I wanted that booty call to hold me and make me feel like everything was going to be alright?
The anger he feels now is just a fraction, a minuscule portion of the pain he caused me, that he inflicted with such precision and astute accuracy, methodically plotting out how he would use me and keep me around as long as he wanted while he cherished The M et al. My self-esteem, pride and self worth were all crushed in the course of his flings, and most importantly, my Christmas was ruined! It just hurts because every one feels like I should extend the olive branch like I killed his pet or something, everyone forgets that this pain, verbal abuse was inflicted repeatedly with no remorse. I respect everyone's opinion because I agree I shouldn't have let my anger get the better of me, I shouldn't have said those things about The M, disrespect her as I did, but in light of the events that transpired viewing it from an objective standpoint, what's really a Sista to do except get mad, get even, and I did that the best way I know how - I wrote and published our tales TO EVERYONE. HA!
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An extract from the book, Notes to a Negro, available on Amazon, Kobo and Selar.
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