The Muted Pain

Have you ever felt muted pain? The pain you feel but can't express because you don't understand it. I know that this person's actions should not affect my emotions but I don't know how to stop it. Muted pain. Silent pain, but still recognizable. I can understand real pain because it is usually encased in anger. A pain that is a reaction to someone's wrong doings, but muted pain comes from MY expectations of HIS reactions to MY emotions. Emotions that he may not reciprocate. It always irritates me when people try to make their perception my reality, but that is exactly what I did to him. The signs were there or maybe I misread them. More times than not I cause my own muted pain.

 

The Internal Argument

Call him.

No.

Why not?

I don't want him to think I'm sweating him.

Yall fucked.

Okay and?

Call him.

NO! He's acting different…. But it may be me expecting him to act different. I told him about my abstinence but I gave it to him because I thought we were clicking. I can't win for losing.

Call him.

What do I say? Why haven't you called me? I'll sound desperate.

Fuck that! Call him!

I can't. I thought he was different. We've known each other for years and damn it's been a year since I had sex, I was way past horny. We had deep conversations. I thought he knew where I was coming from. I think he might have a woman.

You think? Bitch, please!!!! His whole attitude changed when he got back from overseas. He got back home and hooked back up with her.

Well, I don't know. I could be jumping to conclusions.

Call him!!

No! I'll wait 'til he calls me and blow him off. Act as if I have something else going on.

That's stupid and childish.

I know. I'm getting to old for this shit. I give up! I'm through. I can't do this shit no more.

I've been through a long time ago. You're the one still holding on to finding this fairy tale bullshit.

Why can't I have my fairy tale ending?

There's no such thing. Do them like they do you.

Been there done that. I'm too old for this shit. I give up.

Fuck 'em and leave 'em.

I can't be like that anymore. I've removed my emotions one too many times. I want love, devotion, commitment. Is that too much to ask for?

Hell yeah!!! The one you're looking for doesn't exist.

I can't believe that. I'll die if I believe that.

We'll, I'll tell you this much, you have to do something different because what you're doing now is not working.

Tell me something I don't know.

Call him!!!

"Hello, can I speak to ____?"

 

The Good Bye

I sat cross-legged on your bed as you packed your bags. Showing tell-tell signs of your military background, everything was rolled neatly and put in place. I can remember the sun shining through your venetian blinds, dancing gracefully across your face as you tried not to look at me. Soft, graceful, passive are not words that one would use to describe you, but in that moment, you appeared so serene. Angel, you called me. Nothing will change. Distance will not over power our love. You needed me to be strong and patient because we would be together again. As you spoke, I drifted into a daydream of our first meeting. You were 24. I was 18. You traveled the world and spoke different languages. You protected our president and commanded respect by your sheer presence. I was in awe of you. We had a lot of first together. You were my first love, my first lover. You taught me things about myself that I would have never discovered. Angel, you called me. Promise me you'll wait for me. I promised.

The drive to the airport was nothing as I imagined. I thought we would discuss our undying love for each other amidst free flowing tears. Instead, we held hands in silence. I parked, you jumped out. You didn't want me to walk you to the gate. The pain in your eyes was a kindred spirit to the pain in my heart, so I agreed. You held me in your arms and kissed me gently. Angel, remember, you promised. You turned to leave. Kept glancing back to see if I was there. I was. I watched you until I couldn't see you anymore through my tears. I don't know how long I stood there, willing you to come back to me.

I think we both knew this would be our last goodbye.

The Hidden Me

Only one of my friends has knowledge of my blog. I think it would surprise some. I'm known for my bright personality. Always smiling. Never letting anything get to me. Remaining stoic because acknowledging my weaknesses would make me one of them "angry black women" you hear about. If I allowed myself to be a statistic of my environment, I would be a drug addicted, unemployed, state assisted single mother with six "baby daddies". See I grew up shuffled between states and family members. My parents were stereotypical crack heads. I grew up with drug dealers taking our TV as we watched because my mother sold it for a hit. I saw more drug transactions before I was twelve than all of the seasons of The Wire. I don't remember a Christmas between 6 and 12 where we had presents from our parents. My Christmas memories consist of visiting my parents in rehab. I was the youngest so my sisters protected me from most of it, but who can protect you from the sight of seeing your 11-year-old sister with a gun to her head because the cops didn't believe she was 11 when they came to raid a "crack house." I think my sister's protecting me affected their current perspective on life. One sister tries to please everybody and when she doesn't she lashes out with words that cut worse than any sword. The other sister tries to be perfect and hold on to her "perfect family" by any means necessary.

I hold on to the memories of my parents before I knew they had a problem. When my father was my hero. When he used to wake me up when my sisters were sleep so we could eat strawberry short cakes and watch old black and white movies. When he could do no wrong. I admired his strength. My father never raised his voice but it appeared to me that he captivated everybody. I hung on his every word. Even though, I knew my parents were on drugs, in my eyes, my father could do no wrong. Everything was my mother's fault. Even now, after my father has been dead for 6 years after 4 years of being drug free, I fail to acknowledge his responsibility in the situation. Maybe it's because he never lied to me. If I asked why the TV was gone, he told me, whereas, my mother would lie.

I've never acknowledged the pain until now. Maybe my daddy issues have everything to do with relationship issues. Hope my tears don't short circuit my laptop.

The What If

Everybody has that one ex they always wonder about. What if we stayed together? What was so bad that we couldn't work it out? For a long time I thought me and my "what if" would end up together. I haven't thought about him in a while but he crossed my mind because of my hatred of love today. Called his grandmother and guess what….My "what if" got married today. Damn. Makes me hate love even more.

The Rose Bush

Who would choose to fall into a thorny rose bush where the sharp edges rip your flesh and leave opens wounds? Wounds that become infected and take years to heal but leaves scars to remind you of the tremendous pain that your unexpected fall left behind. After the wounds heal, you look back and think it wasn't so bad. The roses' fragrance was sweet and you had a good laugh because of your clumsiness. The pain and embarrassment disappears and you begin to think you can take that path again and do things differently, watch your steps and pay more attention. The alternative would be to live your life cautiously, without adventure. You take the alternative and never venture down that same road to avoid the thorny rose bush until you realize that there are dangers every way you turn. So you stay inside where it's safe. Nevertheless, your scars remain and the memories never cease. You remember when you loved roses but now they represent pain.

I remember when I loved roses. I remember when I thought love was possible. I was 16. I believed the lord made my future husband with me in mind. He created a man for me that was strong but understood that love and vulnerability are not signs of weakness. A good provider that understood my desire to feel secure and wanted. An intelligent man that could stimulate me mind, body and soul. A funny man that enjoyed life and understood what it takes to keep a family together. A man like my father who never raised his voice but commanded respect by his actions. That belief is no more.

I'm writing this blog as therapy for myself to try to get back to the place where I can recognize and accept love.