My little bit of Comfort

I took a deep breath before writing this post.

I’m writing this post on February 14, 2016 and it’s almost a year. However, the publish date will make it a year since I had left home.
Valentine’s day 2016, I had no hopes of spending anytime with anyone because as per my Philly post I’m not dating. Basking in my singlehood, I guess. But today is airy. Last years fun, and not so fun moments resurfaced. That happens when you’re left alone to think.
Last year, we had Cold Stone Ice cream after waiting for him for hours as I watched him study, finish the budget plan for the conference he was controlling, and answering emails. We were supposed to go ice skating but I’m not sure why that didn’t happen. We came back home, his house, and slept in each others arms. It was a cute day, even though he never bought flowers. But it was still airy. It was only a few months into our relationship and I guess I am as private as he is. But my mother felt different about my privacy that she expressed that Friday, February 13, 2015. But my privacy came from two different reason. I’ll explain.
Before this guy, my last relationship didn’t die until about 3 years after we broke up. My family mentioned him every opportunity they had. I was beyond annoyed. If they seen him, they had to report it to me. Even through the “IDGAF” face, they still were telling me shit about him. My mother would say slick shit to my sister about how him and I would be good together if he had himself together. Mainly why I am no longer with him, so leave it alone, but no they couldn’t let the relationship die. Because of this, I barely brought any guy I was dating home. In fact, I felt like any guy I was dating has to be worthy enough to meet my family until I felt secure in our existence to do so. So I wasn’t bringing anyone home. I spoke of only two men to my family after my last relationship. But for some reason, my mother was more concerned with the existence of the last guy. Almost obsessed with wanting to know who he was. And maybe because I spoke of him with great pride and joy, but I wasn’t ready to bring him home.
Reason two, my last love spoke about his ex’s asking him to meet their families early in their relationships and he wasn’t fond of it. I completely understood. It was a lot of pressure. Unnecessary pressure at that. But because of this other reason I wasn’t ready to add that pressure to our relationship. Amongst other factors, we were fairly new, still learning each other, and there were still something’s needed to be learned to define us. His level of privacy was serious. If he’d pick me up from my house, he’d wait at the top of the block. I called him LP (low profile). I would always tell him that I will not put him in any positions to deal with what he isn’t comfortable with. Hell, he didn’t meet my parents until JULY, and that was way after we broke up. I think he assumed, I may be like the others. NO. I look single all year around, I’d have to be willing to tell you that I’m in a relationship or someone told you I was. Like my ex, calling me at 7:00 in morning one day to ask me if my “boyfriend” was a drug dealer because he heard he flew me out to California to go to his convention last year. I’m thinking, Damn you did your research huh?
That weekend was still airy. My mother gave me my last warning, and told me to bring him home. AND, I DID NOT BRING HIM HOME. I returned home that Sunday night. Went on with my week. Went to the gym that following Saturday. And that following Sunday morning, February 22, 2015, changed my life forever. My mother sat at her Island in her kitchen and asked “Where is he?” I already knew, he isn’t coming here. To interject, this conversation was the fourth conversation about bringing my “boyfriend” home within less than 6 months of seeing him. I was 25 years old, paying bills in the house, and wasn’t disrespecting her house. Every job I’ve ever had I got it on my own without anyone’s help, as if this is supposed to validate anything, but shit, I felt grown as hell. My mother, who is a control freak, wasn’t going to win this battle because, unfortunate, I am the oldest girl, and you are about to learn that I will always be your daughter but will have to accept I am an adult. Moving right along, I responded “I’m not sure, I didn’t speak to him about meeting any of you because I am not ready, this should be my choice not yours.” What happened next is for the record books of my mothers controlling ways. “Well move out.” And I say, “Okay”. She jumps up, runs to my room, grabs a garbage bag, fills it with some of my things, walk to the front door, and throws it through the door.
To this day, she swears she didn’t kick me out. Claims it was a scare tactic. But I packed the rest of my things. My friend happened to call and rushed to my house with his truck, loaded everything up, and took it to storage. I had $500 in savings because I had just bought a car and paid big bill. I texted my “boyfriend” to ask him to keep something for me he had bought me for Christmas. He was confused but I couldn’t tell him anything. Because even after he may read this, he’ll think I am crazy. Sacrifice is a hell of a thing.  I drove to Brooklyn that night, it had snowed a few days before and my Uggs were soaked, my hair was a mess, my sweatpants were filthy, and I looked like I was from a different planet. He sat at the edge of his bed staring at me through his thin framed glasses. Although I wasn’t looking at him, I felt him. He gave me a towel, a rag, soap, a pair of his boxers, and one of his t-shirts. I took a hot shower, got in bed, and slept in the only place I had peace, his arms. I just rubbed the bridge of my nose. Frustration resurfacing at its finest.
Let’s just say after that day, I was homeless until April, cried my eyes out on the hotel curb in California in March, broke up with this boyfriend in April, technically resigned and got fired in my resignation, started a new job in May that took every penny due to travel, lost weight because I barely ate dinner at night because I was so broke, started school and didn’t know how I was going to pay for books but Jesus guided me, transferred to another site saved me shit tons of money, and now I am somewhat comfortable.

It has been a year, some days are still rough but when I look back, I survived it. God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. 

I’ve conquered this!



I’m starting this post from my desk, even through the mounds of work that I need to complete. I would’ve started this on the train in to work if my ex-boyfriend had realized that I was insinuating that I wanted the $200 Ipad mini for my birthday last year, but his gift was something I wanted and appreciated. But I needed to at least ensure that I got everything in my head down before I forgot what I wanted to write. 

Prior post, I said that I wouldn’t start reading until summer but I borrowed a book from my best friend’s boyfriend’s mother. And I am glad I started reading. Currently reading, YEAR OF YES! I’ve been seeing the reviews for some time now and I wish I didn’t wait so long to purchase it. 

I’m in chapter one and already there was something I felt. 

Shonda simply said something about being a mother. Something that I am not yet. Whenever someone says something to me about mother hood I cringe. For many reasons but one sure reason is that I am afraid of failing as a mother. I think of my mother often and think I could never be half the mother she was to us. My mother has made some fucked up choices that have me struggling currently in life in ways that I would have never imagined at age 26, but throughout the years, she has worked her ass off in ways that I can’t seem to find the energy for. 

My mother is the first higher education graduate in her immediate family. None of her siblings are as “established” as her. A lot of envy and jealousy surround those relationships that are quite annoying and troublesome. I am glad that my sister and I aren’t on that level. Because I have finally accepted that my kid sister will have her undergraduate degree before me. It’s a painful thought but I’ll survive it. I’m proud of my kid sister; at least one of us will make it, on time. 

My mother has four degrees, two of which are master’s degrees, and obtained them while being married, and having 3 children. I am neither married nor have children but I am struggling to get this damn undergrad. I sometimes want to ask her how she made it happen but she couldn’t tell me. She’s a bit of a show off so, she’d probably say some simple shit like “work hard”.  I need direction. She worked full time through the whole process. If anything I got from my mom it is that, I don’t know what it is like to not have a job; it scares me now to think of not working. I seriously do not care if God blessed me with a millionaire to marry, I am still working. It’s all I know.

My mom was there for us. I almost cried telling someone that I remember when my mom choose to not eat because all she had was $20 and it was able to feed my siblings and I when she took us out for lunch that Saturday afternoon. I had to have been maybe 6 or 7 years old. I remember that. There were days when I knew she didn’t have a dollar or even asked to borrow great sums of money from me, and I’d always give it to her, because I remember the times she sacrificed for us. I’d get angry when she wouldn’t give me back the money, but I kept humble remembering the time she pawned her wedding ring to pay mortgage so we could enjoy the backyard, that my father and her had worked paycheck to paycheck for many years for us to have. 

Back in December, I wrote letters to the people I loved. Some hand delivered, and some mailed. They were heartfelt letters. Mainly to my siblings, my best friend, and my last love. I wanted to badly write my mother a letter expressing the resentment and joy that I was feeling towards her. But I just couldn’t find it in me. So simply today, I’ll say it here.

She’s the walking force in my life. She’s not my friend, she’s my mother. Friends I can choose to not speak to but my mom, I never will stop speaking to. I accept her and all her madness. I sometimes am afraid to introduce her to people because of her “no care” ways but whoever I shall marry, I give you fair warning about who my mother is. If you don’t like it, then oh fucking well. I can’t change her, and I won’t if I could, because I love her.  As crazy, and fucked up as she is, I love her. I look like her. Some of my attitude comes from her, those are the parts that I try and change about myself but they’ll say I’m moody like my dad, WHATEVER. The way I make my bed is because of her. I am learning a lot about how I do not want to completely be like her. There are something’s that she has done to me that I forced myself to forgive her for but I can’t change them. One day I’ll be a mother and I’ll run to her for advice.  I’ll think back to all the times she once or twice cried and be in the same boat. I’ll be at her funeral and not able to breathe the way she struggled to as I watched her bury her mother. I see her as Diane and not mommy because I am an adult now. But even when I am 50 years old, I’ll still call her mommy, because that’s who I know her as. 

Instead of the cliché mother’s day post, I’ll post this today and honor my crazy mother; she’s the only one I’ll ever have.