That red line up there tells me that I spelled it wrong but I am not going to change it. Nope. To change it would be to admit I made a mistake and who the fuck wants that?

My head is killing me as I type this. I know what brought this on, and I have no one to blame but myself.

It’s sunny and 65 and I am sitting at the table with only some of the blinds open. The washer is going, and in about an hour so will I. I promised myself I would do something today, and I will. What it will cost me remains to be seen but I shall do it.

I asked myself how much longer I was going to carry the cross of the former relationship. The reality is that I don’t know. If nothing else I cannot put that wood down until things are legally resolved with Kalifornia Karen. I just ask myself if once that happens will I find something else to cling to?

I’d like the answer to be no, but I am not immune to lashing out.

MsC churned up a bunch of shit I was suppressing and the news from work Friday gives all of the pause. I am unclear what comes next, I only know I will do ‘it’ and manage ‘it’ whatever ‘it’ turns out to be.

I tell myself that a part of it is that I never got the chance to mourn, and now that things are leveling I am stepping into grief. Sure, possibly. Well likely, survival mode does not give space for much else. Now that I can shave some of that off, I am feeling that which I didn’t give myself permission to feel.

It all goes back to anger though, and I ask myself how long you gonna carry that?

As the pain in my head grew this morning I was in a workshop. The Single slave etc. That is what I am at the moment. While there are dozens of adjectives to use for the description of me, single is one of them. I have a friend who doesn’t like it when I call myself fat, yet that is another accurate adjective. I can’t say I am angry at either of them, but I also can’t say I rejoice at either of them.

Resilient is another adjective and that one I can rock with.

In the workshop earlier I touched on some things I have not said out loud. Evasive, another adjective.

I met Kahlil in my very early 20s and loved. I spent almost 2 decades in love with the idea of the relationship we could have, if only…..yet only never arrived. We have brief moments of happiness, and I had years of longing and sorrow. When it was ‘over’ for the ‘final’ time, I resolved that IF I did it again, I would choose differently. That I would prepare, that I would be sure. Then Lord Voldemort came along.

I did all the right things. I did. Period.

I looked at a man I’d known for years. It was different than B. B was the person I understood that there was no future with and was safe. I could be adjacent to the life I wanted, I could pretend for moments, then I could retreat back, understanding that I would never have to live up to the commitment.

It was with a man who I’d known, and connected with. It was a man I’d watched from the distance over time, and nothing in his presentation showed me who would show up last May. It was with a man who triggered that compulsion. That compulsion, the one all the experts say I should not hold out for, but it was present all the same. It was with a man who I understood was ‘dangerous’ in the sense I would or possibly could love in a similar way I’d loved Kahlil.

While I jumped right in with the ask, I still took 2 years to watch. I slowly peeled back the layers of me, and exposed myself. It was rewarded at every step along the way. Although I can admit I did not push as hard as I should have regarding Kalifornia Karen, he still delivered at every step. I wasn’t wrong to extend grace to him after the nigger moment, even though that moment did tell me that my belief he would choose us was unfounded. Being transparent? I bet on his ego and hubris, thinking it was more valuable to him than anything else. It was not.

Once I got here, he still continued to come through, and I was still betting on his ego.

In the workshop today, I touched on that I did everything right. I did all of the things I taught others to do. I did all of the things I promised myself I would do. I checked all the boxes, and by June 1 I was still single. How? Why?

The reality is that we were not meant to be, in the sense that the Universe has always protected me, even from myself. He was not my ‘person’. It makes me ask the question if I can do everything right and still end up ‘here’ then do I have a person? Maybe the relationship I’ve hoped for is not something that is meant for me. I don’t want to live with that idea, because I don’t want that to be true. Love. It is what I want in the version of a life partner. I want what I felt with Kahlil before our first break up. I want what I had with Lord Voldemort until May. I want a lot of other things to go with that, but intimate partner love is the core, the non negotiable.

I want a partner.

I could go on and on and type about how my non monogamy and Queerness means it could come from anywhere, but I know that I want it with a Black man. I also tell myself that the statistical odds of that happening for me are small.

Are they? Don’t really know, math is not my super power. I do know the stories of a woman like myself finding that one Black man in my current station are the exception vs the rule. I know that I exceed expectation. I know that I do things every day that should not be capable, yet the thing I want and do not have eludes me. It makes me feel ….. fragile. Lord Voldemort and Kahlil made me feel ….. disposable.

I reopened and revamped Da Smoke and I am currently chronicling my return to dating, and I wonder how long before I just say fuck it never mind.

In my gut the answer to that is never, that as long as I am alive I will seek it. I am also sitting alone and typing this instead of being around people. Yes the head hurts, but the exposure to others like me…could present the opportunity to try again, and fucking fail again.

Each failure threatens to take me back to that negative narrative, the one Bonnie implanted and I’ve struggled to prove false all my life. Would choosing to tap out to avoid that failure be such a bad idea? Was a part of the appeal of the move not the fresh start where I could choose ME?

I can get a dog and just call it a day right?

Or

I can see this fear, acknowledge it, and live any way. Live MY way

I can still date, I can still fuck, I can just let go of the idea that I will have a Black man to come home to. I can still do all of the things, possibly even better because I don’t have to factor in anyone not named Nicole.