I’ve been on a self-love journey and while I made minor improvements, it’s still a long road. I feel like I’m treading this bumpy road on busted soles. Or maybe my soul is the one that feels fragmented. A couple of days ago, I gave up. I took down my posters of self-affirmations and goals that I wanted to achieve in a silent rage. The words seem so overbearing and I felt uncertain about the tasks that were ahead. It required a dedication that I never allotted for myself. I put the posters back up just this morning. I have to stop giving up on myself.
I am a broken record aching to hear a new song. There has to be a better song than this. I can no longer get jiggy with this shit! I feel like I am always falling in the same shallow pit but yet hoping for something different. I am an educated Black woman. Why don’t I behave as such? I’m a 32, not 22. I am damn near 40. Why do I keep making the same mistakes over and over? Am I hoping to somehow to test the fates? Have I officially gone insane?
If you’ve been standing in the same room with me, you know this song all too damn well—my addiction to casual relationships. I have a confession to make. My feelings have grown deeper for Text. I have overdosed on the oxytocin. I got lost in the sauce. I fell in love with him. These feelings seem to have come out of nowhere. This back and forth we’ve been doing for the past couple of years have finally caught up with me. I made stringent efforts initially not to get too close to him. I used to brush him off like lint. He scares me because he reminds me so much of myself—his sense of humor, wandering eye, sexual prowess, and an unspoken emptiness. He may deny that last fact but I’m quite intuitive.
He has invaded my thoughts and I can’t seem to shake him off. I’ve called off this “arrangement” more times than I can count—to him and in my head. I even told him that I loved him in a drunken text message on NYE and the other night as he brought me to tears through cunnilingus—yet again. Reckless, I know. Perhaps I love the idea of him—the attention that he gives me on a daily basis and the sex. I am addicted to him. I even fed off his cologne that he sprayed on my bed after our tryst last week. It’s like he’s my drug supplier and I’m his number one customer. But when the high wears off and I anxiously wait for the next fix, I’m only left with residues of him on my mind, skin, and bed.
After he left (after an hour or so), I had a talk with my bff. She’s in a loving relationship with someone and I passively inquired about how to get to such a point either with Text or someone else in the future. I haven’t been in a romantic relationship since 2005. She said that: I presented myself as booty call material, I didn’t love myself enough to believe that I am worthy of a relationship, and that men can pick up on that type of insecurity.
Intellectually, I know that she is right. Emotionally, I want to swim against the current of this logical fully knowing that I would drown—like I always do. This is a conversation that she has had with me for years in regards to The One Who Lied, The One Who Didn’t Feel the Same, and The One Who Soothed Me. I know she must be tired of trying to drill some sense into my thick skull. But I think this time I really listened. I cried myself to sleep that night. I woke up this morning wanting more. I am ready to stop abusing sex and myself. I deserve more that what I’ve been taking all these years. I have to stop being so mean to myself.
I guess I will end this post on a quote that I came across on Facebook this morning that really spoke to me:
“Everything that happens to you is a reflection of what you believe about yourself. We cannot outperform our level of self-esteem. We cannot draw to ourselves more than we think we are worth.”—Iyanla Vanzant
- Love Addiction? (paramourinwaiting.wordpress.com)