Side Chick Approved?

Disclaimer: I may sound petty and whiny but it’ my blog. I can be petty and whiny if I want to.

For the past couple of years I have noticed that the men I was involved with sexually or otherwise are now in stable relationships with other women. At first I did not give a damn but lately, it has been doing something to my spirit y’all. The One Who Loves To Text, The One Who Was My Lawyer, The One Who Is Special, and The One Who Was Too Young are now parading their relationships for all of Facebook to see.  I find this peculiar because half of these guys claimed that they didn’t want Facebook in their business when we were involved. Things that make you go hmm.

Anywho…a particular incident had an effect on me and it came from somewhere I least expected. For the past year or so, Young and I have been constant contact. He claimed that he was single and that he wanted me to be his boo. Of course I did not take him too seriously. I won’t fake the funk; a part of me liked the attention. After our horrible sexual encounter, I did not feel the need the have sex with him again. That sure didn’t stop him from trying though! A part of me found his persistence somewhat endearing. It made me feel desired.

To make a long story short, I saw that he recently got engaged to his girlfriend on Facebook. Yep. Girlfriend. It turned out he had one the entire time.  There he was on bended knee proposing to a dainty petite woman as their closest friends look on.  Soon to follow were pics of her showing off her ring which was pretty damn gorgeous by the way.

Jealousy started to set in. Why was she the type of chick that a man wanted to marry? Furthermore, why was I the type of chick that guys wanted to fool around with secretly?  Was I not pretty enough? Was I too fat? Too mousy? Just a wet hole and nothing more? All of these self-defeating thoughts and more swam in my head. Why was this affecting me so much?! I don’t even like this dude romantically. I’m still gaga over The One Who Is a Silver Fox!

A few days later, Young had the nerve to contact me via text message.


Young: I want to take you out to breakfast.

Me: I’m pretty sure your fiancée wouldn’t like that. You’ve been acting like you didn’t have someone the whole time.



Young: Lol you can be my side boo if you like. I’ll pay you.

Me: I’ll pass. I don’t want to be someone’s dirty little secret. I don’t want to be a side boo, chick, bitch, pussy, etc. Call me silly but I’d like to think that I deserve more than that.

Young: You do tho.

Young: I’ll still buy you breakfast lol.

Me: Thanks but no thanks.

I don’t know why I even replied to his text anyway. Perhaps I was looking for a “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about my fiancee” apology.  I definitely wasn’t looking for a “You can be my side chick and I’ll pay you like a hooker” type of ish.

It is not the fact that he got engaged per se. It’s a combination of things. It seems like dudes are by passing me like I have Ebola when it comes to relationships. I’m 35, childless, and sleep alone every damn night. Am I not a fucking catch? A sista can not live on dick alone.

I’m either faced with unrequited love or attract dudes who want a side chick. Do I have “Side Chick Approved” stamped on my forehead? I can not say that I’m completely faultless though; I let men treat me this way for far too long. Perhaps I didn’t think I was worthy to receive more. Sigh. At this point, I’m just done. So done.


In The Land of Zombies & Scaredy Cats

I went to my doctor’s appointment last week. I hate confronting anything—especially this. It’s one of those things that I know needs to be addressed but a part of me wants to avoid eye contact with it. I noticed that I was the youngest patient in the waiting room. My mind began to wonder about the older patients. Was this my future? Going to psych appointments in my 50s? Living with bipolar disorder as a 33-year-old is challenging enough. Could I stretch this 33 more years?

I never thought that I would have made it to 30. As a teen, I vowed to end my misery before I reached adulthood. I always thought that I would have committed suicide by now. I know that sounds morbid but when you’re living with a mental disorder, it feels quite the opposite. It feels like a source of peace. After a couple of failed attempts in my teens, I decided that I wasn’t really good at it. Plus being a scaredy cat and a people pleaser aren’t adequate ingredients for a suicider. (I doubt that’s an actual word.) And besides, life isn’t unbearable all the time. I tell myself, “Just one more day” whenever I’m feeling very close to the edge.

I would say that guilt and obligation keeps me here for the most part. I have an older brother that my mother has been caring for. She had to modify her life and end her career in order to devote her time to him. It takes a very strong and selfless person to do what she does on a daily basis. I admire her for that. I have to let her know that one day.

I’ll most likely take over the reins if she becomes incapacitated or passes away. She said that she doesn’t want my brother to be a burden to us (or our potential mates) but I can’t bear the thought of him going to a home. He is unable to talk, has epilepsy and is mentally disabled. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone if he was being mistreated. The mere thought of this reduces me to tears every time.

Wow. I have totally drifted away from the subject at hand—my doctor’s appointment. The doctor assessed my condition and prescribed me Abilify and Prozac. He told me to take them on the regular basis or risked being hospitalized. He also suggested group therapy. I held back tears as he talked and couldn’t wait to get out of his office. I had such high hopes for my appointment but I felt the resistance and fear building up inside of me.

After a few days of taking my meds, I stopped. I felt numb and spacey. I call it the zombie effect. Even though the thought of therapy scared me, I made the decision to go to a session. I figured that it may help me to see the importance of taking medication.

My first therapy session was this morning. I arrived on time but the nurse said that once a certain number of people arrived, the session would begin. I took a seat in the waiting area. After 20 minutes, fear began to set in. The “what ifs” stifled me. My throat felt tight. I  hyperventilated silently and left the premises. The thought of sharing and being vulnerable in front of others scared me. It’s not the same as blogging.

They called my cell about 15 minutes later. I ignored the call.

I know that I have to give the meds another try. I know that I have stay for a session. I know. I know. I know. Sigh.