Reclaiming My Time: On Why I’m Not Attending My Class Reunion.

So, my 20 year high school class reunion is coming up next year. All the hoopla is starting already vis-à-vis Facebook groups, people I haven’t talked to (or thought about) in 20 years coming out of the woodwork, etc.

I’m pretty proud of where I am 20 years later. And, I think I look pretty good. That said, I will not be attending. And I am unapologetic about it. In the words of Auntie Maxine Waters, I’m “reclaiming my time.”

So, why am I not attending? It’s really not that complicated.

My (long time ex) boyfriend (of ten years) married a woman in my graduating class (we weren’t friends, but acquaintances).

“Well, that’s not that bad, you’re trippin'”, you might be thinking.

The thing is, they hooked up while he and I were still together — living together, in fact. She knew it, and didn’t give a fuck (I mean, she really didn’t need to give a fuck about me; I don’t expect her to — but y’all know what they say about how a relationship begins — it typically ends the same way; plus it’s mad thirsty and snaky).

Nonetheless, I found out he was cheating, moved out (of his condo), and to make a long story short, they ended up getting married.

In any case, I’ve long since moved on from that situation. I harbor no hard feelings (a tinge of petty anger, yes — but, bitterness, no; there is a difference). I have my own, more recent & significant relationship issues, to be pressed about. Hell, he and I even keep in touch, sporadically (Well, we did — I’m sure that will cease now that I’ve spoken my truth, and asserted my right to control the narrative).

Having said that, why in hell would I voluntarily subject myself to being in the same spaces as the happy couple (undoubtedly talking about/doting on the baby he felt wasn’t significant enough to mention via our numerous recent e-mail conversations — yeah nigga, I already knew what was new in your life — I wanted to see how much of a stand-up guy you were, or weren’t)?

Especially around people who know both wifey and I — some of them knowing what went down. Why would I participate in that? There’s no doubt that there are folks who would take pleasure absorbing the negative energy emanating from that elephant in the room. I just want no part of it.

So, there you have it. I am not going to my reunion because I will not subject myself to the pseudo-humiliation (being played as a fool) and discomfort of watching a woman I graduated with prance around with my (then attached) ex-boyfriend that she managed to marry.

Plus, fuck high school reunions and all they represent. Meanwhile, I’ll just be sippin’ my tea, and reclaiming MY TIME. In other words, my time and comfort are much too valuable to participate in a charade society deems somehow meaningful. Why open up an old wound that I will be forced to nurse back closed? No. Just no.

** Also, please refrain from tagging me/contacting me on social media about anything related to this charade. And, feel free to continually reference this post, if you remain confused.

Relishing A Sister’s Misfortune.

JAY-Z, 4:44Like most of you, I have been caught up in JAY-Z’s latest album, 4:44, all weekend. The album is dope, as are many of the think-pieces I’ve been reading, dissecting its dopeness. The album spoke to me and my reality on many levels (a separate post forthcoming), but interestingly, a think-piece about the album, highlighting a somewhat separate (at least on the surface) issue, has me feeling some kind of way.

Sis, We Gotta Stop Letting Black Men Ruin Us – Crystal deGregory Ph.D. – Medium

An open letter to black women who’ve listened to Jay-Z’s 4:44 and are waiting on an apology from the men who did you wrong. This could easily be a conversation about how Beyoncé lost her mind, her career, or her literal life behind Jay-Z. But, thankfully, it is not.

Honestly, the entire article speaks to me, but this quote is particularly poignant:

“That’s right. We gotta stop celebrating ruinous men ruining any woman —even a woman who has betrayed our Sisterhood’s” sacred trust. We made him and his situation look so good that Sister really thought she was getting herself a prize — a poison that looked like it tasted so good, she was willing to steal it because of her own desperate thirst.”

Okay. Those of you who read this blog know that I have had my share of experiences with no good, “ruinous”, ain’t shit men. Most particularly, my ex-FWB. I knew he wasn’t shit when I hooked up with him, but as you may recall, my ex-friend highlighted just how ain’t shit he was, and set into motion a set of sneaky, snaky events that ultimately ended our friendship.

To sum it up, she slept with him, lied about it, started a fraud ass relationship with him, got knocked up, and the rest is history. You may also recall that she ended up reaching out to me a bit after the baby was born, humbling herself to “apologize” and tell me just how ain’t shit she found out he was (a “you told me so” moment from which I took copious amounts of pleasure) — denying their baby, “cheating on her”, knocking up another woman. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Ex-FWB & some chick he knocked up.

Digressing a bit, you know when you’re bored, on social media, and you go down that rabbit hole, searching and scouring looking for shit? Well, last week, I went down that rabbit hole, and found this photo of ex-FWB from January, with some other broad he knocked up (likely, the woman my ex-friend mentioned). The petty in me wanted to anonymously e-mail it to my ex-friend. But, truth be told, she’s probably seen it. Point being, I took pleasure in imagining my ex-friend’s pain. Like a lot.

It was beautiful — glorious, really — being able to experience karma (and its justice being rightly served). However, reading the words in the aforementioned article really made me pause. I’m sitting with it for a while.

Inadvertent Petty.

Wiping tearsSo, there are many reasons (separate post forthcoming) why I am still friends with my infamous ex on social media — despite the (beyond) foul shit he put me through. [ An aside: my ex is a pretty private person, and doesn’t share his business on these interwebs, which means I really don’t run a serious risk stumbling across some shit that’ll hurt my feelings. Unless I go fishing and deep sea diving — stalking, that is; but that ship has sailed. Anyway. ] It’s been almost four years since we broke up, which means it’s been almost four years since I’ve seen him. But yo, I still love this man.

That said, being connected to him on social media makes me feel a semblance of closeness to him — even though we’re thousands of miles apart.

You’d think that the four years we’ve been apart would be time enough to get over the shit he put me through. And, to a certain extent it did. However, since his messy ass behavior resulted in a child, this will never truly be over. And that’s okay; I’ve made my peace with it. Hell, I hope to meet the little guy one day. But, I digress.

But, social media. And, inadvertent petty.

As I was browsing my Facebook feed, I came across this post that my ex shared (he didn’t create the post, it’s just shared from something he liked on Instagram):

Ok. So this. I know I sound like a bitter bitch, but fuck all of this right here. As it relates to my ex’s current situation, that is. My ex has children from previous (legitimate) relationships, who are grown/nearly grown. In that context, the sentiments of this meme are beautiful. I dig it.

However.

As I reflect upon his situation, as the father of a four year old who was conceived from a meaningless hook-up (with a basic ass Becky who fetishizes Black dick), that destroyed me, fuck this. Should the way his son was conceived have any bearing on his love for him? Of course not. I am not suggesting that.

But, the messy, bitter, self-centered bitch in me is wondering how in the fuck he could read this meme and reflect on the privilege and gift of fatherhood that resulted in the destruction of another person (um, me).

CryingFolks, yes. I realize how utterly messy, bitter, dumb, stupid, selfish, self-centered, evil, misguided, heartless, etc., this sounds. However, I read this and couldn’t help but log off social media feeling some kind of way.

His stat has absolutely nothing to do with me. Shit, he has no allegiance to me anymore. That said, I am deeming it inadvertently petty (Which is crazy, because he is the least petty person I know. Messy? Yes. Petty, nah). But, the petty in me, recognizes how petty some shit like this has the potential to be.

This all says several things to me:

  1. I am not as “over” this situation as I thought I was;
  2. I am messy as fuck;
  3. I am petty as fuck;
  4. I need to get over myself.

I. I. I. I. Me. Me. Me. Me. Sounds about right. Anyway.

I don’t think my ex reads this blog, so this is in no way a subliminal or passive aggressive dig at him. The rational me knows that my thoughts and feelings about this are dumb and irrational.

I don’t want my ex to have residual feelings of regret when he looks at his son. I really don’t. The little guy didn’t ask to be here.

Olivia Pope cryingThat said, my heart aches, and it pains me to think that my ex is able to exist in a reality where regret for his decisions, and how they completely destroyed me (I mean that literally), have waned.

Fuck.

Time to go meditate with my selenite wand. My chakras are all the way fucked up.

Privilege to be Petty.

So the other day, I sent my ex a very blunt and (and in his view petty) text Petty textmessage waxing poetic about how how disrespectful of him it was to encourage and allow the random, white, broad (who he barely knew) to name the child he knocked her up with (not only the name we discussed naming our hypothetical future child), but the name of a very influential Black legend. I carefully chose my words, and articulated my thoughts as candidly and eloquently as possible. That didn’t matter, I suppose.

Now, I know it may seem petty, but I promise that there was some very specific context that motivated me to send it (and to that end, had me in my feelings — nearly 4 years after the fact).

In any case.

He called me today, understandably perturbed by my text the other evening. I won’t get into the specifics of our conversation, but he did say one thing that really stuck out to me.

He commented that while actions speak louder than words (something that I pointed out when he accused me of having a vendetta out for him — which I truthfully denied, as my actions, despite his damn near unforgivable deed, have shown that I have gone out of my way to remain friends with him), texting is, indeed, an action; not just a static stream of words or consciousness (as I suggested).

Moreover, as the wise Dr. Angelou pointed out, “I‘ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Down the line will he remember these petty text messages? Likely not, but he’ll remember how they made him feel. And, as an INFJ, feeling is certainly action oriented to me.

I digress.

While I defended expressing my thoughts, he pointed out that the ability to send a text message — a free and open line of communication, without filter or warning  — is a privilege. And he was right.

It took a minute for it to really accept that (because frankly, the sentiment reeks of a bit of self-aggrandizing, but I digress), but it’s true. He continued that if I was unable to stop persecuting him for the past (and in that vein, questioning his Blackness and all the other baggage that usually comes along with my random, unexpected rants), it may be better that we not communicate.

That hurts. But, I guess it gives me a lot to think about.

Side note: I sent the text Sunday evening. I had a dream that evening that he reached out to me and texted that I should stop the “Mrs. Grieving” act. The dream was bizarre, mainly because I am not a Mrs., but it dawned on me that I likely still am grieving. And it’s not an act.

Lesson: Save it for the blog.

Hurt Bae.

Yo. The now viral #hurtbae video hit me hard. It really made me feel some kind of way. Not necessarily because of this fiasco, because before he really fucked up, he was a good dude. And I was grown. I had life experience. Or maybe I didn’t see the signs. But whatever. I digress.

It made me feel some kind of way because of this fiasco. My first real relationship (love) with a dude who was a jerk. Who cheated more times than I’d like to admit (because frankly, we can deny it all we want, but we know what’s up — but, like the Doobie Brothers sang, What a fool believes, he sees; no wise man has the power to reason away). Who lied countless times. Who carelessly left used condoms in (semi) plain view. Who made me feel like shit. Who I was a fool for. Who really didn’t need to be in a relationship.

I blamed myself for so long. It took a long time for me to realize that I am dope. I’m a catch. And yo; it was his fucking fault.

But this video, though. The hurt in this woman’s eyes. Her body language. Her tears. She seems so defeated. It hurts to watch.

Earlier today, a friend posted the following Facebook status. It hits the nail on the fucking head.

 

Fuck these trash ass dudes. Seriously. Though this shit happened to me damn near twenty years ago, the hurt in this young woman’s eyes is palpable to me. It’s visceral.

“The truly scary thing about undiscovered lies is that they have a greater capacity to diminish us than exposed ones. They erode our strength, our self-esteem, our very foundation.”
– Cheryl Hughes