Think the thoughts, feel the feels...write it down

I often don't give my past self credit. Like, I be knowing, but don't know that I knew until afterwards. I recently opened my journal to write/process, and I read a few journal entries from the past three years. They were sporadic, but very explicit in language. At the time of the older entries, I thought that since I had written about my problems and frustrations that they had been resolved. This isn't true, BUT they were still valuable entries. People always say that we are to look back at our past to do better, do right, in the present and our futures; they're talking about more global realities, wars and environment. But why not in a microcosmic scale? Why not look at our individual pasts and adjust our presents and futures from there? Why not be in constant communication with my past self? Just because I was young and naive doesn't mean I can't glean lessons from my past self. When I initially saw this I felt affirmed and the familiar shame. S

Hovering over my phone in a weird almost-laying-on-my-stomach position, she began to trace my body with her nail. I was tense because my ex had walked in the house a day earlier than anticipated and we were fucking with my bedroom door open. The door now closed, I hovered and scrolled through my phone anxiously waiting for my ex to leave the house so her and I could continue. Just a few minutes after my ex left, I gingerly collapsed onto the bed, facing away from her. She had been continually tracing me the whole time. "That feels...nice" I stammered "Are you okay?" she asked " Yea, yea" more stammering " It's just you're not used to it?" " Right, but it's really nice." I confirmed " It's my pleasure." she urged Memorizing each raised hair as she traced my body, I tried to remember the last time I was touched like that. Fuck Coléa, when was the last time the body has been appreciated like this?!  I was a

Today marks two weeks (and one day) of being 30. Going into it I was hesitant (as if I could slow down time) because the past few months have been tough and I was scared the shitty trend would continue. BUT so far thirty has been great! I feel the healthiest I've felt in a over a year, probably closer to two years. I feel loved and vibrant. I feel fulfilled and whole. I feel attractive and optimistic. I feel like I'm important in my own life . I am terribly good at enveloping my existence in someone else's; in devoting my life to someone else's happiness, needs, wants. But I've been working to untangle myself from that disposition. Self care is most efficient when consistent. I believe in setting intentions and manifesting. I believe that we speak, project the trajectory of our lives. So I was nervous about how to speak life into my life, partially because I had forgotten how. I had had this internal conflict of speaking/writing about my life because I didn'

Years back I read a then popular book, The Paris Wife . The book affected me because I just felt so heart broken and such a connection with the main character, Hadley Hemingway. Hadley was Ernest Hemingways' first wife. The wife he met at home and moved to Paris with and became famous with. When my ex and I ended, this book immediately popped in my head. I began drawing parallels between Hadley Hemingway's relationship with her (ex-)husband and my relationship with my (ex-)wife. Then I scolded myself for 'being so dramatic;' I mean my ex didn't fuck their mistress while I was in the bed with them, but they were secretly "talking/texting" another woman while we were still together. But my ex didn't get infuriated when I became pregnant, but they did scroll through their phone sitting just feet away while I put my puppy down. But my ex didn't say they couldn't trust me anymore, but they did call me fat and lazy to my and others' face

Today I visited one of our love landmarks. I went there with a friend because it’s beautiful and I wanted to share the beauty with her. I was fine at first even though every plant I touched sent a tiny shock of melancholy through my being. Then I wasn’t fine. I became exhausted from outrunning these memories. So I sat on a bench, surrounded by plants and memories, and cried. It was annoyingly picturesque. This black femme, surrounded by nature’s beauty, crying about a lost love. I couldn’t outrun the memories. Every leaf, every flower, every rock, every bench had been covered by our proclamation of love. How many rains does it take to wash all that away? I find myself encountering sweet memories as I go about my day, minding my own business.  The love landmark where you first called me “my love”… The love landmark where you first announced that you loved me… The love landmarks where we’d revel in cheap tacos or good sushi… The love landmarks where my heart bursted wi

I don't know what it is. If it can be helped. If it's my fault. If I can prevent it. I just don't know. This feels cyclical. I don't feel wrong. But I do feel crazy. I feel like I can't talk to anyone about IT, like the very person I want and need to talk to about it doesn't wanna hear it. But I always hear their shit. I always actively listen and dish advice when prompted and coddle and coo and try to understand and sympathize. So why can't it be reciprocated? It can. It should. Now I'm sitting at home being pathetic while they're out going to the very party I wanted to go to. I am baffled and confused and hurt and broken and frustrated and scared. Is this it? Are we broken for good? My heart feels irreparable. I feel like I fell into this trap. I feel awful. My stomach is in knots; my eyes are exhausted from crying; I feel like the tiniest person. The tiniest, most pathetic person who's outer shell looks deceptively strong. Years ago, when I w