It’s crazy to see how much my framily has changed since we had our very first friendsmas back in 2013. People moved, came back, got married, had babies, broke up, had more babies, and I … I … I’ve had at least 4 different hairstyles. At any rate, it’s always a treat to see everyone in the same room at the same time and I appreciate the people that take time out of their busy schedules to join us, what more fly out for this event. What I love most is how everyone gets so involved in our themes. This years theme in case youcouldn’t tell was “Gatsby/1920s/Old Hollywood”, and in addition to 1,782 photos we also got a video.
When you’re in a relationship, often times it’s the little things that mean the most.
Like the “Good Morning” texts that you send on autopilot before your eyes can even focus. It’s almost like the equivalent of coffee for some, because let’s face it – I never wake up in time to make coffee before I leave for work. Also, I don’t own a coffee machine. Nevertheless, as soon as I get that text response, I can get out of bed and go about my regular morning routine.
Little things like making plans for two instead of one (even though it took some time getting used to another human being a part of your daily routine). Not big plans like marriage and babies, but small plans like breakfast and grocery shopping. You have an automatic date to the iHeart80s concert, because no one else is that corny enough to attend. And you can finally have matching Halloween costumes, because none of your girlfriends want to be Chucky (unless it’s a slutty Chucky of course).
You miss the silly faces he only makes for you, and the ugly faces you make for only him – even though he still thinks you’re beautiful.
You even appreciate the things that annoy you. Like how he puts your extra pillows on the floor before bed. Who cares if you have 5 pillows, but only use 1 of them? THEY’RE YOUR PILLOWS GODDAMMIT! Or how he dumps all his stuff next to his side of the bed, making it look like dirty laundry or junk. It doesn’t matter if the ret of my room is a mess – it’s your mess! You didn’t mind these things because it meant that he was staying for a while when he had an overnight bag. And it meant he would be laying next to you that night instead of those pillows.
When you’re in a relationship, often times it’s the little things that mean the most. Unfortunately, when a relationship comes to an end it’s these little things you miss the most too.
As a woman of color, a minority, and an immigrant, some of my political stances may surprise you. There are times where I struggle between what I believe in, and what I’m expected by my peers to believe in. Politics is not my forte. I don’t follow it as much as I should or would like to, and my emotions get in the way of me being able to properly articulate my thoughts. Still, I made sure to utilize my right to vote for the very first time in support of Barack Obama. I watched in bewilderment when he made his first inaugural speech and last night along with many Americans, I cried when he gave his farewell speech.
Depending on who you are, how much money you make and possibly, the color of your skin, you may or may not be relieved that the Obama administration has come to an end. But this post isn’t going to be a reflection of his policies, it’s just an ode to my favorite President.
What I’m going to miss the most about Barack Obama is the way he maintained, managed, and honored the relationships he had. Whether it be professional, political, personal, or superficial. Whether with an ambassador, enemy, best friend, child, or janitor, Obama interacted with you just the same and treated you with the respect you deserved.
Perhaps this is most apparent with his relationship with the most important women in his life, and especially with his wife Michelle. Naysayers may say that the President’s personal relationships have nothing to do with the way he runs a nation, but I believe it does. I believe your beliefs and values start at home, and it’s safe to say that Obama, “The best Vice President America’s ever had,” and FLOTUS have all found a home in our hearts. Continue reading
This year I want to go to Iceland, Cuba, Hawaii, Bali, and Thailand. I want Invisalign and lash extensions. I want to finally eat at French Laundry. I want to take a dance class. I want to start bikram again. I want to redecorate my room. I want to punch inconsiderate people who lack common sense in the face.
But I need to save money. For my mom’s bachelorette party. For a new car. Shit, for life. I need to meal plan. I need to stop taking Uber to work. I need to give less fucks about things that don’t matter.
I need to go to the gym at least 3 times a week. I need to stop wasting my gym membership. I need a new car. I need to love myself.
I wanted this man. I always wanted him, even before I knew I did. This man that had a soft side to his hard demeanor. This man that was brutally honest with me. This man that let me know he couldn’t give me more, but continued seeing me knowing I wanted more. This man that laid me down then laid it down. This man that didn’t do anything wrong except for not want me back.
I wanted to scream. To inject some sort of paralyzing serum into my veins everytime my fingers would respond to his texts. I wanted to furiously beat some sense into myself whenever I walked through his front door.
But I needed him. I needed him in my life to remind me that I was already everything without him. I needed him to make the effort. I needed his sensitivity and support. I needed to know I was worth it.
I needed to be with him. Not just that, I needed to be head over heels in love with him. I needed to be obsessed. I needed to text my friends every detail of every date we had, and feel butterflies everytime the door opened and it was him. I needed to need him.
The thing is, I needed to want him too.
If you have any kind of sense, you will have watched the entire first season of Insecure by now and have reveled in it’s glory. While almost every episode was “Gworrrrl” worthy, there was one that compelled me enough to write a blog. It was the one where Issa suggested her bestie Molly try therapy and just like most headstrong women who seemingly have their shit together, the suggestion was met with severe backlash that put a temporary strain on their friendship. For Molly, seeing a therapist suggested something was wrong with her and was the equivalent of a 5150.
As for myself? I first saw a psychologist back in 2009. After taking birth control for eight years straight, I went cold turkey and underwent some sort of chemical imbalance that left me crying on bathroom floors and banging my head against passenger side windows. Whatever it was had me feeling FUCKED UP over my ex who annoyed me so much I broke up with him via text message.
I survived that moment in my life, but unfortunately went through a turn of events that lead me back into a therapy a few years later. In addition to that, I ran the lake. I meditated. I read all the fucking books. I sought help from a spiritual advisor, and didn’t even flinch when he made me sit in the middle of my living room while talking to my “other selves” aka my sofa pillows. I didn’t care how embarrassed or silly I felt, I would’ve done anything to get better.
And I think that’s how you have to look at it. As someone who is taking a small – yet bold step to healing themselves. Not as someone who is crazy, or incapable of healing themselves by themselves. To be completely honest, the therapy sessions didn’t solve my problems. For me, therapy simply provided a safe place for me to vent without feeling guilty about it. I didn’t learn anything new, other than learning that a few of my friends had also seen therapists and this normalized the stigma to me. It made me feel less crazy, and most importantly less alone.
If the only thing holding you back from seeking out help, whether it be therapy or otherwise, is embarrassment or fear of being judged – don’t believe the hype. You don’t have to be depressed to see a therapist. You don’t have to be sad or crazy, or in an unhealthy relationship. And most of all, you are not weak for wanting to get help. For taking the necessary steps to get better. It takes courage to identify pain, get out of bed every morning, into your car, and spill your guts to a stranger.
Therapy may not be the solution for everyone, but it’s definitely not the problem either.
i try. i think really hard about it too. all these bridges, and i still can’t get over you.
i don’t even need to try. it’s right there in front of me. our future failures, the reasons we can’t be together. the reasons we aren’t together.
i can’t talk to you about things. i can’t talk to you about anything. at least not without second guessing myself. first. without feeling judged. without wondering if i sound stupid. without holding back.
i tell myself you are not for me. you won’t understand my needs. or appreciate my jokes. or accept my quirks. you’re always on your phone. and you don’t even wait for me to get out of the car before walking to your front door.
i remind myself that i deserve better. that i am better. that someone will love me. that i love me. that i am worth the effort you never gave. that you never even tried, nor wanted to. I REMIND MYSELF THAT WE ARE NOTHING.
i remember the pain. i force myself to, even though i tried so hard to forget. the anxiety. the drowning in my tears, and not being able to breathe because i can’t stop swallowing the lies i tell myself about myself. the sinking feeling in my stomach everytime you liked one of her pictures. everytime i knew you would be out. everytime someone breathed your existence in my direction.
but i just can’t do it. i try. i think really hard about it too. all these bridges, and i still can’t get over you.
I recently read an IG post that said to delete the numbers of all the men who treated you wrong. If the act hadn’t backfired for me, I’d strongly suggest it. Except every single time I’ve done this, I ended up memorizing the number after seeing it on my screen so many times. I DON’T EVEN KNOW MY MOM’S NUMBER BY HEART. Dafuq.
Thus, I would suggest changing their name on your phone instead. “Fuck Boy”, “Asshole”, and “DO NOT PICK UP” seem to be popular. Or you can take the sad, but effective “He doesn’t want you” approach. Whatever you do, leave out any desired adjectives in his name. When you’re drunk or vulnerable, “Big dick bastard” will only read as “Big dick”.