I Chose Not to Tell You.

One of the things to come out of pandemic was my decision to tell a friend whether or not I’ve had feelings for them for a while. I spent months and months going over this decision. I asked for advice from most of my closest friends. I talked about it with my therapist ad nauseam.

I don’t like holding things in. I have a lot of feelings. They are often very big and very deep. So when I feel something, it’s hard for me to let it go unexpressed. Because then I have to carry around this very heavy, very big feeling that digs all into my insides and takes up too much space. It’s uncomfortable.

But telling someone, “Hey, maybe I love you a little bit and maybe I always have,” is like, one of the biggest feelings. It can be a life-altering feeling. It can be a relationship-defining feeling. For better or for worse. Or a little bit of both. And so, that’s why I worked this decision to death.

Every time I decided that the benefits outweighed the consequences, I would have a change of mind. And then I’d feel like, “Well, if I still can’t make up my mind, then I should take a little more time.” And then finally, I decided, “Yes, one day I will tell them, but not now.” Now seems like a bad time for many reasons. (I could name them all here, but I’m not. Because I’m not brave enough.)

But just because I’ve come up with some very good reasons not to tell this person how I feel doesn’t mean I still don’t want them to know. Because I am so grateful for what these feelings have taught me. And I’m grateful for what their friendship has offered me.

So today, I want them to know:

You helped me learn a piece of myself more intimately. You’ve taught me what it means to be the smartest, kindest person in any place. I think the world of you. And though you’re probably not my person, you have set the bar incredibly high for who I hope to end up with one day.

Y’all, if you can tell someone you love them today and you don’t have to worry about it blowing things up, please do.

I Forgot to Post Today.

Today’s One True Thing is that I totally forgot to post today.

Sundays have historically been my “self-care” and restoration day. When I graduated from NYU and started my first full-time job, I was shocked by how exhausting a 40-hour work week could be. I’ll never forget complaining to my dad about it and being like, “I can’t believe you chose to have kids on top of this.” LOL. Since 2012, I usually try not to schedule anything work or social life related on Sundays.

Pre-COVID, I would work out with my sistafriend and personal trainer, Eden, on Sunday mornings. Then I’d come home, nap, and chill for the rest of the day — maybe cook myself a big, nice dinner so I could have leftovers for the week. It was a nice ritual I started right before I celebrated my 30th birthday. Working out energized me for the week, but the hardcore chilling also allowed me to feel more rested. Like most of us, Mondays are hard for me, so having the whole day before to get my mind, body, and spirit right for the upcoming week helped me be more of a grown-up.

Then COVID hit and Sunday pretty much blended into all the other lockdown days. Plus, it feels like I’ve spent a majority of 2020 on episode (which I am NOT complaining about), so Sundays have also had to turn into a work day most weeks out of necessity. (Hiiii, I’m a procrastinator.)

But for the past month or so, I’ve been working on something very exciting with Eden’s brother, Miles. Though I love him and I love the project we’re collaborating on, so it doesn’t exactly feel like work. In many ways, it feels like just another extension of my self-care practice. But it’s also something I often have to rush and get ready for, because I have poor time management skills. That’s indeed what I was doing this morning — I woke up late and needed to get ready for our work session quickly. It was a joy. Then I came home and ate ramen. Then I took a nap. I woke up maybe an hour, an hour and a half ago…

OK, so essentially my Sundays are still the same. I’ve just swapped working out with Eden for working with her brother. (But you still my main squeeze, E!)

Now it’s 11:30pm and I’m like, “Oh, fuck, don’t lapse on the blog, bitch.” But because I took a VERY late nap today, I’ll probably be up for a few hours, which I don’t mind. I know all you sleep cops out there are gonna be like, “You shouldn’t take naps so late…” But listen, I was tired. Plus, I enjoy writing late into the night for some reason. There’s something about the darkness and the quietness and no one asking me for shit, it helps me lock myself into that rare yet sacred space where the ideas flow and I’m not getting hung up on the usual shit that keeps me from being a productive writer. It started in grad school. USC had a 24-hour library and when I really just needed to get writing done, I’d buy a bunch of snacks and coffee and hole up there until 3 or 4am. I miss it.

So those are my truths for the day: On Sundays, I’m lazy. But I tried hard not be too lazy to write this blog.

Happy Monday, y’all.

Therapy Works.

I just got out of a session with my therapist.

I’ve been seeing her for two years. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was 11. That was the year my parents separated, and I would miss a lot of school. So my mom thought it would be helpful for me to see someone. To this day, it’s one of the kindest and most loving things anyone could have ever done for me. Because it meant that I always knew that was an option.

Previous to my most recent journey with therapy, I saw a therapist in high school for about a year. Then during the last two years of college. After undergrad, I had a life coach for about two years who was more or less a therapist, but our work was more spiritual. And then another therapist in grad school.

I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and self-esteem issues since puberty. When I feel like I’m unable to cope and manage on my own, I go back to therapy. Two years ago, I was burnt out and depressed, which is a dangerous combination. I had begun lashing out at people I loved. Like, literally screaming at people in public. I’m a crazy bitch, but it was scary. I knew something was wrong.

In our first session, I knew I had found the right therapist. Because she asked me questions that made me sob so hard, I felt like something had broken inside. In a good way. Since then, I’ve done a lot of healing and growing. She was the first therapist to ever help me understand that so many of my mental and emotional health issues also stem from PTSD. Like all of us, I have survived trauma. But the way I’ve learned to cope is unique to my special brand of weirdness and sensitivity.

The past two months have been especially difficult. I’ve taken on a lot. I’m working through a lot. I’ve been dealing with some personal shit. And also, the world feels like a very chaotic and negative and dark and heavy place most days. It’s been difficult to maintain a sense of joy or hope or positivity.

And yet, I am fine. Part of this is my privilege and good fortune. I will never hide that. But a lot of it is because of the work I’ve done in therapy over the last two years. I am stronger. I am more resilient. I’m more confident in my ability to cope and care for myself. I’m still not great at it, but two years ago, the last two months would’ve knocked me on my ass. Just truly and deeply would’ve fucked my shit up.

Instead, I have done such a good job at being OK — centering myself, caring for myself, holding myself accountable, recovering from setbacks — that I somehow convinced her that I’m ready to go back to sessions every other week.

I’m fixed! J/K. Not at all. (And also, that’s not the point of therapy.) But still, I am proud of the healing I’ve done.

(P.S. If you are sad or numb or lost or mad or confused or tired or going through some shit and you have questions about therapy, feel free to reach out to me.)

Introducing Poetry Fridays…

I have now decided that once a week, I will write a poem and also post it here. Here’s the first one…

A Thing of My Own Making

In college, I learned that poem comes from poiesis:

to make, to bring into being that which did not exist before.

And suddenly, almost everything was a poem:

the strawberries I ate with this morning’s breakfast

had been a poem a twice — first from Earth, and then into feast.

And if it wasn’t, it once had been:

our sun, suspension of light too old now at 4.6 billion years to be a poem,

had once been a surprise to the darkness that holds it.

Some better than others:

the moon-named girl my best friend is forging to be brave & self-coronated

slightly greater than this career I’ve built from words I thread through whitespace

slightly greater than the heartbreak that cracked open whatever ballooned both phenomena.

Some begetting more:

at some point, my father made my mother laugh in a way that was wholly new

and it birthed volume after volume

(two of which were titled son and daughter)

until they each made the other a wreck of animosity

which ended their marriage in a bombed-out dirge.

I let this hypothesis bleed wild:

Because God, if real, must be a prolific poet.

Or if God isn’t, then They must be a poem,

which makes us all smaller yet equally prolific gods.

But it also means, everyday I woke up this week?

And the loneliness that buried me?

And the ache I sometimes dig my fingers into?

Each a thing of my own making.

I Hate (Online) Dating.

For most of us, 2020 deeply fucked up something of our lives. For many, it’s meant devastating loss and uncertainty. I try to remember that so far, I have been fortunate. I am safe and healthy. All of my loved ones have been safe and healthy, more or less. I’ve been able to work and provide for myself.

The only things I’ve lost of meaningful worth are time and some hope. There were goals and plans I had for this year that I had to accept were just not gonna fucking happen. Some of those things were easier to accept than others.

The one that hasn’t been easy to accept? How this pandemic is affecting my (nonexistent) love life. When I turned 30 last summer, I promised myself that I would start “putting myself out there” — a phrase I hate with a murderous passion — because there was something about turning 30 that made not wanting to die alone feel very urgent all of a sudden. I blame Love Island. (And trust, we only recognize UK in this house.)

I’ve never really “put myself out there” before because I didn’t know how. I’m what one would call a late bloomer. I’m also what one would call old-fashioned. I’ve spent most of my life assuming that I would meet-cute my future romantic partners like they do on Sex and the City. And if not that, I would just meet them randomly IRL. I’ve only ever liked people I’ve gotten to know really well in person.

And since this blog is called One True Thing, I guess I should also explain that I don’t “put myself out there” because the one time I did, I was involved in a very coercive and manipulative relationship with an older guy who sexually assaulted me twice. A very trauma compounded by my trust and intimacy issues stemming from witnessing my parents’ disaster of a divorce. (Yes, I do go to therapy! Thank you for asking.)

Oh, and it’s also further complicated by the fact that I came out as queer only three years ago, because I fell in love with a woman. But it was messy and emotional. (Truly only emotional, which made it even messier.) But once you take your queerness out of the box, it’s not like you can put it back in and return it. But my queerness is also still new and foreign and and maybe a little misshapen to me. And so I’ve also been like, “Who am I putting myself out there for?” I still don’t know how to answer that question.

OK, so yes. This is why “putting myself out there” is a very scary and complicated thing for me.

But all of a sudden, I was 30. I was very single. And sometimes, y’all, I swear I can feel my ovum packing up their shit and retiring to Florida. Finding a person — not my person, which I’ll get to — became a Very Serious Matter. Because did I mention I’m very afraid of dying alone?

As I started talking about the not wanting to die alone and wanting to “put myself out there” with my friends and aforementioned therapist, a terrible truth was reiterated over and over again: For 90% of humans (this is not a real statistic), “putting yourself out there” means online dating. Swiping right. (Or is it left?) You see a representation of a person through your phone — a few photos and some facts and some blurbs they’ve written about themselves — and you’re supposed to decide if they’re cute or interesting or smart or kind enough to talk to? And if they want to talk to you? And then if they do, you have to deal with truly the most mind-numbing conversations to figure out if they’re cute or interesting or smart or kind enough to risk BEING MURDERED to meet them in person?

Y’all, it’s a fucking nightmare. (And do not even get me started on the politics of desire and how fucking hard it is to be a [fat] Black woman on these apps.)

But I tried it nonetheless. And promptly got catfished. So then I deleted the apps… and then re-added them… and then deleted them… and then re-added them. And now, I’m considering deleting them again.

Because the truth is: I fucking HATE online dating. I’m not a swipe-to-find-a-match kind of bitch. And it really sucks because in this dystopian future, online dating is the only dating that’s safe. If there were ever a time to really pony up, it’d be now. But I deeply hate it.

And so, a huge part of 2020 has been accepting that this will probably be another year I’m single AF and a little lonely. And that’s OK. My eggs are not retiring. I am not going to die alone. I have time. The goal isn’t to find a warm body. The goal is to find my person — someone who is cute and interesting and smart and kind, who shares my same values and ambitions, who I can have a relationship with.

So until I can “put myself out there” IRL, I’ll stay my Black ass at home.