I am black woman.
Hey Beautiful. Its not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for this culture. Sex is nothing to be implied. Sex is something sacred. A dance may be implied, a hug may be implied, a slightly tighter hold between two warm bodies may be implied, but Sex; Beautiful, Sex should never be implied.
If you were sober, you would’ve said No and Beautiful, something tells me he knows that. He took the opportunity to take advantage of you. At your lowest point of judgment; whether you were knocked out, passed out, sleep, blacked out, drugged, or drunk; he took advantage of that. Don’t blame yourself Beautiful.
And Friend; don’t tell her that nothing happened. Don’t tell her that, “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” Don’t push the fact that, “We were all drunk.”
Friend, don’t tell her that you, “You would’ve been in more pain,” if you don’t know the pain she’s going through. Don’t rationalize his actions, don’t inform her that she was dancing, “like she wanted it.” Don’t tell her that she had been flirting with him all night.
Beautiful; Flirting, Dancing, Drinking, Laughing, Smiling, Touching, Giggling, does not mean, “have sex with me.”
Beautiful; Sex should ALWAYS be consented.
Beautiful; Sex should NEVER be Implied.
Beautiful; Its Ok, to tell somebody
Beautiful; You’re still Beautiful, even though it hurts inside.
An older lady, diagnosed with an Intellectual Disability and many other health concerns was reclined in her reclining chair, watching the local news…as she purposefully relieved the swelling in her left foot; when I came in.
We reviewed her past goals and expectations for the upcoming year, as normal.
Having known her for just a short while, I tried to clear the silence and asked her how her boyfriend was doing and if they’ve been hanging out as usual. She very casually, as if I asked her what the weather was or what color shirt she was wearing at the time…
…She mentioned her boyfriend recently passed away.
She proceeds to fiddle through her cluttered purse, very quietly, without discussion; she pulled out a wallet sized card from his funeral.
The card had as many wrinkles and warn lines as she had in such a short time. On the front, was a picture of a dove flying through the sky, with a date and a poem on the back. She begins explaining how she has all his things, pictures, and keepsakes his family let her keep. She then points to a picture so delicately placed on the mantel with the two of them smiling; with her walker and his cane in the opposite hand, they stand holding each other; smiling.
I also smile, reciprocating the energy I felt in the picture…as I glance away I notice her simultaneously clutching a pendant on a necklace around her neck. The necklace was tied to what seemed like a shoelace or simply a thick string.
I ask her passively, what are you holding?…She responds, even more sure than the first time, “they put a little of his ashes in here,” “he’ll be with me forever.”
This stuck with me.
At 8:30 pm…3 hours past the time I am supposed to get off of work, their story is what stuck with me.
Two human beings that have been deemed incapable of work, unable to live on their own during their adult years,…seemingly not having the mental capacity to choose a religion, drive, marry, raise children,…not able to cook, clean, or fend for themselves, and two completely different races.
Could have such a vast ability to Love.
They loved each other.
During this brief moment even after he has gone, I could feel the love they had for each other. Their love was Strong.
Their Love surpassed shadowed dates and sporadic meetings; unplanned surgeries and diagnosis, families not quite comprehending and others trying to dilute what they shared.
They loved each other un-apologetically.
I’m sure they didn’t understand each other all the time.
I’m sure everything didn’t always feel good.
I’m sure they wished they could do more or had more or shared more together.
But from different homes, with different people around them all the time;
They loved each other.
And now past death, she still loves.
That. Is. Love.
That. Is. Beautiful.
Thank you for sharing your Love with me.
–Inspired by Ms.L.L. and the late Mr……
Last night I spoke with someone whom, whether they know it or not; has changed my life for the better.
The devil is going to be mad at this one.
I was confident. Bold. Big personality. I said what I wanted, when I wanted. I did what I wanted. I laughed, when things weren’t funny. I enjoyed life. I was strategic. I planned. I executed. I was determined. Driven. Motivated.
I was “humbled.”
Of course it took a toll on me both mentally and physically, but as a means of dealing with “it”, I tried to make sense of it all. I believed “it,” happened to humble me….to make me think twice. NOTHING was as it seemed anymore.
I thought about decisions often… too many times, until I did nothing. I became stuck. I became paused by my hesitance of believing in myself. I didn’t believe I knew anymore.
But I believed the situation, “humbled,” me.
The funny thing is, the devil was ok with me thinking that. He was comfortable with me putting that on God. He was ok with me believing I was meant to live as the person the situation changed me into. That was great for him. I was just where he wanted me to be.
I believed the situation humbled me. In actuality, it SILENCED me.
It diluted my strength! I became willingly unvaluable. I second guessed myself. I became scared to make a move; scared to make a decision. Now; I always hesitated. I lacked confidence. I WANTED to blend in. I didn’t want to be noticed. I assumed that was being humble.
I was wrong!!
So what Now? …As people that know me/knew me read, they didn’t know these are the things I struggled with, it wasn’t apparent. I covered. I hid. I faked.
I was silenced!
So what Now? ….Now; I practice speaking when I have something to say. Practice; knowing I make good decisions. Practice, not second guessing and trusting myself. Practice laughing because I want to. Practice not thinking about what others may think of me…I never cared before. Practice, not feeling the need to explain myself. Practice believing; because I want to or because I don’t want to …is more than reason enough.
I’M GETTING MY VOICE BACK!
I was silenced.
God made no mistake when he made me…..the me who I was!
He made no mistake! I didn’t need to be humbled! I believed that godforsaken lie! I believed “it” happened to change or break something in me..for the better. I tried so hard to make a positive out of what I saw as negative, but it was a lie.
I was not humbled.
I was silenced….
And I’m getting…. NO I’m Taking my voice back!
Regular ups and downs are different from the Events on your timeline of Life that seemingly decide to stay. They make themselves known. Memories, that you don’t have to really think very hard to be reminded of… they normally BOLD themselves in the memories of your everyday Life. They replay over and over, without missing details. If you were to pause and dwell on them they would bring great detriment.
I often wonder if everyone has these happenings in Life.
I often took pride in not having a “special story.” I often said things like, “my life has been pretty easy, so far. I don’t have an interesting story to tell.”
I guess that can change at any moment… Guess that’s Life.
To remind yourself of your Reality, is to be reminded of your humanity.
To remind yourself of your Reality, is to be reminded of everyone’s humanity.
It often leaves room for Grace.
The convict who found enlightenment can see the positivity in someone else because he knows he found the positivity that was once lost in himself. Once it reflected in himself; someone was able to see the positivity in him and further his fulfillment in Life.
When my thoughts are not clear, it is hard to articulate my words to put them on paper. I often times think in complex sentences or scenarios or metaphors that make it much more difficult to fully convey my feelings.
I often wonder if there are others that think like I do; whos daily pondering leaves them at pause, with simply more questions, stumped, unable to fully communicate their deepest thoughts. Trying so very hard to encompass the feeling in a few simple words. But continually come up Blank.
Is it worried? Is it in content? Is it the courage to dream about the future and what it could be, trying so very very hard to be grateful and happy in the present?…
Is it reflecting over the hardships? Making efforts to be optimistic… understanding that someone’s life could be what you would consider worse than yours, but to them that much more Real.
Is it vain to believe this complex thinking is unique or is it just human?
Life is a delicate concept. The 51-year-old ex-convict, who has come to himself, enlightened on a better route, found love, re-connected with his family, understands his limits, and lives a fulfilled and happy life.
The 39-year-old female whos never gotten below average on anything, works a more than admirable job, hangs with her friends on the weekends, drives her Benz to a paid off condo and sits contemplating what life is and what has it become; constantly deliberating on her true purpose in Life.
I often wonder who’s better off? Who’s happy?
Is being happy and being content one in the same? Do they play hand in hand?
Can one be content in life, but not be happy? What does that feel like? Does it feel like grinding a rope against a stone until it creates a groove? Content in the effort, but unhappy with the results. Is that true happiness?
What are you striving for?
He rushed to the house. Mind raising. How in the world could he have let this happen. How could he have been so careless. He usually covers all his basis. But not that night. Seeking the counsel of his pastor and first lady. That night he slipped up. He slipped up and slipped into someone he actually desired. He desired her to his core. He willed for her. Since she stepped foot in that church. Since she pranced her outgoing likeable in your face personality into that place, he wanted her. In the most unpure way he desired her, but she played with him. Dangling herself at arms reach. Just close enough to desire but never closer. She knew what she was doing and now, so did he. He knew she never liked him and never would. That night her inhibitions were low and he willed for her. She trusted him and He knew it. He spent many years creating the perfect scenario. He’d tried once before but this time, this time was perfect.
But how could he have been so attached. Instead of his plan of stroking his ego at her expense; he stroked her inner pride and foregone his plan inside her. Wishing and hoping that it wouldn’t manifest to anything and things would go back as he desired. Her dangling and him desiring but he was due for another sentence.
Originally posted on RaceBaitR:
*this piece has been published with permission of the referenced person* The first time I was sexually assaulted I must have been 9 or 10 years old. I was violated by two family friends who were…
I love that you’re living. The sense of sheer gratification of a moment well spent. The grin from ear to ear of pure bliss. Acknowledging you have a place in this world and are determined to find it, balance it, own it. But girl, I love that you’re living. The travel, the freedom, the joy, girl; I love that you’re living. I get it. I’ve got it. It’s good. I see it. It’s so recognizable. You know when someone is living and girl, I so love that you’re living. It’s freedom. You know it’s ok to dine alone. It’s ok if no one else goes. It’s ok if no one laughs, and you throw your head back and fall to the floor in intense giggle because you, just you find humor in the little things… because girl you’re living. It’s seeping through your pores.
It’s all over your skin.
When people think of living, sometimes there is only a superficial definition that comes to mind, but to live goes way deeper than simply breathing. Living, is the idea of pausing and listening to every breathe — deep — deepening the gust of wind that is taken in and out of your body. And in those pauses, being; only being grateful. When you’ve fully grasped that concept that’s when life begins. That’s when there’s life. That’s when you’re living. It’s not wanting your moments to be different, it’s basking in the full, ever present, beaming aspect of your “now;” And you see. It’ll show up. It’s noticeable. It bleeds out your skin. Living. Everybody doesn’t take part in living.
-Inspired by Kristal Smith
I breastfeed a 19 month old… might as well be rounded to 20. As quickly as the months come and go, I may as well round-up. I breastfeed a 19 month old. He runs around in the mud, plays football, tackles his uncles, eats everything, waves, talks, and then when he gets thirsty and doesn’t want water; which he loves…He climbs up on my lap, dragging his wet grass filled shoes across my, cute, “I don’t get out the house much, but at least I’m not wearing leggings outfit and I breastfeed my lovely son. No matter if he just finished eating a lollipop with a sticky mouth and fingers, a chip in his hand, or pizza sauce dripping off his face, I breastfeed. (he’s literally climbing on me as I type this….I am now breastfeeding.)
Now, this happens at tight fitted bleachers at football games, the pool, the park, the mall, story time; wherever he sees fit. I’m a water fountain. For all you mother’s who rave about breastfeeding their “22 month old,” and “I love nourishing my child with my body,” — yeah, great, I’m proud, my child is nourished, but uh, he’s received enough nourishment because mommy needs some fingernails and maybe her thick lushes mane backs. It’s a routine. He does it on purpose. He knows what he’s doing.
Eat a little.
Drink a little.
Save a little, just enough room for mommy.
Don’t get me wrong I love…..mmm….loved breastfeeding, but my rambunctious, almost 2-year-old could stand to cut back a little. Having nicknames as, “the tithes, the pacifier, some nip” — actually, I’m mommy and just wanna hear you say it once. I love breastfeeding– here’s the disclaimer… Everyone should breastfeed, it really is a beautiful thing, such a bond, nourishment, medicine that you may have never realized, but my rambunctious almost 2-year-old could stand to cut back, and cut back like yesterday.
My mom says she’s proud of me and she wished she nursed us longer; 5 children. The 1st, 6 months, the 2nd 3 months, 8 months, 6 months, and the last a year. She doesn’t quite understand that everyday of just NOT breastfeeding, just NOT whipping my breast out, has just snuck up on me. I’m proud also, but someone needs to spread advice in a blog, news article, on how to ween; because my almost 2-year-old could stand to cut back a little. It just doesn’t hold the same beauty when he’s walking up and ripping your clothes off, stretching my shirt out, pulling my cover off. Countless people have seen my breast, I’m sure. Because they are trying to figure out, why Im stuffing a toddler up my shirt and they soon figure out when flashed a medium-sized brown breast. Save the Tattas. Save my Titties. A cry for help; from my almost 2-year-old.
When people think of living, sometimes there is only a superficial definition that comes to mind, but to live goes way deeper than simply breathing. It’s the idea of pausing and listening to every breath – deep – deepening the gust of wind that is taken in and out of your body. And in those pauses, being only grateful. When you’ve fully grasped that concept, thats when life begins. Thats when there’s life. That’s when you’re living. Its not wanting the moment to be different. Its basking in the full, ever present, beaming aspect of now. And you see. It shows up. It’s noticeable. It bleeds out your skin. Living. Everybody doesn’t take part in living.