Whose Voice am I Hearing...?

For years, I only heard their voices. I only heard criticisms. All I knew was what they wanted me to know. I was instructed to be strong, to never need a man for anything, and to be slim in order to attract that man that I’d never need. I knew I had to go to college, but no one ever explained why. I had to keep my hair straightened, kinky contradicted classy…according to those who raised me. Love was just a distraction and money was the ruler of all things beautiful (at least that’s what they told me). I heard what they said and I saw what they did. The two never aligned, and when their words and actions corresponded…the picture wasn’t as pretty as they thought it was.

As a child, with wide eyes and huge cheeks, I waited for my mother to come home from work for most of the 1990’s. And when she did, her only mission was to prepare me for another school day or for church. I never got to “know” her, never got to hear about her childhood play dates and teenage dreams. I just knew that she left every day with burden in her slanted eyes and returned with a toy or treat of some sort. My caretaker (a relative) helped my mother raise me. Together, they were a female powerhouse…married to men yet independent and sassy. They were always shopping…and always skinny. They’d go on absurd diets weeks before huge parties. They’d go entire days without anything to eat besides soup or oranges. And then, they’d look at me and with complete sincerity say, “you should want to grow up and be just like us.”

I didn’t want to be like them, but I was too loyal to admit that I was disgusted with their tactics. I was confused most of the time. I spent most of my childhood hating my body because they told me I was unacceptable. I hid my “crushes” because I was convinced that emotions were a woman’s internal poison. I was always told to “focus on my lessons” and to “make money, then fall in love”…as if I were in control in the natural order of things.

I accepted their teachings as scripture for eighteen years. Then I went to college. And it was then, that I went on a rebellious rampage. I quit every job I accepted within a few months. Money meant nothing to me. When I had it, I spent it on others…just to rid of it quickly. I wanted to prove that I could be successful without their instructions so I bought big-ticket items with rent/book money and fell “in love” at nineteen just to prove that love could conquer all.

(It didn’t).

When I left home at eighteen, I was tiny and “adorable” according to my mother. By age twenty, I’d gained a total of 65 pounds. I was unhealthy and unhappy. But I thought I was proving a point to everyone whoever tried to control and mold me. Every time I lectured myself for being overweight, I’d eat more just to silence the voices that I thought were echoes from childhood. I was miserable.

It wasn’t until a year ago that I realized how much I admired my mother, not for what she said, but for who she was. I started to understand that her advice wasn’t intended to burn me but to build me up. I started to understand her messages and her cautionary lectures. It became evident that she wanted me to be the very best version of myself. And though she didn’t have the best delivery, her intentions were good.

I realize now, when I sit still and hear my own voice, that she and I don’t want different outcomes. The “me” I see up ahead is a woman that she’ll be very proud of. But, what’s more important is that I am proud of the woman I am becoming. I do want to pursue more schooling and to learn all I can. Because knowledge is powerful. I want to be in great shape because that’s when I’m most confident. I just intend to take my own customized avenues to feel fabulous. When I hear myself, I realize that no one controls my destiny but me.

Everything that I did out of rebellion failed. I had to realize that I respected the teachings provided for me as a child, but I did not always have to embrace the lessons that contradicted my own beliefs.

I now know how to differentiate between what “they want” and what “I need”. And knowing the difference…saved my life.

Love?

It's defined as a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person & as a sexual passion or desire. Biblically, its the existence of all things wonderful and the absence of selfishness and sin.

In this world, in the present day, its just an overused term that keeps insecure people comfortable. When the term "love" flies from our lips during casual exchanges or after 3 weeks of dating, it loses its precious essence and rarity.

I'm not cupid's assassin, but I am relentlessly real. And I know that there are days when I say " I love you" without connecting my heart to the valve that leads to my lips. To be frank, the words escape me. I am a habitual lover. I don't need a good reason to tell someone I love them. I don't have a dating timeline. Sometimes, saying "I love you" is easier than admitting that there is actually a lack of passion present. I think people sometimes say "I love you" when they run out of other, more original, things to say to each other. Love is often a form of comfort.

There was a time, I think, when love made people brave. Love wasn't always synonymous with safety/security. I think that love and passion were once cousins, but now love seems to resent passion altogether. In an attempt to clarify, I'll present an example. People who get married vow to love each other. People who've been in relationships for a considerable amount of time say "I love you" at the end of every phone conversation.

But those people, statistically, are often among the most unhappy individuals on earth. They talk about lacking excitement and variety. They talk about how redundant their days are. They seek fulfillment in other areas in order to substitute the inevitable boredom.

Love is like a nightclub that no one wants to wait in line and pay for. Everyone just goes on "free before 12" night to enjoy whatever easy perks are available. Love is like a ditch and no one is interested in falling in it. Members of my generation just carefully step around it, avoiding it and its exhaustion at all costs.

I wish that we could all start saying "I passion you." But that would be ridiculous. I've used "love" like an arrow for most of my life. I penetrate everyone with it, hoping to put a spell on an innocent recipient. But spells don't last forever...

The way I feel now can't be verbalized. I feel something magical but I can't define it. Don't want to. But I know that it isn't love. Because love has a dry connotation. There's nothing safe about what I'm feeling...nothing guaranteed or predictable. My heart stops beating sometimes, I'm sure of it. My palms get itchy, my mouth gets dry, my face gets red, and my tummy hosts a party of obese butterflies. I want to call it something. I want to name this feeling. But love? No. I wouldn't dare. You can find that anywhere. It's no longer rare and exceptional. It's overused and undervalued.

I'm certain that I'm experiencing something that is bigger than love. And though I can't find it in the dictionary, I know that it's real. And raw. Love might just be a box that I dance on top of. I don't want to be in it. I'd rather have something other people can't understand or label.

You can keep love. Enjoy it. Indulge in it. Pretend to be fulfilled. I'll be up here, chillin on my high horse...keeping it real.

I Wish...

...winter wouldn't last so long and leave such a miniscule slice of the annual pie for spring and summer. I lose my glow and motivation in the winter. Seems like the whole world is just waiting. I sit in a warm place, surrounded by blankets and coffee cups, daydreaming about the beach and its charming echoes. Water crashes against land and land dribbles into the water. The cycle is miraculous. And there is nothing that can compare to it...certainly not snow or sleet. I feel deprived in the winter, like I'm cheating on my favorite seasons with a less capable lover.

On days like this, I wonder if I'll make it through such a bitterly cold season. It isn't compassionate or gentle. It is bitter and lonely...and it taunts those of us who were born in the most beautiful months of the year. If I make it to spring, I'll kiss the ground and worship the spring's flowers. I vow to spend more time on the grass than on carpet. I'll admire my own mosquito bites and I might even welcome a bee's sting. I'll grin when I see bird droppings on my car windshield. I'll welcome nature back to the Carolina's. Because...anything is better than this.

Next year, I may fly south with the birds or find warmth among the bears. Hybernation is a brilliant concept. I intend to embrace it. You see...this post isn't really about weather. It's about a season of lack. It's about a lack of color and warmth in life in general.

I need more...more color...more fulfillment. So, with a wishful heart, I wait for spring.