I Should Hate Men. But I Don't.

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STATISTICS PROVE THAT MOST WOMEN WHO HAVE NEVER BEEN MARRIED WERE RAISED IN HOMES WITHOUT FATHERS OR IN HOMES WHERE THE FATHER LEFT DURING EARLY-CHILDHOOD (BETWEEN AGES 4-12).

When I was 2 years old, my biological father left us (not an unusual story among black American families in 1988). My mama did what any amazing, selfless mother would do; she decided to raise me with all the love she could muster up to give me in spite of her own brokenness.

When I was 4 years old, my father decided he wanted to be a parent again. (How convenient). The struggle between my parents involved the court system and due to circumstances I’m not aware of…my father was granted full custody. So on a gorgeous spring day in 1990, three men in black suits showed up to my daycare center and announced that they would be removing me from my serene environment and dropping me off at the LAX airport. From there, I’d be flying to Texas where I would start a new, terrifying life with my father and his wife.

I was taken (during naptime) from my small, safe world and my mother who I loved more than my own existence. During the 8 months I spent with my father, I remember being beaten for refusing to call his wife ‘mom’ and being beaten constantly for pee-ing the bed. I ate frozen meals every day, 2x a day. Because my hair was thick and wild, my father’s wife simply refused to comb it and it started falling out in to my little hands. I didn’t hear my mother’s voice for 8 months. I cried every night. To this day, I remember the sting of that pain.

Eventually, my father gave up on trying to raise me. He’d found some new woman who didn’t want to be bothered with kids (thank God) and he mailed me back to my mother. I remember him taking me to the airport and telling me we were going on a trip, but once we arrived…he told me I’d be flying “home” by myself. Once I boarded the plane, I wept until I fell asleep. Though I wasn’t treated well during my time with my father, I was a child and I was terrified of change.

I remember getting off the plane, in California, and with arms outstretched and tears brimming in my big eyes….I ran to my mother. I remember her face and her smell. She was perfect. She took me home to a 1-bedroom apartment that smelled like everything amazing. My bed was overflowing with teddy bears and dolls. My closet was brimming with new clothes. My mama loved me so much. She sacrificed so much to get me back and, to this day, she tells me that the time we spent apart is the sole reason that she has so much faith in God. The moment she held me, my pain faded.

It wasn’t until 2004, when she let me go…let me grow up and discover the world on my own, that the pain returned. I started dating at 18 years old. When I was in my mother’s house, dating was simply not an option. I didn’t try to sneak boys in the house like most of my friends did…not because I was so holy or admirable…but because I was scared for my life. My mama told me that she would (literally) kill me if she caught me entertaining some boy in her house.

So when I got to UNC-Greensboro…the floodgates of curiously flew off the hinges. Though I managed to maintain honors status and tried to better the community, I partied hard and discovered a fresh obsession with attention from men. Though the pain I experienced from being abandoned by my father at age 4 was suppressed during my childhood, it was boiling within me waiting to overflow once I left my mother’s nest. When I got to college, I experienced a loneliness that I’d never known. I spent six years (2004-2010) trying to marry everybody who winked at me. I thought that marriage would repair me and fill the holes from childhood. I thought that if someone wanted to love me, I could heal from the pain of being unwanted by my own father. The sad truth is- I didn’t even understand my reckless collegiate actions until I recently took time to heal and say goodbye to my past. As a teen, when friends asked me if I missed my biological father or wanted to find him, I would just laugh and tell them that all I wanted from him was a big check and a Range Rover.

I really thought I was unaffected by his absence. But the truth is-I was broken and confused. Many of us are so convinced that we are not damaged by issues that took place in our households during childhood. We think that living recklessly or lying in the beds of men who will never love us or spending time with people who cannot make us better…just comes with the territory for our generation.

I’d like to use my story as a reality check. I lead a very fortunate, plush life. I’ve never had to ask twice for anything. My mom and my Dad have consistently blessed my life in spite of poor decisions and a trifling mentality about hard work and independence. They love and support me. Though my dad is technically my “step-father” he’s been a father to me since the day we met. I’m honored to call him dad.
Simply put, my life is a miracle.

HOWEVER, none of the luxuries or popularity or opportunities saved me from the hell that was waiting for me once I moved out of my mother’s house. My childhood insecurities resurfaced and every morsel of pain reintroduced itself…I was (once again) scarred from abandonment and neglect. And quite frankly, I barely survived college. I was trying to survive, on my own, in a world full of men who have no intention to be Mr. Right but stay ready to be Mr. Right-Now.

Now that I'm on the other side of my nightmare, I’ve dedicated my life to helping other young women who “think” they are confident and capable…but may not be ready for the attacks that accompany independence.

My life is my testimony and I’m grateful for every ounce of pain I’ve experienced. I’ve turned that pain in to praise…and I’m ready to save lives.


NNL