I said no
“Do you still love me?”
“My love was the runway used up each time you didn’t keep your promise.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
“I know. You tried. We both did. My special needs and your need don’t fit. And that’s ok.”
“The hell it is!”
There are times I wish I were different.
A different kind of woman who doesn’t take things to heart.
Who doesn’t feel as deeply as I feel.
Who can make room for tiny inconsistencies that add up to huge uncertainties.
I wish I were a white woman right now.
Not a real flesh and bone white women.
I know my sisters work hard and go through their own brand of oppression.
I mean the fantasy white woman.
Laughter spilling from her lips like luminous pearls.
I see her running care-free on the beach, or
In a field of happy yellow daffodils, frolicking, joyous, and absent from trauma that I tend to daily.
I know it’s a fantasy.
But I hear stories…
How White Women, Asian Women, Latina Women—EVERY woman except Black Women—are more desirable because they are more “feminine.”
Feminine, in this context, translates into more forgiving.
The Black Man who loved me wanted that sort of love. And I could not give it to him.
He was great to me.
He took care of me.
He was loyal and true.
AND the one thing I needed—emotional safety by way of consistency, communication, and consideration—was hit or miss.
He needed a woman who could give him the space, the wiggle room to do what he thought best, not what I asked or what we agreed to.
It sounds like such a petty need, to have your words match your actions and when they don’t, clean it up and put in the correction. Which he did.
But, overtime, he would become offended, feel hurt, rejected, or some kinda way and stop communicating.
Or communicate in a way that for him was protective; for me, was hurtful.
If I were the kind of woman who took things at face value instead of taking them to heart, we would have married.
But I’m not.
My PTSD gets triggered by surprises and inconsistencies.
On the streets, I learned to listen to a person’s actions, not their words, to discern if I would be safe. My need for certainty is directly tied to my nervous system. And I am accountable for my well-being.
I don’t get to make my special needs his responsibility.
I get to choose.
I love me more than I love him.
And I love him too much to try to change him into something he is not.
My need for emotional safety—something the Black Man who loved me gave me so much of—requires consistency.
That’s a lot for a person who needs space to do what he thinks is best without being required to communicate each and every time. He tried. It just wasn’t in him. And the more I talked about it, the more he felt attacked and I felt diminished.
Love turns into resentment when we hold on too long.
I didn’t want to hate him for not being able to honor my needs. Me expressing my upset landed to him like I was attacking him; tearing him down. I wasn’t AND I can see how continually bring it up, he would feel that way.
So I ended the relationship.
I have no regrets.
I do grieve the loss of the dream.
My heart hurts.
God is faithful.
So I go within.
To mend me
My prayer for Him is a woman of any race who can love Him in all the ways he needs to be loved; especially in the ways I simply did not have the capacity for.
He deserves such a love.
Healing in his love was a beautiful season of my life.
And I am grateful.