The Internet can be a cruel and unusual abyss of half-cocked opinions and bargain basement analysis, especially when it comes to Black wom...
Welp...here we are. I said I was going to be doing a writing challenge for 25 days. I needed the writing challenge to thaw out my writer's heart that had been put on ice by Life & grad school. I needed some motivation & felt like being told what to do would be the best way to come out of the funk without having to also be worried about what I was going to write.
I got to Day 7 & the prompt instructed me to "create a character ten years older than you of the opposite sex and write about their day in first person." For some reason, the first male prototypes that came to mind were those of men who have committed heinous wrongs against me. Writing is cathartic for many, especially me, so I decided to try to take on one of these men & work through my shit wit'him. I decided to become the man who sexually assaulted me. I was in the process of imagining his life riddled with karmic haphazardness as a result of the foul energy he'd released into the universe. The activity near 'bout made me physically ill. I kept the file open--it's still open--as though I'd be able to overcome this sickness and complete the piece. That was still my goal, though no longer for this writing challenge.
Why in the hell would I attempt such a thing? Well, I already said writing is cathartic & I needed to prove to myself that I am....good. Not good at writing, but good at living with this as a part of what has happened in my life without it being the nadir (loogidup). In the days of trying to keep pushing through this, Mother's Day happened. It was fairly uneventful, having attempted to take care of my own mother the day before, & still having no real idea how to celebrate myself. Then there was Monday. A text from an unrecognized number came through, wishing me Happy Mother's Day; a text from Him.
I haven't told this story here all the way, & may not ever because I've written it before for publishing elsewhere and almost cracked into small pieces trying to get it out. But for clarity, Him is someone I've known for more than a decade, someone I once thought was my friend. I can feel your eyebrows raising & I completely understand that. Not sure what direction your questions are going in so I'll just continue in the direction my own mind is traveling. Him texts me for my birthday. Him texts me to let me know when he's coming to town. Him texts me to wish me a Happy Martin Luther King Day. Him is clearly ill.
This is surely the part where you're wondering why Him's still able to contact me. I'll skip past physically able to what the deal is with my phone. I've had my cell number for many years. Him is 1 sick person, part of 1 sick occurrence in my Life. I did seek to have his number blocked by my carrier. I did block him from my email. Since doing both of those things, I have received emails from him from addresses I was unfamiliar with. Those have ceased. The texts come through and he lets me know it's him but the numbers are different. Responding to him, telling him to leave me alone hasn't worked. Having male friends contact whatever number is current hasn't worked. I simply ignore Him's attempts at reaching out to me & he goes back under his rock until the next holiday he deems important enough to shatter his silence.
Receiving the text this year, while trying to fulfill Day 7 of the writing challenge for many more days than 7, has been emotional. I was already frozen in my writing tracks, considering skipping to an easier day because, hell, you don't know what my list of prompts are. The text made me feel like I couldn't even do that, that I HAD TO finish the piece & when I couldn't, the weight of it got to heavy & I tossed it into that pile I mentioned in the Shoe Personality of the Week. If you read that, you know I cracked last Saturday with too many unaddressed issues on my plate. See, I receive these messages in silence. When I talk about them or any communication from Him the response isn't supportive. I don't mean folks are being mean but without reference for such an experience the expectations others have are just not what I need. No one thinks I've done enough to put a stop to this, & I often don't think so either. What I HAVE done, however, is keep living. I don't mean simply continuing to wake up in the morning, an obvious thing since I wasn't killed, but being able to smile & laugh & love & enjoy sex & not be afraid of men & trust, etc., again. & I'm extremely proud of that. Truth be told, I can't worry about Him's life. I have seen first hand how karma is kicking Him's ass but my main concern is not allowing this all to kick mine. So, to hell with Him & his texts. I see now that they are his weak ass attempt at an apology--for something that "sorry" doesn't heal--& the only way he's figured out to address the guilt. I will continue to smile, laugh, love, etc., while he deals with the rest. In 5 years it will be 10 years since & I shudder to imagine what will be left of his mind & heart, but I see now that I don't have to write that story because it's already written, I just won't be waiting around to read it.
Watch me move.