Kill the Messenger and the Message

Somebody, please go gather Unc Snoop and his bonnet to get him together because this ain’t it. Excuse my ebonics while I dive into this post.

 

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*Stares in black girl annoyance*

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Fuck that, I’m offended.

I’m offended on behalf of my mother who loved a man in a way that was never rightfully reciprocated for over half her life.

If this is the only romantic love of a man she’ll know before she leaves this world then she will have lived a life never getting the support, encouragement, spiritual, mental, and emotional fulfillment she deserves.

I’m offended.

That this is the way my sisters and I were taught to love. Hard. Unconditional. Loving past the flaws no matter how deep. This is the way my mother learned and her mother. This is the way society teaches us that is perpetuated in our homes as the norm. The standard.

I’m offended.

On behalf of an ex who used the mindset that “she’ll stay” to test the waters of our great love only to spend the rest of his life regretting it.

I’m offended.

That we teach young black girls to become the mules of the world and their men before their breast even develop. I’m offended. That we teach young black boys to give the least in their love but expect the best.

I’m offended.

That brokenness in love is more celebrated than healing and maturity.

I’m offended.

Women aren’t allowed to be broken in the same way. Because who waits for us while we get our shit together?

Who uplifts us and speaks life into our broken parts while we emotionally abuse, disrespect, and offend all in the name of “I’ve been through some shit.” Tell me who?

Our beautiful black men are sometimes the first to leave dust in their tracks at the first sign of any “one” indiscretion; so who “rides” for us when we’re lost?

I’m offended that the only way love is understood is through the lens of pain.

Why should I bleed myself for you to know my blood is red?

If this is the test women are expected to take to gain your love in equal then keep it. I’m offended that in me choosing not to drag myself through hell just to prove my love and loyalty, you see me as unworthy. unfit.

But I know my worth and I’m offended you would even offer such a mess of a thing. Because I’d rather walk than to ride with a man whose only job is to drive but he keeps taking us in the wrong direction. Let me out. Kill this standard. Kill the Messengers that uphold it and kill the Mother******** Message!

 

**END RANT**

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Note from LBF:

I was triggered, bothered, disturbed by this post in a way that didn’t seem natural to my otherwise breezy spirit. I found myself plunging headfirst into the comments sections where I became enthralled in the opinions, viewpoints, and comments of others. What I found didn’t shock me in the least.
Most women rightfully condemned the notion that this is what it takes to become someone’s priority, partner, and wife; while many others praised the standard or and I quote “That’s their story, she stayed and yall mad and single.”

I needed to speak to a part of my womanhood that is often under attack. I needed to speak for the hearts of women who’ve been broken because we were conditioned to think this was the way and for those who know that you don’t have to accept this.

Love Letter to Self

You had nights when you just wanted to hear how important you were without having to ask. Days where getting a text about how much you were loved and missed would’ve changed your whole mood. You desire someone who’s willing to take charge of loving you and not leave the bulk of the work to you. You’ve never heard “I’m coming to see you” “my world isn’t right whenever I have to go to long without your touch.” You wanted to be kissed like you were when you were 15; where you found air in his breath and still stood up dizzy. You wanted to be made love to as if it were a sacred act. Candles, music, attention to the tiny details of your body culminating until you reached a place of pure bliss. You wanted forehead kisses and existential talks. You wanted to teach and learn; to be thought of as perfect but in their ambitions pushed to be better. You wanted encouragement, born from a true understanding of your circumstances and confidence in your abilities. You wanted to hear “we’ll get through this together” when your dad passed away. You wanted comfort in a way only the love of your life could give. You wanted to be hyped up. To be told you’re gorgeous in person; for it to be a truth and not a habit. You wanted stability and security in knowing that the one you love would be doing the work internally and externally to become the best version of themselves. You wanted spontaneous romances and impromptu adventures in the small things like going for a walk in the park or ice cream on a sunny day. Music blasting with windows down drives. A connection of the spirit. You didn’t want to be dominant all the time. To be the decider, planner, to be the adult. You wanted an equal, a partner, a friend, a lover, a reason to believe that no matter how bad it all got, you’d have a safe place in his arms. You didn’t want to have to ask to be rescued; to honestly compromise your strength to be vulnerable enough to make them understand how you felt. You wanted someone who would inquire about your internal. You should’ve had help building you up, love when done right is growth. It helps things prosper because it nourishes the foundation of who you are. You weren’t nourished. You wanted to be watered and to water. Letting love flow and bob and weave between you seamlessly. There was no constant flow. You were drained and forgotten. You wanted to be understood, to be seen. To be accepted. To be learned every day. You were learned once, maybe.

Millennial Lesson: Heartbreak is not the end.