Reclaiming Valentine's Day

Never judge someone by who he's in love with; judge him by his friends. People fall in love with the most appalling people. Take a cool, appraising glance at his pals.- Cynthia Heimel
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Today I am giving Valentine's Day a second thought.

First thought: It SUCKS!! If I were to play word-association, it would go something like this:

Player 1:

"Valentine's Day"

Me:

"forgotten, last-minute effort, cheating, lies, grasping at straws, shattered denial, pain, accompanied lonliness"

OK, so maybe you're just supposed to say the FIRST thing that comes to mind, but all of this comes to mind all at once when I think about this day. For me it is the day that marks the beginning of my exodus from denial about what my marriage had become, or perhaps what it had always been. I remember, like yesterday, my husband walking into the house on Valentine's Day morning at 6:30am, no explanation of where he'd been all night, no phone call, no exuse, just utter contempt for me for daring to be angry and daring to question him as soon as he walked through the door.

You know, it is possible to "have somebody" and still be all alone. I lived in accompanied lonliness for a very long time. Things may have looked fine on the outside, but behind closed doors, a very different story unfolded. I hated anything that required mustering the energy to pretend that things were good. That's what Valentine's Day has meant to me, trying to muster the energy and enthusiasm to celebrate at least not being by myself, when so many others had no one.

Today though, I celebrate the freedom of being alone. I love, love, love walking into my apartment without knots in my stomach, without feeling the urge to search for clues for what's been going on while I was gone, without having avoided home for the last 4 hours. I love, love, love being able to invite family and friends into my space without having to put on a false face, cover up and make excuses and try to make things appear to be something they are not.

It's funny. I was afraid of being alone for fear that I'd be lonely, only to realize I was lonely all along. Do I still feel lonely at times? Of course. But my dignity is no longer a price I'm willing to pay for the illusion of togetherness.

I have found companionship in so many places, with so many wonderful friends and to each of you I say, Happy Valentine's Day. I love you all to pieces!

Tania, Kwesi, Amani, Trina, Rick, Charmaine, Mike, Monique, Omar, Ricky, Shellie, Ericka, Jackie, Maureen, Nikki, Renae, Kris, Mom and Dad-Have a great day!

Be good to yourselves.

Great Guys

God is crazy! I am always amazed when things that seem totally, completely, and utterly unrelated blend together with the harmony and grace of a maestro, The Maestro. I had one such experience this past week.

I have been struggling for a couple of days with wanting to post what is arguably the most explicit, angry, frustrated piece I’ve ever written. I have shared it with quite a few friends and received mixed advice. I have decided not to post it. In short, it was a cathartic moment in which I released very deep seated anger, frustration and contempt for what I call “SABMs”. Suffice it to say that SABM is an acronym for a phrase I use to refer to a particular classification of black men that I and too many of my sisters have been hurt by. I said things I needed to release from within me in order to prevent my harboring more bitterness than I already, apparently, do. I felt freer. I hope it gets better.

The very next morning I attended the funeral of the father of my lifelong friend Shellie. I liked her dad. He was a great guy. The one thing I remember most about being in his presence was that I was always laughing. There’s not one memory I have of him where I am not cracking up. Those who gave acknowledgements at his funeral shared similar experiences, even down to his last days. At least two people shared stories of how they went to visit him once he knew he was dying and somehow they left feeling better from having been in his presence. Shellie’s sister started her comments by saying, “Everyone knows my dad was a great guy.” He was. We know.

Shellie’s comments struck me the most and left me in awe of God’s amazing timing and ability to orchestrate moments that remind you that he’s thinking about you and millions all at once. She began by saying, first and foremost, that in a day of rampant absentee fatherhood, her dad was there. He was there for every report card, every graduation, every missed curfew. He was there, present in the lives of his children, not because it was his duty or his responsibility, but because it was his pleasure. He was a great guy, a great black man who loved his wife, his family and his friends well.

I was so amazed by God’s grace to me in that moment. Though He has allowed me to experience the anger, frustration and deep pain that fueled what I wrote the day before, suddenly and splendidly he reminded me of the great black men in my life whose love, respect and honor chase away the shadow of darkness that threatens to loom in my heart towards black men. Today I honor those men:

Daddy: I love you so much. You remind me in the simplest ways that I’m precious and valuable and deserving of so much more. In the last year you’ve been a Papa Bear like never before, protecting his baby bear from the big, bad wolf. Thank you.

Rick: No one could ask for more in a brother. Charmaine is so blessed to have you. You’re one great guy. I’m so proud of you and at 12 I never would have thought that any man to come into my life would have to measure up to you. But he does. I’ll settle for nothing less. You’re the best.

Kwesi: I so admire your courage to enter into your story, and more than that, your courage to share it with others. Men need to see that you can survive acknowledging your brokenness. In fact, it’s the only way to survive. The fellas don’t talk about what you’ve been through, although so many of them have been there. I think of you when I’m tempted to give up on the hope for redemption. I wouldn’t have made it through this year without your support. Thank you.

Omar: Thanks for being such a good friend to me over the years. I appreciate your reminder to remember the legacy I’ll leave, and am grateful for your even caring about it. You too have demonstrated the tremendous courage it takes to share one’s story. Quiet and gentle, but brave just the same. You remind me that there’s more. That there’s home!

Ricky: If there’s anyone in the world I know I can call on, no matter when, no matter what, it’s you. Thank you for the solid dependability I’ve come to trust so much. So often when I am contemplating what manhood looks like, images of you and the respect and honor with which you treat your mom flood my thoughts. I admire your pursuit of character despite the obstacles. Thanks for being an amazing friend.

Mike: You’ve been through so much. Sometimes I can hardly understand how you’re still standing. I am so encouraged by your innate determination to be a protector. Your wife and daughters are blessed to have you and I am blessed that you are my friend. Please keep watching out for me. Thanks so much.

Mark T. Millings: A great guy to be around, tons of laughs, great husband, father, brother and friend. Honoring your life with your loved ones has reminded me of the great black men in my life. We probably never shared a single profound moment while you were living, but I will always remember the day your life intersected with mine in a way that called me to acknowledge God’s grace, amazingly. Rest in Peace.

Anybody have any great guys they'd like to tell me about?

Heartbroken

Last night I attended the 18th Annual Memorial Service honoring victims of homicide as a result of domestic violence, hosted by the Maryland Network Against Domestic Violence. This year there were 70 such homicides in Maryland. I have worked in this field professionally for one year now and was taken aback by how this service affected me. I thought I was used to the horrors of domestic violence and sexual assault. I was wrong.

The service involved public officials, state senators and delegates, community leaders, advocates, and survivors coming together to acknowledge the toll domestic violence takes on families and to reaffirm the commitment to end violence in our homes. The home, sadly, is the most dangerous place for women and children. Most women who are killed or injured by someone else suffer at the hands of someone they love, rather than at the hands of strangers.

Guest were invited to stand and hold a cardboard heart with the name, age and murder weapon of each of the 70 victims. I held Annabel Shinnaberry, 75, gun. Across the room someone held Alvin Shinnaberry, 66, gun. It was a murder-suicide and I wanted so badly to know her story. Then there was Baby Boy ___________, suffocation, a woman whose murder weapon was starvation, another, strangulation. Most were shot. I stood in the front of the room holding this heart and watching the well of the Joint Hearing Room fill up. 70 is a lot of people. 1 is too many.

Women are murdered, battered, raped, humiliated, insulted, manipulated, controlled, and degraded everyday, everywhere in the world. In America, 1 in 4 girls are sexually abused before they are 18 years old. 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused before they are 18 years old. 93% of all of them are abused by someone they know and trust: immediate family, other relatives, family friends or neighbors. Nearly 1 in 3 adult women experience at least one physical assault by a partner during adulthood. Who hears their stories? Where are their voices?

Their stories and voices are with each of us. We all know and love someone who has suffered or is suffering at the hands of someone they love. Silence is injustice. Love speaks up, if only to say, “I know. I see. I love you. I’m here…no matter what you choose.”

My heart broke to hear the story of a survivor who never thought it would be her. She held the heart of her best friend. The stories are all around us if we only open our eyes, if we only want to see.

There are no silver bullets. But, do something. Anything is better than silence. Be the voice of the voiceless.

Peace.

Now that's just WRONG!

OK. Here’s what I’m talking about when it comes to the pressures women face about body image. I’m at dinner last night with my cousin (barely 105 soaking wet…love ya, babe!) at a Moroccan Restaurant, Taste of Morocco-downtown Silver Spring to be VERY exact! There’s a belly dancer there for entertainment and she was a lot of fun. (Side note: I am crazy about dance in all its forms and I am amazed at the body and how beautiful dance is, no matter the culture. And there’s so much overlap in steps among the styles.) Anyway, I digress.

My cous’ is all into belly dancing. She takes classes, yahdah, yahdah. I’m not diminishing her classes, but I don’t want that fact to add ANY validity to what comes next. After dinner we talked to our waiter about the dancer. He offers information about how to contact her for classes and how she could be a valuable resource to know how to do this professionally. (I should add that during her performance she dragged my cousin and me out onto the floor to dance with her. Minor detail.) Anyway as he’s explaining the merits of the profession, he gradually loses all eye contact with me. He glances at me a few times during the conversation to be polite, but it was clear that he had turned his focus to my cousin. When he was done with his pitch, he punctuated the whole ordeal with, “If you want a career in belly dancing, they make a lot of money, (turns back to Alexis and points right index finger square at the face of cousin) especially YOU,” the jerk says, “you should think about it.”

Now, that’s just WRONG! I could say more, but I’ll leave it at that. For now.

Much More than a Few Pounds

A few days ago a very courageous friend very gently mentioned, with the utmost genuine concern, that I had gained a lot of weight. It’s true. I think in the last 7 years I have gained at least 60 lbs., the last 30 in 2 years. No, I have not had children. Sometimes I can hardly believe the pictures I see are really me. And my doc and I agree that it’s time to do something about it before my health starts to pay the price.

I think I have always struggled with my weight in the way any girl has who’s grown up in America. My earliest battles were efforts to conform to ridiculous societal standards and the result of comparing myself to the other girls around me who were genetically more petite than I would ever be, despite my best efforts and my worst.

My worst efforts to control my weight started in college, at around age 18. I had just returned from my senior year of high school abroad in Argentina. I gained a ton of weight (as do most exchange students) and lost it like overnight upon my return to the States. My best friend at the time was a size 2 at best, and for me being a size 6 was just not small enough.

I worked out a lot in college, but ate…well, like people eat in college! I commuted, so I didn’t have the “freshman 15” experience. I had broken up with my boyfriend of 3 years shortly after the fall semester started and well, as I review my journals from back then, was not hurting for the want of male attention. I’ve grown to realize that male attention has little if nothing at all to do with my self-validation. In fact, it’s played a staring role in crumbling much of which I’m working so hard to rebuild.

My weight would go up and down about 10 pounds at the most early on. I could control it by giving up French fries for a week or so and things were back to normal. I’d inevitably pick the pounds up again and eventually giving up fries for a week turned into giving up food altogether for a day, or two, or three. I was a Super-Christian back then (cape and all) so I could easily disguise my eating disorder as spirituality. I was fasting, of course! But, I like food too much so the anorexic thing was not working for me at all. I remember telling a girlfriend I was “fasting” with for 3 days (I’m sure she was serious about the fast) that even the Meow Mix commercial was tempting! I chose vomiting as my preferred self-abuse mechanism because that way at least I got to eat.

By the time I realized I was a full-fledged bulimic I was dating the man I eventually married. He had told me from the beginning that he was not attracted to big girls, had not set out to date a big girl and would not be happy should the girl he was with (yours truly) get...big. Boy, was I well on my way to recovery now!!! The next few years I got smaller and smaller, until I weighed about 119 pounds.

Now, 119 may not sound that tiny to you until you see the picture of me in a bikini, with my ribs showing and my head looking like Skeletor. I was at least 15 pounds below my ideal bodyweight and more like 30 pounds from what I believe is a healthy weight for me. I was a size 4 and I thought I had reached Nirvana.

A couple of my guy friends thought otherwise. One of them looked at me one Sunday afternoon (I’ll never forget it) with the most desperately pleading look I had ever seen and said, “Lex, what’s wrong? You look terrible.” He was referring to so much more than my weight. I knew it and he knew it, but neither of us knew what to say next. So, we said nothing and have said nothing to this very day.

The other one, about a month or so after the bikini shot I mentioned earlier, said casually, “Lexi, it looks like you’ve put on some weight.” I burst into tears. He looked stunned and confused. “What? What did I say? That’s a good thing. I meant that in a good way.” In my mind there was nothing good about gaining weight. Even if it was 5 or 10 much needed, healthy pounds. I was a sick girl, hurting, desperate and grasping for control of something, anything that would make my life seem at the very least, manageable. A few people heard my muffled cry for help, but no one heard it clear enough to offer any direction, or if they did, they had no clue how to help.

My demon was not my weight, but I had no clue what I was battling at the time. As I gain the courage to tell more of my story, we shall see together how the fragments of my life come together to form a clearer image of who I am. We are the sum total of our experiences and no matter how hard we try to eliminate the horrific ones from the equation, they must all be given their place, purpose and value.

I kept my behavior secret for years and friends are shocked now when I talk about it in retrospect. I stopped purging years ago, but the battle continues, just on a different terrain. I have still used food to my detriment, only in a different way. What was once the enemy has become my best friend, my comfort, my go-to girl in the time of need. I’m an emotional eater. When I’m happy, eat. When I’m depressed, eat. When I’m indifferent and bored, eat. And, though I’ve done my share of celebratory feasting in the last 2 years, I’ve mainly been feeding the pain of betrayal, loneliness, fear, loss, depression and anxiety.

Awareness of the idolatrous place I have given food in my scavenger hunt for redemption, for healing, for home is but a beginning, a significant first step, but one of many, many steps that may need to be visited and re-visited along the way. I am entering yet another dark room on this journey through my soul. I am afraid. I am hopeful.

I fear failure. Yet I know I can not do this alone. Redemption is not mine to conquer. I fear what I may be forced to face as I eliminate my choice distraction. I fear what I’ll be left to feel when I remove that which I’ve used to fill the emptiness and numb the pain. I fear what it will mean for me to see my body take a shape again that draws men’s attention. I’m afraid of how it will make me feel about me, about men. I’m afraid of what I’ll do with those feelings. I’m afraid of what I’ll try to use to take food’s place. I’m afraid this will become about losing weight and not about finding life. I’m afraid to become religious about a routine or a regimen as if in it I’ll find redemption.

And still I am hopeful. I am hopeful that on this journey I’ll know more deeply the love and support of friends and family. I am hopeful that I will learn to honor myself, and my body. I am hopeful that I will learn to love and celebrate that which makes me a woman and beautiful. I am hopeful that I can honor the parts of my story that have caused me to dishonor my body. I am hopeful that I will emerge and be known and honored for who I am, not for what I look like physically. I hope to be truly known, and truly loved.

The journey begins.