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The Truth Behind The Madness

“I am creating this blog for one purpose and one alone. To let the young females of this generation know, they’re not alone in experiencing the ups and downs of their twenties…”

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Hey everyone! Welcome to my blog. Or should I say the blueprint of my blog…? I’m still getting the hang of constructing something suitable on wordpress and gathering my thoughts in an organized fashion. But one thing is for sure. I am creating this blog for one purpose and one alone. To let the young females of this generation know, they’re not alone in experiencing the ups and downs of their twenties. The path unto early adulthood is by far one of the hardest I think I’ve ever faced. Heartbreak? Been there and have done that SEVERAL times. Betrayal? Been there. College bound with no essence of who you are anymore? Been there and done that. Whatever it is, I’m almost possibly sure we’ve crossed the same paths every now and again with the same ruthless courage and intent in mind. So why not talk about it? Here I’ll be dropping knowledge, tips, and sharing stories of the beginning of my 20s as a young female navigating through the streets of NYC.

Boundaries ! Part 1

Helloooooo from the other sideeeeeeee… (sings)

Did you get my Adele reference? 

Clever little bastard aren’t I?

Now I know my blog was on hiatus for a bit, but that is actually for a remarkable reason. When I originally started this blog, I was unemployed (recently fired from previous job) and struggling to battle my depression amidst budding issues financially and dealing with a hard breakup.

Here I am, months later blessed with a position in childcare that leaves me speechless at the thought that God had been listening the entire time.

Which brings me back to the blog.

Now I know that in order to get your blog up and running, the most important step would be to maintain consistency in posting to keep your readers entertained.

Did I mention I had a horrible habit of beginning projects but never finishing?

I figured it was time to get this bad boy up and running again while I still had the emotional stability to do so. 

Emotional stability. 

Hmph.

Brownie point for me.

Since I’ve been MIA for a little bit, I’d like to kick off my return by discussing something that brings discomfort to an outsider.
Boundaries.

Ah yes, that B word that admittedly produces an uncomfortable energy in any conversation.

How do you establish boundaries with the people in your life?

Just do it.

Aye catch that reference? I should be endorsed by Nike. Aow aow aow.

Personally I’ve rarely encountered a situation that presented an opportunity to so heavily slap down the bars of boundaries on anyone in my life. My life is an open book.

Reason being for my discussion of this topic in particular is because of my recently severed relationship with my dearest cousin I’ve known for years.

She chose her pig headed, ignorant, jackass of a boyfriend over me in an argument that originated over her but branched off into something much bigger.

Now for those of you that don’t know, especially the newcomers, I am fresh to my twenties. My birthday falls on the 15th of next month-marking my official 21 years of life on this shitty Earth.

With that being said, I opted a long time ago not to do anything in celebration of it just because it’s a bittersweet moment I come across every year . 

My excitement lasts a whole hour before I’m snapped back into reality and forced to face my daily list of responsibilities. I’m always thankful nonetheless that I was able to see another year .

I’ve gone off track again haven’t I ?

The problem with my cousin arose when I chose to plan a dinner with my loved ones that’d fall days after my birthday.  

I’m a perfectionist so I stress the little things in the public eye.

I’m also an emotionally unstable introvert whom of which hates confrontation in terms of social events.

See the problem?

With that said, I turned to the only person I knew who’d be my right hand.

My weak minded little bitch of a cousin.

With all the uproar of planning, I had errands to run and an outfit to look for. But of course, her boyfriend’s schedule always overshadowed our quality time. 

Always.

If we were to go out tomorrow at 4 pm to grab a bite to eat, I’d be receiving a text at 3:50 pm cancelling our plans because her boyfriend had a long day at work and needed company at home.

Oh because you know, it’s not like I shifted my schedule around or anything.
This happened constantly, and I held my tongue for the sake of peace. 

ME.

On Tuesday I’d had enough when she pulled the stunt for the very last time. I calmly told her I’d had enough and I’d be leaving her alone from now on.
Her boyfriend tore into me and went off. 

Telling me to cut my lonely act, and to focus on myself. I needed help and needed to grow the fuck up and to stop behaving like a child.

I was absolutely appalled y’all.

Wanna know what she did whilst her boyfriend was swooping into her defense? 

Nothing.
Nada.

Zilch.
Now her boyfriend was someone I grew to admire over the months, despite my opinions on he and his lifestyle. We grew close but again, no boundaries were established and he’d turned into my counselor and older brother than my actual friend. He intentionally gave his input to me on my love life through personal stories my cousin told him about my escapades.

What.
The.

Fuck?
But of course, I was throwing a tantrum so my curses would’ve fallen on deaf ears.

I kept to myself.

Admit it. I definitely deserved a brownie point for that one.

She sat back and allowed someone to disrespect her cousin, all for the sake of keeping some kinda relationship that’d be over in two seconds.

We even discussed it today and I told her that I’d had enough. Unlike her, I’d passed that point in my life whereas I was no longer non confrontational with situations and people. All she had to do was establish boundaries because at the end of it all, we were still cousins.

I’d refuse to be like her and fall into the background while I had five other people fighting my battles. I was no longer that person.

With that being said, I stress the question:
When is it okay to establish boundaries with the people of your life?

When do you draw the line in the sand and say “enough is enough“? 

I mean I know you guys know me for being very opinionated on subjects like this but really, I’m curious. Everyone has had their own definitive moment, in their lives that left a lasting imprint on their personas but I…I for once am speechless. 

Let me know what you guys think ! 

I will be posting a part 2 to this, but I’m fascinated to hear inputs before doing so. Lemme know I’m not the only confused person on Earth!

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20

In Love With Solitude Darling ❤️

So here’s the thing…

I think I may have fallen in love…with myself.

Hear me out please.

So these past few days, I’ve been by myself. I’ve taken on the task of spending time with myself while I get to know myself. It sounds odd but can be quite relaxing if I say so myself.

This task includes:

  • Eating whatever the hell I want when I want.
  • Doing whatever the hell I please.
  • Saying whatever the hell I please.
  • WEARING whatever the hell I damn well please.

Since my last “relationship” (notice the quotations around relationship? Yeah I wasn’t really sure what it was either.) mishap that ended so tragically in January, I decided to take a hiatus on my love life, which by far has got to be one of the most challenging yet rewarding things I could’ve ever done for myself. Like my love life had been spiraling out of control..

I mean really, I went from an ended relationship in May/borderline June of last year with my ex –  to a steamy lust filled affair in mid June that resulted in many late night rendezvous with a friend of mine – to an even steamier sultry summertime romance with my coworker – to dwelling within the same space as an obnoxiously obsessive acquaintance of mine who clung onto me like a wet t shirt-to finally landing flat on my face from the aftermath of  the summertime romance-turned-casually-in-between-convenient-relationship with my coworker.

For those of you who can’t keep up, my coworker was the one I’d done everything for (including feeding his household) and was still dropped like a hot potato.

The summer was a shitty time to want a romance but an excellent time for my sex life. OH MY GOD.

After that, I decided that maybe I’d been trying to prove to myself that I was still the same person I was years ago, after my last breakup with my high school sweetheart.

Did I mention that even HE had cheated on me?

Oh I didn’t? Yeah…another story for another day my darling.

So after I’d gotten over mulling through every violent possibility that crossed my mind in ways I could physically torture my coworker, I took a step back. I sat down one night in my room and had a long talk with myself. Where was I going with this?

Was I going to let myself become this bitter and hatred filled being that I was once? Who’d want me after my insides had turned into charcoal, rotten from anger? Eventually this pain would invade my body like a cancer, damaging everything it came in contact with.

Oh and it would hurt like a bitch.

I’d roll around night after night in my bed, riddled with insomnia. Waking up every hour on the hour with my subconscious taunting me with horrific ideas and memories from my most recent downfall. I’d cry. I’d scream. Laugh. Yell. I’d curse God for making me believe that I was invincible…that…that I could possibly if not inhumanly escape heartache because a person like me didn’t deserve it.

I didn’t deserve that pain, that had once scarred me so deeply years ago, that if I did in fact shed a tear-numbness would overcome my chest. I’d cry and claw away at my chest till my skin blistered because I was numbed.

The stages would soon after begin.

1.Denial.

I’d spend days texting him, and asking him if it was real. Asking him if it was indeed true, that the foundation had been crumbling beneath our very feet. Begging him, if not continuously pleading with him to make it work because we could get through it. It was our job as a couple to make it work. We weren’t parting our separate ways.

This stage would soon be accompanied by the feeling of panic.

2.Anger.

Vulnerability. I was able to become so helpless as one person. I let him in. He was never supposed to see me like that. I was never supposed to show weakness.   It was never supposed to get this far. He was supposed to be the one I fell in love with. He was the one that made me happy. I should’ve seen the signs.

Anger is soon followed by a lingering feeling of self doubt in decision making.

3.Bargaining.

Maybe we could make this work. Yeah…yeah we’ll make this work. Maybe if I stopped being so emotional all the time, he’d stay. Maybe… just maybe if I sucked it up and behaved like other females we wouldn’t argue so much. Maybe I shouldn’t pick fights with him. I should know what sets him off, so I’ll give a little to gain something. God, if you bring us back together- I promise we can make this work.

Self explanatory.

4.Depression.

I…we’re over. I’ve been fighting a losing battle. There’ll be no more us. How do we make it, when all we can be is apart?

Depression is accepting the reality of the situation. The feeling comes as being aware the situation has officially slipped out of your grasp.

5.Acceptance.

I’ve accepted that yet another battle has been fought and in light of my loss, I emerge as a force not to be reckoned with. I’ve been beaten and crushed but here I am. I built myself on the broken pieces I was left with. And there’s not a damn thing that he could do about it. I weathered the storm and emerged as a warrior because while he is living his life, I will live mine happily.

And here I am. Nearly 3 months later, I have fallen in love with solitude. I happily dwell day in and day out by myself. I eat whatever the hell I want. I have embraced my chubbiness. I have embraced myself in all my flaws. I have come to terms with the idea of existing within my own mind, body, and soul and I tell you…it feels fucking awesome.

For once I did feel fucking fabulous. It felt marvelous not to have to watch my weight, or appearance, or feel to be scared of walking on egg shells as not to offend the person I was with. I felt alive.

I felt- I feel exhilarated. I feel as if I swallowed a lump that’d been forming at the back of my throat for so many years-taking away my voice. For once in a long time, I am completely unfazed by males as whole.

I am happily celibate, single, and focused to all hell.

BROWNIE POINT FOR ME.

Like when was the last time you really slept like a baby at the thought of being alone? Although I do support love in all it’s glory, I must say, learning to be alone is the ideal thing to do in your young age. I don’t mean alone as in alienation but alone as in enjoying your own presence.

Take time to love  yourself.

Enjoy yourself!

Go ahead and eat that tantalizing slice of pie that’s been staring you in the face for weeks.

Wear that skirt you’ve been hiding in fear you’d look ridiculous in public.

I mean really fall in love with yourself first and foremost.

Look in the mirror and grip your love handles. Run your fingers through your grey hairs. Trace the stretch marks. Smile. Understand that behind the years of scars worth wearing, is this woman worth loving.

Its very easy to get swept up in the hype of romance whilst, giving your pieces away to fill the gaps of someone else’s despair.

Love yourself and become the person you needed as a child.

Be the person you needed just a day ago.

Hell walk around your room naked.

There’s nothing wrong with admiring the cracked frame of a picture God Himself created with such deliberate patience.

Be unapologetic in the love of yourself because no one else will when you’re alone.

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20dont-forget-to-fall-in-love-with-yourself-first

Unapologetically Infatuated With Myself 

Have you ever been in a situation where the parent of your partner hated you?
I have.

All because I was unapologetically infatuated with myself.

I met my ex boyfriend in July of 2015.

Found out he lived four blocks away from me in a house I thought was up for sale.

Ha!

My ex boyfriend’s mother hated my very presence. The look of scorn that would cross her tight lipped skeleton face when I entered a room, would send a pang of guilt through me. I just couldn’t fathom why a woman who, never even bothered to acknowledge my presence would be so bothered by my being.

Then one day, he very uncomfortably explained to me why this was normal for girls like me.

Girls like me.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Now for those of you who haven’t already noticed by my avatar, I am black. I have always been black and will remain black in all of my sweet sweet chocolatey glory. I was raised in a Caribbean family, ranging in a variety of shades.

I just happened to be on the darker side of the spectrum and I was completely content with that.

He on the other hand was not.

He was Jamaican.

An American born Jamaican. His parents were considered to be half bred. Born and raised Chinese in Jamaica, they naturally existed on the lighter high yellowish side of the spectrum.

He stood at a gaping 6’3 and 179 pounds. His black hair sat on top of head with the loosest curl pattern I’d ever seen, and these full pink lips that I bit on every time we kissed.

I think I just groaned a little. 

 

 

My identical look every time he entered a room.
I needed to understand why a woman who knew nothing about me-had grown to resent me within such a short span of time. I distinctively remember a conversation we had one night while we were sitting downstairs in his basement watching a movie. His mother had came downstairs to visit the laundry room, never once acknowledging my presence. I waited till after she left to say something.

Actual conversation:

“Jay I don’t think your mother likes me very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well she never acknowledges my presence for one thing. She rarely greets me. She rarely looks in my direction.”

He chuckled, “I mean she’s just not used to…you know girls like you.”

I quirked my eyebrows in curiosity. “Girls like me? You’ve had girlfriends before. The fuck makes me so different?”

“Have you seen yourself Elle? You’re short, you shaved half of your head, you have tattoos, and you show skin. My mother wasn’t like that growing up. She wore long skirts and read the Bible.”

“So she hates me because I’m not a Bible toting Christian who wears skirts down to my ankles…”

“That, and she probably thinks you’re a hood rat.”

PAUSE THE STORY.

I mentioned before in a previous post, that I was raised by a single mother. A COLLEGE EDUCATED mother. She held several degrees to her name as well as my brother. My grandparents are now both retired doctors. My aunts both work in either the medical or education field. I was raised in a successful black family. I was groomed to have aspirations and achieve higher than what is expected of me.

He knew this.

We have our flaws, but nonetheless I was far from ever acquiring that title.

Let me remind you, my ex at the time was in his mid twenties and still living with his parents. He was forced to go to school to acquire an Associates in Business. He was a well known poker player, and sold weed on the side. 

Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? Worrying about what color female would earn the title as daughter in law, whilst her son was an underachieving pot head who aspired to be nothing more than an alcoholic gambler.

CONTINUED…

Excuse me?”

“I mean all my other exes didn’t look like you. They were all light skinned. You’re the darkest I’ve ever dealt with. Look my mother’s kinda racist. She doesn’t like dark skinned people.”

“Does your mother know she’s black?”

Brownie point for me.

This is where I’ll stop the recollection of my memory.

At that very moment, I was forced to swallow back my own tears. I’d bitten down on my lip so hard, I drew blood. What was there to say? I couldn’t open my mouth without words, being pushed off my tongue in a rush of pain and embarrassment. How could I define myself in such a way, without offending he and his mother’s views?

I never had to defend myself against someone whom I’d grown to love.

Could embarrassment really describe that emptiness that crept up along my spine like an unsuspecting intruder?

I…I couldn’t defend myself. 

I couldn’t…was I supposed to apologize for loving her son?

I spent the rest of our months together avoiding all contact with his mother. Her very presence alerted me-sending every hair on my body to stand attention.

I sat there in that very basement, listening to a repetition of arguments after she’d said something coyly under her breathe about my hair or choice of clothing.

All because I was dark.

Unapologetically dark at that.

I was educated.

Extremely intelligent.

Articulate.

Competent.

Hilariously charming.

Charismatic.

But it wasn’t enough.

The day came when I embraced that it wouldn’t be enough.

I embraced that I couldn’t fight a woman who despised my very being, because I couldn’t crawl out of my skin.

I embraced that I couldn’t apologize for my existence or lack there of rather.

I embraced that I wouldn’t apologize for my self love being more than the love I’d ever receive from she or her son.

I embraced that I could spew hatred among others who couldn’t apologize for their being.

Moral of the story;

No apologies. 

For those of you, that couldn’t seem to get past the fact I was referring to being unapologetically dark-I’ll explain. This post was intended to inspire women to love thy self in spite of indifference from someone else. 

You only have one life to live. One skin to wear. One heart to heal and your own burdens to bare.

Poetic. Brownie point for me.

Never apologize for existing.

Breathing.

Living.

Surviving.

Because there is no greater love than self love. Without it, who are you really?

Be unapologetically infatuated with your essence.

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes You Can Let Go. I Did. 

My posts are usually about relationships but this one’s kinda different.

Alright so I’ve been on a week long binge of Grey’s Anatomy, catching up on the latest seasons whilst stuffing my face with junk.

By the way, Shonda Rhimes is a beast. Pulling a show for 13 seasons with merciless deaths of main characters? Absolute beast mode.

Anyway, while watching the show I thought, “if this is what it means to have relationships as an adult, then I guess I’ll be a child forever.” Literally everyone in the show is so non confrontational and quiet about everything, that it’s impossibly aggravating.

So boom. It happened. I saw a piece of my own life play out in the series with the almost completely opposite result.

Breaking up with your best friend.

 A month or so ago, as I previously mentioned I went through a breakup with someone I cared about immensely. It was a guy. Just someone I stupidly fell for despite multiple warnings from our mutual friends. Anyway, whilst falling for him, my best friend (also a guy) sat on the sidelines giving his commentary on how stupid I was for allowing this to happen again. His rant consisted of, telling me how I was destined to be in nothing but failed relationships, I was borderline a failure who loved heartache, and I loved picking nothing but the same kinda guy who didn’t give a shit about my well being.

All the while simultaneously, cheering on my overly caring antics like some kind of confused twit.

In reality, as I develop this blog you’ll realize just how much of a lie that was. I have dealt with a fascinating array of young men within the past few years.

Ya’ll relationship so cute. Goals man.”

Contradictory huh?

The reason behind this post being, to share just another story of my budding womanhood.

Letting go.

My best friend.

We’ll call him…Alex.

Our relationship began earlier on in our high school years but did not really hit it’s peak until our senior year. We’d ironically been placed in the same  third period gym class together. Being that my gym teacher absolutely adored me, in all of his Russian slightly perverted glory-we were both able to pass easily with an A. We spent our mornings sitting underneath the basketball hoop exchanging story after story and discussing relationships and whatnot. Like clockwork.

Fast forward – prom season approached. There wasn’t much of a variety to choose from, from our senior class so we opted in going with each other.

If he wasn’t completely unattractive to me in all senses of the word, I’d actually have considered it to be romantic.

He was always a far cry from ugly, but was utterly not attractive to me in anyway shape or form. He possessed a shit ton of female qualities.

He gossiped.

He found himself in the middle of female drama all the time.

He threw temper tantrums.

The worst trait of him being either his ignorance or undeserved cockiness. Yet somehow I identified a small piece of myself in Alex. My love for him was more than what our grade saw. He had entered my life, and decided not to leave when things got hard and our efforts were tireless.

Present day.

Here we are 7 years later…disconnected.

Safe to say, I don’t regret it either.

I have walked out of and away from very few things in my life. I feel something is never over until you’ve taken your last breathe trying for it.

Alex and I remained close despite our distance of colleges. I remained in the city and he went upstate. We spoke at least 3-4 times a day especially when our schedules allowed us to in between classes. On weekends he loved calling me bright and early. I didn’t care.

He was my best friend.

Now as a female, it is inevitably a painful fact that you will spend most of your young age dating. You’ll stick your hand in a hole, feeling around till you find something you identify with. It’s human nature. Alex on the other hand, felt differently. He felt by the age of 20, if you hadn’t found your soulmate you were destined to be alone. He felt that way about himself as well. So I spent a GREAT amount of time listening to him wallow in his self pity during his late night phone calls.

Self hatred is a better word.

I grew to watch anger become a deeply embedded hatred in someone that I swore I knew better than I knew myself. He grew tired of “dating” the whores on campus. He put on a front as if he could just have sex and play with their feelings. 

But then in turn, would groan out of frustration they left him, before he could catch his breathe. 

Like the rest of us, he was playing the game blindly. He himself swore he knew the game better than anyone, and stepped above anything I suggested.

Rookie move.

Bare with me, this post is kinda long but you’ll understand why.

Whilst leading himself blindly, into the wildfire of romantic charades – he slowly started to resent me. I mean why would I listen to someone who knew nothing about being with someone? He’d had a total of 1 1/2 questionable relationships to his scoreboard. I on the other hand, had 2 solid relationships. One being 3 1/2 years long and the other nearly a year. In between that gap, I dated…a lot. So I had my brunt to bare. I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind being knocked down time and time again by guys who felt the need to stay one minute and leave the next.

Sarcasm. Brownie point for me.

What’s the worst that was going to happen? I’d bitch about it for a month or so, and say my life was over then bounce back.

After 7 years of friendship he knew that I loved hard. He knew that I was raised to be selfless. Because of that, I suffered from separation anxiety. Once you’ve entered my life and proven yourself to me, I can’t let go. To imagine letting go, was as painful to me as physically ripping my flesh off of my body.

He sat by year after year watching me cry endlessly over heartbreaks. He watched as guys stood by the door and took every opportunity to waltz out.

One night amidst a conversation on the phone, he broke down how our friendship had been drifting apart.

How we needed to stop the repetition of our friendship.

It’d become stale.

The friendship was one sided. He felt as if everything wasn’t necessary anymore.

He felt he needed space.

He’d started finding excuses to justify  wanting to leave. Apparently it’d been my fault. I was “giving the same kind of guy the same chance over and over.” What did that have to do with him? Who the hell was I supposed to date? HIM?

Did I mention that he often “jokingly” dropped hints of wanting to give a romantic relationship with me a chance? 

I legitimately shudder with disgust at the thought of the idea.

Pffffttt…

There it was, my best friend of 7 years…wanting to leave. I mean if everyone else left, why couldn’t he? He’d been waiting for me to chase him, while he taunted me with one foot out the door. And I let him go.

I let him go.

Now if you’re still reading this after that entire rant, then I need you to take away something from this anecdote.

God…though it may be scary to walk this road alone at times, it’ll be okay. It’ll always be okay. 

God sometimes takes people out of your life, whom he seemed deemed to be non beneficial to your being.

My love, it’ll be okay .

Though this road may be dark and dreary, there’s always something better coming. Be alone so you that the in the love you’ve developed for yourself,  it remains there when no one else is.

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20

 

 

 


Could I Be Clingy? Oh GOD.

If you’re stuck in the same predicament I seem to find myself in time and time again, then hold on tight. Your twenties are about to be broken down step by step. 

Now if you’re in your 20s or have yet to reach, then you know a thing or two about relationships. Give or take a lesson or two, you at least know the basic blueprint of one. But do you know the big C word?

I noticed that Commitment comes to mind and is a much more important topic, in all sense of the meaning. 

But COMMITMENT is a topic to sit down and spill tea over another day. The word I’m referring to is :

Clinginess. 

By textbook definition, clinginess can be defined as “remaining emotionally attached; to hold on.” 

My definition? 

To define being clingy, in all it’s ambiguity is impossible. I’ve been on both ends of the spectrum. To cling and to be clung onto. The act of clinging is to find safe haven in the arms of another person. To yearn for their presence. To suffocate unintentionally till their essence has fused with yours.

As modern day women, the perception of the definition hasn’t veered much off of it’s general meaning in terms of relationships. Yet somehow I failed to see the sharp contrast in how others perceived the term. As a result, I asked some of my closest friends what they thought of it’s meaning and these are the responses I got.

-“To be clingy is like wanting to be around someone WAY too much. Like it gets to the point of semi stalking. Like you blowing up my phone, saying crazy shit. Like I’m clingy…but when I want you gone you better leave.”

-“The act of smothering someone.”

-“You don’t have to be under your significant other all the time.” 

-“When a person…you know they care but it’s when they care too much, to the point they become a bothersome. There’s nothing wrong with being clingy but you just have to find the right person to be clingy with. Someone who’ll appreciate you clinging to them. Otherwise you’re just being a bothersome and becoming annoying.”

Then the sad realization hit. With each definition I got, I realized that each was a trait that I indeed possessed.

Dare I say it? Could I be…clingy?

There was a guy I dealt with some time ago,  (it was actually a month and a half ago but who’s counting?) that told me I was not only suffocating but possessive and clingy. Of those three traits I can openly admit to being one. No in denial over here. Brownie point for me.

But suffocation? Not I. We were talking for quite a while. Few months to say the least and I did indeed become the first texter. I had gotten comfortable. Maybe a bit too much actually.

When he slept I texted him at least 8-10 times within the 12 hour duration to wake him up. 

Yes, I said 12 hours. He slept like a pregnant woman.

I mean I thought the repetition of texts were cute. It was after all, me they were coming from. I hadn’t ever gotten a complaint before. 

Seriously not ONE complaint. Not even from my ex, who failed to spend more than 2 hours with me on a daily.

(That’s a LONG story for another time.)

Now that I think about it, I did initiate the all day movie dates. I was always the first person to suggest spending quality time together, or that we should go to the new Chinese spot that opened a few blocks over . I even went out my way to feed his entire household with leftovers and pans of whatever food he’d suggested. I felt that there was no harm in finding time for one another since our responsibilities of the world, consumed our schedules most times. 

Then again this is the same guy who wanted everything a relationship had to offer…just without actually having one.

This was someone I found myself falling into a comfortable routine with, and didn’t care. He didn’t care either, but was scared shitless of actual commitment.

The way I would’ve loved that boy…words can’t even fathom. 

Sorry. Got off track.

No really, the 5 minutes of sex each time was worth it. 

Subtle sarcasm. Way to be mature Elle. Brownie point for me.

But the constant need for attention reminded him too much of his ex. Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Eureka! I’d found a double standard. 

About a month or so into dealing with him, I’d met another guy. Sweet as all that can be. One problem. He suffocated the Holy HELL out of me.

He was ME.

He was the clingER and I was the clingEE! I was the one being suffocated! Could you believe it?

We’d gone to the movies a few late nights. Had dinner at one of his favorite Italian spots in the city a few times. We’d even spent late nights driving around and laughing as we exchanged stories from our pasts. One problem though.

While I thought I had clarified, that I was only interested in being friends-he thought that meant he could show me all the things I’d be missing out on. Truthfully in hindsight, I should’ve known he thought it was something more because he’d tried kissing me on more than one occasion. Not in a perverted way. He’d just attempted give me that Cinderella Hollywood kiss from time to time.

No, seriously. 

But that’s another story for another time. The thought of reliving it makes me ooze with discomfort.

Like girls, his persistence was REAL.
He continuously offered to pick me up from work for days at a time. He worked in Queens. I worked in Brooklyn. What in the absolute hell? 

But of course, my friends wanted me to take advantage. He was “going to treat me like the Princess Elle I was.” They went so far as to forcing me to kiss him, just because he spent money (that I insisted he not) on me.

Granted, he wasn’t ugly. But the idea of me being intimate with him, made my skin crawl.

But not at the expense of my personal space.

He ALWAYS wanted to see me. Oh my God. Often throwing subtle hints about buying lingerie for “a special someone in the future.” 

Girl. Delusional wasn’t even the word to describe him.

While I was being openly possessive of someone, someone else was suffocating me.  

Funny how God flips the script to show us our flaws, while we blatantly ignore the signs.

In foresight, I should’ve known I’d lose both guys. The first one I lost because he’d found someone else to float his boat the way I used to. 

Hurts like a bitch to be honest.

The other one threw a tantrum one night and stopped talking to me.

Like magic. Poof. They were both gone.

And you’d think I learned anything from the first one.

While it’s okay for men to suffocate females because we “need it”, in chances that that’s he best treatment we’ll ever receive from another human being, females on the other hand need to be kept at an arm’s length to a male.  Cliché much?

To be clingy to someone is not a sin. You’re not stupid.

Overly invested yes.

Overly caring yes.

Perhaps even a bit overly emotional because you, are reading signs a bit too closely. 

You are a lot of things ladies, but you are not stupid. I would say learn the signs, but hell what does society know? 

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20




The Underestimation of Depression: Its Real Girl

This is one topic I don’t think a lot of women discuss due to the bluntness of it’s nature. No one ever wants to talk about the elephant in the room, as long as it refuses to abide by society’s standards of what’s to be taken seriously. Though I’m  just starting out-my overall blog will be about an array of topics ranging from makeup and all its overrated glory to sex, I’ll  be covering any and every topic, even questions asked, but this one however is something I felt the need to shine light on.

Depression.

When I was 14 years old, I was diagnosed with depression.

I grew up in a small household of just me, my older brother, and my mother, My father left us when I was five, often picking us up on weekends thereafter. He bought my brother and I whatever we wanted, and tried his best to stay in touch. After a few years the calls eased. I still got gifts mailed in on my birthday, but that wasn’t enough. New phone? Got it. That wasn’t enough. A new necklace? Got it. But that wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough to fill that void.

My childhood continued happily. Straight A’s, karate, soccer, ballet, etc. I was a happy kid. My older brother (by 12 years) tried his hardest to compensate for not only his role, by my father’s role to me in the house. But that still wasn’t enough.

Fast forward to my high school years.

…My mother thought that it was all an act for attention, so that I could get what I want. I was just in my early stages of young rebellion, so obviously passing out due to dehydration was just another act of defiance in her eyes. I mean really, who would starve themselves for days on purpose? My brother begged her to believe what the doctors said, and went against suggestions to medicate. “She’s doing this for attention. She doesn’t need medication.  Who the fuck does she think she is?”

That was in August of 2010.

I sat, staring at the boxes and boxes left to empty around the apartment we’d just moved into. Sitting…waiting…trying to concentrate on the throbbing sensation that filled my throat. I could taste my own pulse. Here I sat, against the wall of our kitchen- with a knife against my left wrist. I waited patiently for the opportunity to slice, cutting deeper and deeper till blood pooled around my limp body. I sat thinking for minutes. How would my mother react to seeing her child dead? Would anyone miss me?

My first suicide attempt.

November of 2011.

By September of 2012, I returned to school weighing 165 pounds. My usual weight. Always did come from a wide hipped, thick thigh family so my weight suited my small frame. At the time I’d been transitioning into a D cup bra, and my jeans size was a 14. Not bad.

By February of 2013, I’d lost over 35 pounds in less than a month. I stopped eating. When I was forced to eat, my portions would be less than a handful, often finding their way back to my plate after vomiting continuously because I held no appetite. My depression had worsened, rapidly declining within weeks. My mother was becoming more and more abusive at home. My grades were dropping. The strain of college letters were near and the idea of where I’d be in 5 years kept me awake night after night.

My anxiety had reached an all time high, leaving me no choice but to step out pf the classroom for a few minutes while I hyperventilated quietly out of range of my classmates. My mother was called. She put her two cents in, about what she thought about my declining mental health. The whole charade went on, whilst I remain seated n in the school’s clinic- listening to her rant about “how mental illness ran great in numbers in our family “. Lies. 

“You and this shit has to stop. Are you trying to embarrass me? Cut this fucking depression shit out.”

Summer of 2015. My relationship was in shambles. I was with someone who took depression as a joke.

Damn babe, you’ll be alright.  I think you’re overreacting. don’t you think you being over  dramatic? ” 

By that August, I’d tripped down the stairs at my boyfriend’s house and sprained my ankle. Casted for 3 months.

I was being overworked and underpaid to oversee children who held no respect for me. I ran the business. I worked the books and collected payments. I went to school by day, rushed out of classes with my crutches to the train, to take a bus 20 minutes later to work.

I lost 5 more pounds.

“You’ll be fine. You’re dragging it.”

Today I write this blog, because someone has gone through it. Someone has had these statements said to them before.

“You’re so damn dramatic.”

“What do you have to be stressed over? Pray about it and move on, the fuck.”

You are not depressed.”

Today I write this blog, because of the unsaid truth about depression. It’ll eat you alive. Bit by bit, you start to lose pieces of yourself.

Today I write this blog, because depression is or will never be anything to laugh at.

Today I write this blog, to spread awareness. Society may not take it seriously but I am one of the few souls that do. You’re not alone. Someone’s always listening, whether you know it or not. You are loved. You are a queen, whose been knocked off her thrown.

You will not drown in those thoughts.

You will not succumb to the pressures of this life.

You are loved.

You hear me? You are loved.

“Depression is not a sign of weakness. It just means you have been strong for too long.” – Anonymousletting-go-of-the-thoughts-that-cause-depression-722x406

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20

The Menstrual Monster: Your Period In All It’s Bloody Beauty

It’s Saturday.

My Saturday mornings usually consist of music playing, cleaning,laundry, and probably  cooking. My Saturday nights fall into a lazy daze with movies and junk to end off the festivities earlier in the day. I spend the first five minutes of the night in my ritual which consists of, picking what genre I feel to watch, which actors I wish to see, what plot I feel the need to examine and criticize, etc.

But it’s half past 5 o’clock and you know what I’m doing? Sitting behind my computer screen trying not to fall asleep after waking up 3 hours earlier. Why? My period, ladies and gentleman. Round of applause.

Now if you’re anything like me in even the slightest, then you know my frustration. Unlike some females, I was cursed with the appearance of Mrs. Flow 2.0. In other words, it’s like I have to wear those extra long pads that borderline resemble diapers. My, my, my…how sexy. My symptoms are amplified by 100.

Sleep? On average I sleep for at least 4 hours every night, and I’m good to go. Now, I fall asleep EVERYWHERE and anywhere every 15 minutes. Taking the train? Forget about it. I’ll be asleep as soon as I board and won’t catch on till 9 stops past my actual destination.

Makeup? Not happening. I have to wash my face at least 3 times a day to cut the oiliness. I’ll be happy if I don’t accidentally rub my Godforsaken eyebrow off, yet alone apply my foundation over a layer of pimples that seemed to appear 3 minutes earlier.

Hormones? My entire life I’ve been an emotional person. (And I use the term emotional very loosely in this aspect.) I’ve had my shares of meltdowns, and tantrums often stemming from the relationships and anger issues. Nothing extremely over the top. Just your usual crazed, anger ridden girl next door. But on my period, sweet Jehovah…I will cry over everything. And I do mean EVERYTHING.

No more peanut butter? Tears.

Can’t find my sneakers? Tears.

Missed the bus? Tears IN PUBLIC.

No text back? Mood swing. How about I snap at the person I’m texting for no apparent reason at all then cry about it seconds later? Anger. Oh wait…then cry even more because I’m angry over the fact I’m crying in the first place. Sadness.

Let’s not forget: BLOATING. Why wear that cute dress I picked out when I can go in sneakers and sweats? Why? I’m the size of a pregnant whale with breasts that have doubled to the size of cantaloupes. Wait for it…tears. I’m fat and ugly. Tears. Look at me. I can’t fit into anything anymore. *Drops to bed dramatically* I’m hideous! Tears.

Oh and my personal favorite, the toilet chronicles. Most ladies won’t feel the need to point this out but I will. POOP. “Doo Doo”. Feces. Whatever you wanna call it, it happens to all of us. That chronic gas, and rumbling of your insides after every meal. You excuse yourself and rush to the bathroom. Try your hardest to be incognito, but your stench and volume says otherwise. Yeah, we’ve all been there.

But what do I know? I’m only 20.

#TheKnockDownChroniclesof20