It's hard to go through the motions of love and not fall in love. Some people can pull of the act of "best friends with benefits," but often, for one friend, it isn't beneficial at all.
How can you hold back your feelings when you can talk about almost anything, do almost anything, be almost anything but the thing you desire? There can be loveless sex, but when you care about someone it can easy turn into making love and wishing the feeling was real and not just a sometimes situation
For this latest Doomed Romance entry, our writer was someone's "lover," but never his love and her heart still aches long after the affair is over.
ALMOST LOVE
Irony, I must live off it.
I have been talking to one man since January. I actually met him online. In any case, we were just friends. I could handle that, until three months down the road, a seemingly and perfectly platonic relationship turned into just a little more. He said he didn't really want a girlfriend and I could handle that too, that he was really only interested in showing and touching, and hooking up once in a while. We would talk for hours, laugh and carry on as if we hadn't a care in the world. Things I think started to get more serious in the summer time. I started to feel things for him, that I promised myself, I wouldn't, and knew wasn't allowed.
I knew no matter what he said, he couldn't and wouldn't allow himself to feel the same way I felt about him. He's an ageist. I'm only 23 and he's 32. It wasn't until late August when he finally came out and pulled the table from under me. Ended all the good times I thought we were having.
Maybe it was unfair of me to let my guard drop, and tell him how I felt, but being brave and honest are two things upon which I pride myself.
Now whenever I speak to him, its "I want a girlfriend" this and "I am going to make more moves to find a wife" that. He always says women from our region of the country aren't into him. I want to remind him that I was his. With out question.
I miss him now. I sometimes feel helpless, but mostly lonely. I miss our talks, I miss the sex, but mostly I miss my friend. He made me feel invincible, and special, and loved all at the same time. I will always wonder what could have been between us, if we only had the chance. C'est la vie though. I guess better luck next time.
The following submission for Doomed Romance comes from a fellow blogger Bryan Wilhite's blog the rasx() context, originally posted on his site.
Here Wilhite goes into detail how he imploded his own relationship years ago through infidelity, giving a first-hand account of how a man could do what he did, why and what he learned from it. For instance, he now knows he can't juggle two women at the same time.
WHAT I DID TO LESLIE NIA LEWIS IN MY EARLY TWENTIES
I even forgot her name for a time—this kind of forgetting implicates me. Her name is preserved in my primeval print design portfolio in a layout for poetry called “Red Beans and Rice”—in the second issue of Freestylemagazine. Her name is Leslie Nia Lewis.
Leslie Nia Lewis represents the blemish on my intimate relationship record. I am certain you can successfully find more women from my life with a truckload of blemishes but to me this is the one. This was clearly me being completely stupid and inexperienced. You see, she showed up to my crappy, family-issue apartment at the Wilhite Family compound in Inglewood, California during the so-called “Rodney King riot.” The phones were out. She drove all the way from Burbank—from her apartment where she slept on the floor and wrote scripts for a storage container at Disney. She brought a bag of groceries for me. Her car could break down on her any minute. Remember folks: she was driving through streets of burning buildings. I could see the strawberries at the top of the bag. Very romantic.
You see she is a writer. I assume that she is still a screenwriter which makes her a close relative with novel writers. They can completely go into their own world. You kind of feel lonely in their presence sometimes—often in the heat of ‘passion’ when you would expect them to very present and focused on you. Instead, with Leslie Nia Lewis, I felt like a doorman who opened a way for her escape—and she would leave me there just holding the door. I resented this ‘abandonment,’ so when she showed up with the groceries, her romantic riot strawberries, my concern went out for my crappy computers. I think I had a 386sx and a 286 at the time.
I was concerned about my computers because another woman was inside the apartment, she is the woman from the poem “Bryan Wilhite: 0.5 the Sisters”—the one who won’t get off my foot while I was doing all of the cooking—the one who is, by my measure, the most powerful poet I have ever met in person. My stupid-ass assumption was that letting Leslie into the apartment would make a fight start—and this girl fight would somehow break my computers. This was a stupid idea. We all were wearing clothes—and my father told me later via telephone from Decatur, Georgia that I should have invited her in and we would all have a civil discussion (even though the woman who would not get off my foot hid herself in the bedroom).
Outside the apartment door, I mumbled to Leslie that ‘someone’ was inside like a big baby expecting mercy for doing something wrong. She immediately understood that I was just another big baby and began rocking her head from side to side to keep herself from crying as she methodically walked back to her car (with the groceries). She drove away. The car was working. I was not. From that moment on—even though nothing even remotely like this ever happened by me again in over 15 years—I was full of shit. No matter what ideals I have about African womanhood you can always answer, “You are full of shit,” and be correct.
This is what should have happened:
I should have written “0.5 the Sisters” before I met Leslie Nia Lewis. The understanding preserved in that poem represents the possibility that at least Leslie and I would be friends to this day. This also implies that no ‘great’ poetess would have hiding in my bedroom.
I should have spoken about my ‘doorman problems’ directly to Leslie. I’m a writer, right? Can’t I be challenged and focused to articulate such an alien feeling to a twenty-something year old? Unfortunately, at the time I was preoccupied with me and self deprecation. This culminated in the “Self Pity Portraits” stored in my chapbook, the adolescence of the cool.
This experience (and many others far less dramatic) leads to some conclusions:
Two writers might make a lovely couple but a writer and reader—especially a reader that’s an editor—certainly makes for a great couple.
I’m too “arrogant” to have two or more “girlfriends” at one time because the production of energy required to tell lies (and remember the lies) is expensive, demeaning and disgusting to me.
The meaning of loneliness is more complex. The meaning of intimacy is more complex. Simply having access to the woman’s physical body is not enough for me. Does this sound scary to you? Well, that’s probably why you haven’t called me.
They say a bird in hand is better than two in the bush, but that never stopped a lover from pushing a romance, a sexual infatuation that was doomed to fail.
Mama said that everything that feels good to you is good for you, but you choose to feel good, for that moment, anyway, in arms that were never yours to begin with, savoring a kiss meant for someone else.
That's the story of our latest tale of romance gone wrong between a woman and her "best friend with benefits.
PART-TIME LOVER
I loved Jay, way more than I should. Come to think of it, I still do love him. Just from a distance.
He was my bad boy. I had been with my high school sweetheart, and we were going through one of our phases. We broke up. The very next day, I met Jay. He made me laugh, and he had that certain je nais se quoi. He screamed sexuality.
Things got to be a little too hot and heavy, and I want to cool things off for a while. I went back to my high school sweetheart, but I was still seeing Jay on the side. Finally I got back in touch with my inner good girl. I decided to make him my New Year's resolution, but unfortunately I had let the genie out of the bottle. He and I were destined to try our little fling again. I lasted from January 1 to November 8. I just couldn't leave well enough a lone. This led to the demise of my relationship with my high school sweetheart. Deep down he knew I had stepped out on him.
Me and jay would go on to do the friends with benefits thing for more than a year, and eventually I got back with my high school sweetheart. Eventually Jay called me to tell me that he was getting married, and could he singing "Rock me tonight for old time sake." He said he wanted to be with me because I wouldn't tell -- unlike all the women he slept with in the bridal party. At any rate I turned him down, and he said he knew that I wanted him. I had to let him know that He was just a phase to me, and that the sex wasn't what I thought it was. He was a selfish bastard and it began to show. He was angry with me. He called me back to let me know who he was marrying. It was a girl that stayed across the hall from me in the dorm. I was her mentor at one point. She relished telling me that she was marrying him. He was upset for me wishing him well, and I went on to marry my high school sweetheart.
A man that finds a wife finds a good thing. A woman that finds a man not so much.
When love ends abruptly, when desire steals away like a thief into the mist and moonlight, who's at fault? Was love never yours to begin with? Was it all real or imagined? Had the facts in hand made a fiction of all you thought was precious? This latest submission in the Doomed Romance series is from a woman who is a serial love killer wondering if her love is like death to the individuals she meets.
THE LOVE KILLER
I couldn’t tell you what it was about him. I don’t know if I ever knew. We were completely opposite personalities. We didn’t have much in common. Maybe it was his utter infatuation with me. He was there for me in a way no one had ever been before. Maybe I was just in love with the idea of someone being in love with me.
I like to think it was more than that. And I do believe it was. Maybe the connection simply cannot be reduced to paper and pen. Whatever it was, at 19, before we had so much as held hands, I remember thinking that I could not imagine him not being the central figure in my life. I still can’t actually. We just connected. Or I did. Whatever. He was my best friend, the person I wanted in my presence above all others.
And so it was. Our courtship was the stuff of fairy tales. I won’t bore you or depress myself with the details. Suffice it to say, I probably couldn’t have written a more romantic story of college sweethearts falling in love for the first time.
That’s not to say it was perfect. There were abundant communication issues – largely mine. There was a determination to be proven right (I think we shared that one). I wanted him to change, to grow up rather, and there were times my critique or treatment of his immaturity were harsh. But at the end of the day, no matter how moody I was or how childish he acted, there was us. K&M. Always.
Until the day five months into our marriage when he quite calmly explained to me that he could no longer be with me. That God would forgive his divorce because, you see, he cannot love me. He tried and tried and did everything he could, but I am simply unlovable. If he stayed any longer he might actually and physically die. To be with me any more would literally suck the life out of him. Yes that’s right, me, my love and my presence in one’s life equals death. I later found out that the fact that he was already engaged to someone else while we were having this conversation probably had something to do with it too.
I just didn’t see it coming. Which sounds so stupid I am ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t. Whatever can be said of women’s intuition, mine did not work. He wasn’t acting strange or moody or withdrawn. There were simply no clues. Two days before we had a nice dinner and laughed over a movie.
I knew that I was somewhat unhappy, but I thought it was a growth phase. I knew that the unexpected passing of his mother put him in an emotional black hole, but that too, I thought, would pass. But we were a normal couple with ups and downs and relatively OK days. Never did I imagine that he-of-the-flowers-for-no-reasons and the naming of our unborn children could walk away so effortlessly.
I spent probably close to two years obsessing over where things went wrong. While I still maintain that he had growing to do, perhaps I was not as evolved and patient about the process as I believed myself to be. Was I not supportive enough? Was I not nurturing enough? Was I too critical? Did I put my needs above his? I’m sure I could have been better in all these respects. But was it that terrible? He never told me he was unhappy with me, or that our relationship wasn’t working. Had I pushed a man over the breaking point just by being … imperfect?
These are questions my logical mind knows are irrelevant. He ended things. He gave up. I know what the correct answers are. At the very least, he is a jackass, and at best, we were not meant to be. I tell myself I am ... [insert self-affirming qualities here]. And all of that might be true. But eight lonely years later (save a second disastrous relationship), I still am forced to ask myself if he was right all along. Does my love equal death? Perhaps not of him, but as the days and months go by, I know that the weight of my unrequited love is certainly killing my own spirit.
Time has erased neither my memory of his flaws nor of the way I needed his presence in my life. The wounds are no longer raw, but the scars prohibit me from living the life I used to. Do I believe in a universe that sends us our true love before we are ready, only to spend our lives regretting the errors that destroyed that love? Do I believe in my inherent unworthiness? Do I believe that I could spend any significant periods of intimacy with someone who does not garner a modicum of concern for my feelings, or for me? None of these are truths I can accept, but the stagnation is quite literally driving me crazy.
Top: Photo from marriage ceremony arranged by Marry Your Baby Daddy. Bottom: I wonder if "Marry Your Baby Daddy Day" will include the nuptials of VP candidate daughter Bristol Palin, 17, and her boyfriend Levi Johnston? No, you say?
Remember when CNN did "Black In America" and everyone was like, "Man, that blew chunks" and everyone specifically complained about the feature on black women and this "marry your baby daddy program?"
Reports show that the growing number of out-of-wedlock births and an increase in unmarried households have forced a new dialog about relationships in America according to Marry Your Baby Daddy Day™ founder and St. Martins Press author Maryann Reid.
She and her team are already planning for Marry Your Baby Daddy Day™ 2009, a mass wedding of 10 unwed couples w/children to strengthen 2 parent homes and stabilize communities. Applications are being accepted early to announce the 10 selected NYC area couples on Valentine's Day 2009. On September 24, 2009, 10 couples will get married in NYC, but others across the nation won't be left out.
"We are gathering licensed MYBDD™ partners in different cities in order to hold a simultaneous wedding on the same day," Reid says. "It's as important for us to help a couple in Sacramento as it is to marry ten in New York City. We have a growing national database of moms and dads who want to marry each other that we share with a licensed MYBDD™ partner in their area."
The press release (which popped up in my inbox) goes on to say the program has married 40 "baby mamas and daddies."
I don't know how to feel about all this. On one hand, I'm a big fan of marriage. On the other, there is just something unseemly about the term "baby mama" or "baby daddy." Maybe I simply wish there were more family planning/sex education programs available for young black boys and girls so they can learn to avoid these pratfalls. I wish there was more focus on after school programs, mentorship and scholarship. I know wanting to go to college and have a career kept me from getting prematurely knocked up.
Is it just me? Maybe this is a really meaningful gesture, but I feel like it's a band-aid on a gaping wound. It is the embrace of ignorance -- encouraged by everyone and everything from black popular culture to some churches -- is endemic throughout black culture and is the No. 1 culprit to all asshat behavior of black people.
Just as it was at the end of slavery it remains true today. Education has and will always be the key.
So marriage is great, but if you don't have the educational tools to earn a decent wage, support a family and the maturity to deal what did this program really create?
The creator of the event Reid ends her press release with this answer to critics:
(Reid) is often questioned about whether it's right for these couples to marry because they have children together.
"Are they not supposed to get married? That's what I want to know," Reid says, as she stresses that many of the couples have been together at least 5 years. "We don't have to sell anything, our couples come to us. It shows we are making a difference and impacting lives in wholesome and relevant ways."
Finding love is often a bit like a science experiment. You put two chemicals together and look for a reaction. Sometimes it sizzles, sometimes it falls flat, sometimes it explodes, implodes leaving us wrecked in the mess we helped create. This is just the nature of things. There's no way around it. We have to stumble through the experiments of love until we find a mixture that is right.
The following story is one woman's adventure with the chemical reactions of ill-fated love.
Almost Right
Love gone terribly bad? Sure. Was it just one guy? Nope. Instead, my cynical outlook on love was shaped (warped) by many smaller incidents over the course of the last 15 years.
"E" was my drama king. I landed at my HBCU fresh from an all white school with no clue about black music, sex or alcohol. E helped familiarize me with all three. He listened to Prince, had the most amazing bedroom eyes and a voice to match. We were passion manifest and if we weren’t screaming, we were screwing and everything was SOFA KING IMPORTANT. Where an outsider might have rolled their eyes at the self absorbed 19-year-olds wasting their parents hard earned tuition money on weed and Boones Farm, I only knew the ecstasy and agony of LOVE. Ugh. After graduation, I hooked up with him occasionally on the “buddy” tip, but it was never the same. Now I understand that I was vainly trying to relive the old days when I fell hard and fast.
Another man of note was "K." We blundered our way through four years together and my folks still ask about him. We started as friends, and then fell into a relationship without actually intending it. In fact, that’s how I rationalized cheating on him. We hadn’t officially said we were together, so we must not be. With 20/20 hindsight, I know now that I wanted to hurt him. You see, two years into it, we’d made a baby and after some civilized discussions about our futures, I decided to abort. He was “after school special” supportive, saying all the right things and offering to go with me to the clinic. But when I told him that I’d be fine and there was no need for both of us to waste the whole day there, he believed me. So I went to have an abortion and he went to a barbecue. I never forgave him for that. Hell, I’m still working on forgiving me. In any case, sometime back in the 90s I suddenly became very self sufficient and a little cold natured. Only K and I know why.
Most recently was "S." After gaining some weight, my esteem plummeted, and I went into romantic hibernation. S was handsome, sweet, and loved music. He said the nicest things to me and made me feel beautiful again. So excited to be adored, I ignored the signs that we just weren’t right for each other. The cliff notes version of our relationship was that I was more interested in proving that someone, anyone, would wife me, rather than truly understanding what I was signing up for. S peeped it for what it was, and called it quits. My lesson? I’ve got to be honest – especially to myself.
Man that paints a bleak picture. Please know that I’ve dated many great guys, we just didn’t work out. However, your request wasn’t about “love gone almost right” was it?
This story is a part of The Black Snob's two-week series, "Doomed Romance," tales of love lost and love gone wrong. For more click here.
They say everything that feels good to you isn't good for you. That was the lesson learned by this Doomed Romance contributor. She fell in love with a man who was great in the bedroom, but horrible everywhere else. But she was fortunate, she learned her lesson and found a new outlook on romance.
MR. WRONG
I have a list that I wrote one day after a terrible break up that went something like this:
Argument … more arguing … make up sex … more weeks of arguing … the inevitable break-up initiated by me … a few days later a call from a co-worker telling me how she’d been screwing my ex for a few weeks … said co-worker is known as a drunken whore … devastation … anger … death threats to him because of my concern he might have infected me with something that I couldn’t wash off … embarrassment as I sit in the gynecologist office explaining that I need to be tested for everything under the sun because I’d been cheated on … fear … more anger … waiting … many tears … the phone call that I’m perfectly healthy … joy … and finally the strength to move on.
Everything happens for a reason.
I was able to gain some clarity that I hadn’t bothered to have before. I sat my hurt and embarrassed self down and made a list of the type of man I genuinely wanted in my life. As I finished that list it was plain and obvious that I’d played my own self like boo-boo-the-fool because I’d let someone in my life that wasn’t more than a cute face, a nice ass and a great lay.
He wasn’t even half of my list. Don’t get me wrong, he was a very nice guy, but I ignored the fact that he had issues. I should have believed him every single time he told me that he wasn’t good enough for me and that I deserved better.
Here I was, an educated woman, working two jobs, living and loving life, yet dealing with and loving a loser. We really didn’t have very much in common. We fundamentally disagreed on everything other than eating, sleeping, and fucking. No, I don’t have low self-esteem, nor am I needy. I love who I am and love my life. I am a very blessed person. But, at the end of the day I pretty much let myself get dick-merized for a whole six months.
I didn’t get anything out of that relationship but some good sex, a whole bunch of headaches, and a big ass doctor's bill because my insurance doesn't cover testing without symptoms. All of which I could’ve easily avoided via a little imagination and a pack of AA batteries..
A few months after that experience, I ran into a guy I’d known for a couple of years through a mutual friend. He was handsome, but I’d never looked at him twice. He wasn’t really my “type” and I knew a bit about his past that I wasn’t too thrilled about. After a few long, but great phone conversations, we ended up hanging out one evening purely as friends. I have been head over heels in love with him ever since. He measures up to about 90 percent of my list, and I wouldn’t take that plus the other 10 percent from any other man if someone paid me to take it. If it hadn’t been for me freely loving a loser, I might not appreciate the amazing love and man that I have now.
A John Legend cover of the ultimate "Doomed Romance" song, Lauryn Hill's "Ex Factor"
As part of my series "Doomed Romance," I've been sharing journal entries and short stories by myself about my failed, but brief and emotionally brutal marriage. The following is a series of vignettes about the emotional turmoil of the relationship before we married. The biggest issue between Harold and I was always the lack of communication, as in, he didn't think that it was important that we communicated -- ever, and would punish me with his silence.
THE SILENCER
December 31, 2000
Unlike other times when others casted shadows of doubt in my mind, this time it appears to be all me coming to grips with the harsh reality.
He will never smile just because smiling is a natural reaction one has when another person they like smiles at them. He will never be able to get along with my family. He will never be able to adapt or fit into my world. He will never enjoy art films and art galleries. He will never celebrate any holidays, religious or secular. He will never be able to ask me questions or engage in conversation with me in the manor that I am accustomed to and enjoy.
He will never be "talkative." He will never be hopelessly, foolishly romantic. He will never dance with me. He will never know or understand why I need to be talked to, consoled and loved in a particular way that he cannot perform. He will never learn how to handle his money in a responsible way. He will never pay back the money I loaned him. He will never learn how to communicate. He will never understand me, or if he does understand me, he will never have the ability to prove this to me because his behavior hints at either ignorance or he knows and is not willing to adapt.
He will never show interest in what I am doing and trying to become.
I both want him to be the one and don't want him to be the one. If he is the one I think of all the things I need and want that I will have to learn to live without. And I don't want that. If he isn't the one I wonder if I will ever met a man like him again in a million years. So brilliant yet so conflicted. So fascinating and memorizing. He's like a novel that I'd love to read over and over again. He's amazingly complex in all the ways I like. He's intelligent, spiritual, independent, strong sense of self, mature, logical ... most of the time, physically strong, nice teeth, beautiful hair, dark skin and patient. He loves animals. He loves his people - in a love/hate sort of way. He's honorable in a way that most men are not honorable anymore.
But is he what I want?
February 4, 2001
My father thinks that it's pity? Is it pity?
Harold thinks I want them to undermine me? Do I?
But this isn't about them, right? Its supposed to be about me. All about me. Only me. If everyone did not exist and it was me and me alone what would want to do? If only I could tap into my subconscious to rediscover how I feel. I know that my love for Harold hasn't been as manic and bizarre as my love for other men. I'd pay money right now to be hypnotized and have a hypnotist discover how I truly feel. I can't tell where my own emotions begin and theirs end. I keep telling myself I have to go through with it because I said I would. And I know that once I'm around him again I will love him again and wish to only be with him.
Cruel fate brought us together. Star crossed lovers destine for trouble. I search for a sign from God, anybody of what to do. Saying is not doing. In the end you must simply chance it all on a roll of the dice. Stop hemming and hawing on fate. I have delayed this decision for far too long.
Tried the magic 8 ball - 3 out of 3 for Harold. But what the hell does it know?
I need facts. Decisions should be based on fact.
Fact:
My sister does not want me to marry Harold I have given everyone mixed signals I've given everyone mixed signals because I want to please everyone and can't make up my mind I originally predicted our relationship to last two dates and end in friendship I want to die whenever I think he is going to leave me I can't imagine my future without him My parents think I don't know what the hell I am doing and believe I will chicken out I believe in Harold even though my family does not I am wishy-washy
This all started because I didn't want to lie to my family, but I lie to everyone all the time -- about how I really feel. About what I want. It is time to stop lying to them and myself.
I don't want a wedding I was immature and angry It's not my fault things are as fucked up as they are We can make this work We are ... supposed to be together ... I think?
When you've had a series of romances that are ill fated before they even get off the ground you start to wonder, "Is it me?"
We all have our own pathologies we bring to a relationship. Subconsciously we are looking for people like our parents, but who can give us something our parents could not. Sometimes we're rebels, looking for someone the opposite of what we've known. And some of us just don't know what we're looking for at all.
The following contributor wants love badly, but has trouble holding on to it. With most relationships barely lasting a month or more, love has been elusive and the disappointment has been routine.
"Is it me?" she's wondering. She's not the first person to ask this question.
DISAPPEARING ACTS
I met this guy at the club (of all places).
He was tall, dreads, and all kind of sexy. So I went up to him, put my fingers through his hair and told him "I love your dreads" and left it at that. Later on that night in the club I found him again and asked him to dance he said yes and we exchanged numbers. I didn't expect him to call me, but he did. We hit it off immediately and talked on the phone for hours. He wanted to see me again over the weekend so we made plans.
When we went out we had a good time. We went to the park, the movies, ate out and we kissed which seemed like forever. I told my self a million times don't fall for this guy too quick. But I was tired of putting my guard up, so I put it down.
We spoke on the phone numerous times and then I went up to his house. We had a good time, but no sex. Then I decided to ask him where he thought we were going with this, he kept telling me that he wasn't ready for a relationship and giving me the run-around. A week later he suddenly stopped picking up his phone.
After three days of not picking up the phone I started to notice the pattern, one I had with every guy I dated. I kept thinking he normally calls back, if anything was wrong he knows my email address. I kept telling myself, "It's no big deal. He'll call." I finally decided to email him and then he wrote me back saying that he wasn't ready for a relationship and he knew I wanted one. He said he didn't want to mislead me and didn't mean to mislead me if he had.
I was stunned.
I tried to pretend I wasn't, but deep down I wanted him. I really thought we hit it off. I couldn't get over him. There were nights I just couldn't sleep wondering what was it I did wrong this time? Was I wrong to ask him? What if I didn't ask him? Why does this always to happen to me? I got angry with myself, kept rewinding the past from what he said to me and what we did. Trying to find the signs.
As of now I haven't gone on a date. This happened in the month of October 2007. I decided to take a year off from dating cause I just kept running into the same scenario time and time again. I'm hoping the next time I'm on a date it'll be for keeps.
Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte in one of my favorite musicals and doomed romances, "Carmen Jones."
Back when I was still living it up in Bakersfield, Calif. I was working on a series of short fiction stories under the title "Doomed Romance." Partly out of humor and partly out of my own romantic graveyard I began collecting the stories of love gone bad.
I'm a romantic malaise mess. My love life is littered with the remains of unresolved issues, drama, disappointment and wayward, misfired seduction. I'm a chronically failed fool for love. Half my fault. Half the fault of those I've dated and like a lot of folks, male and female, sometimes I wanted to give up and for seven years I did.
After a nightmarish starter marriage that left me bruised and emotionally scarred I realized that I need to accept responsibility in some of the poor choices I'd made. So in an effort to educate, entertain and hopefully inspire, my next reader contributed series will be about relationships gone terribly, terribly wrong. Along the way I'll talk about the nine months of pain that lead to my seven years of solitude. Be prepared to know to get personal, because I plan to blare my troubles out as a beacon to warn men and women away from the pratfalls and misfortunes of toxic love. I can't protect you. But the least I can do is reveal the signs, the evidence that a naive heart, not assured in its visions can easily become prey for those who have a plan, a very, very bad plan to save what you thought was your wayward soul.
With each story we will discuss a different issue from incidents that made us chose celibacy over intimacy, considering no longer dating within your own culture or ethnicity (or stopping altogether), caused us to learn something about yourself or the souls of others, made us mad, mad us sad, we'll talk about what we're still hung up on, what you can't let go of, what we've forgiven and how we came to do so, and what we could never forgive.
If you'd like to contribute to my series, just send me your story in 500 words or less. (If you go over some, no worries. I'm flexible.) I want people to be honest, MALE and FEMALE, about these beautiful disasters, these love wars lost. Again, I won't use any names like I did with my mothers and daughters series last month.
I'd also really like to get into the complexities that come with black-on-black love. I want to hear from those who found a way to make love work for them (re: success stories!) and I want to hear from those still struggling (even within that success story). We want to generate ideas and get some catharsis by airing our heartbreaks, joys and grievances.
And I'll be right there with you because if anyone can write about dysfunctional love it's me. From my periods as a trophy girlfriend to a closeted homosexual to loving a narcissistic sociopath to engaging in self-destructive behavior with the poor rubes of Bakersfield until I benched myself from the love game, I got it bad.
I'll be telling my own stories while incorporating yours. So if you're interested I'll be soliciting stories over the next two weeks. Let's get away from the fluff and get down to the real and see what bitter hearts can reveal, can learn and where they can grow from love gone wrong.
**To contribute, write your 500 words or less story to The Snob at blacksnob@gmail.com.
