by Raqiyah Mays
I took her advice to another level, jogging several times a week, reminiscing of my high school winter track days. I took yoga, found karate classes, meditated, journaled daily, and worked overtime to take care of me. Taking hours, every day, for me. Cleaning my apartment, trashing the clutter, making room in my closet for love, giving away clothes I hadn’t worn in a year, even taking moments throughout the day to resist the urge to move and instead sit in silence. Feeling the pain. Daring to cry or seethe in anger, or shiver with insecurity or simply crack up at my own silly self. I felt it all. My insides glowed from self-love. And for the first time I actually liked me. Thanks to the mirror I spoke to daily, I knew I was beautiful without needing to be told. I knew I was confident and courageous and could handle anything that came my way. I even made a point of talking to my mother more often. Fighting to finally forgive her. Releasing the resentment I’d held since childhood. It wasn’t all gone. I still cautiously needed my space. But seeing her growth made me try. She was the healthiest I’d ever known her to be, always talking about her own therapy sessions. And I was happy, praying, and wishing her well. I was healing and becoming more clear than I’d been in my entire life.
“I haven’t slept with anyone. I mean, thank God for dildos. Because I’m not even that interested. I mean I am, but it’s not a priority,” I said, laughing. “I’ve averaged maybe a date or two per month.”
“And this is all from people you met online?”
“Just one or two. Here and there. One I met on the train. One at a get-together. Another online. I’ve got this new plan to just make friends. Actually be friends. No sex for a few months. Maybe not at all. Just really getting to know people before I decide to date. Meredith recommended it. Pre-dating. So I guess I’m not really dating yet. I’m just hanging out.”
“I think that’s a healthy thing to do,” she said, smiling.
“Yeah, and if it doesn’t work out for dating, at least I made a new friend. No expectations. Just friendly intentions.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Anyone panning out?”
“There’s one I like. He’s nice, but weird.”
“How?”
“Just . . .” My words drifted off as I looked into her pupils. “I don’t know. He’s different . . .”
“Why is that weird?”
I diverted her lingering, perplexed glare, fidgeting in my chair, thinking about Chad and how we’d met.
I’d periodically skim the online dating ads just to crack up. It was like a relationship commercial online where you’re given fifty words to express yourself in the most poetic way. I clicked through the pages, surfing the love web, seeing whether anyone fit my account specifications: men 28–40, within a thirty-mile radius.
Skimming through my inbox, I noticed how mostly white guys hit me up. But color didn’t matter to me. My soul mate could be any race. I was open to the possibilities. Smiling at their flirty e-mails, I came upon one brother who looked eerily familiar. He smiled in his photo, bright and shiny with a Yankee cap fitted atop his head. He was bald, with a full mustache and beard covering his smooth, brown face, dotted with round glasses that made for a British, academic look. He smiled brightly in a happy way that reminded me of a kid on Christmas Day.
ChadM28: New to this online dating thing, but figured I’d give it a try. I’m a nonprofit fundraising director living in NYC. I prefer a good book, dramatic movie, and great food with stimulating conversation. I couldn’t come up with an alias for my profile, so I decided to use my name. I think it’s best to begin from a point of honesty. So I encourage you to reach out to me if you’re looking for long-term dating and an activity partner.
Above his picture, in the right-hand corner, it read, “Rate this photo.” I clicked on four stars out of five, leaving one off simply because I didn’t know him. The next morning, I checked my phone and saw an e-mail message from ChadM.
Hello. You rated me 4 stars. I rated you 4. We have 92% in common. I think we should definitely have a conversation. What do you think? I’ll begin . . .
And he went on to wittily write about his life—how he’d been single for a year and a half. How he worked for a nonprofit and wrote a novel on the side. How online dating was a last resort before he thought about retiring to a Buddhist monastery (sike).
I laughed out loud, impressed that he managed to write an entire paragraph without a typo, full of color and context, concise and grammatically correct. My reply led to a two-week e-mail exchange before we graduated to the next step: The Phone Call.
Chapter 31
We’d scheduled a time to talk: Friday, nine o’clock. I’d call him.
He’d written me an e-mail: Ok, hit me up when you’re ready. I’m excited!
Friday was perfect since my normal, end-of-week routine was to sit around with my feet up. So when nine came, I dialed. But it went straight to voice mail.
“You know the deal,” the recording said. “Leave a message.”
The prompt was so short that I didn’t have time to think of what I wanted to say.
“Hi, this is Fey?” My voice was crackly. Literally like static on a cell phone, barely comprehensible, uneasy, like a pubescent child who adds question marks to the end of each sentence. “Um, from match.com? So . . . I’m calling at nine like I said I would? Um, okay, well, you can call me. Um, okay. Bye.”
Stupid. I sounded like an idiot, bumbling and tripping over words like feet struggling for room to walk inside a mouth. In the midst of being angry at myself, I was upset at him for not answering. For putting me through the agony of having to leave what I saw as recorded blackmail. I mean, why make a phone date only to flake out?
There I was with the questions again. Marks of insecurity set in. Moments of the less-evolved, puppy part of me licking old wounds while crying in protest, pained to the core. I pulled out my journal and used a technique from the book Dr. Weisman suggested: The Journey from Heartbreak to Connection, by Susan Anderson. She specialized in healing those who’d been abandoned by parents, lovers, friends. I’d become more conscious of my sexual urges after reading her explanation of how abandonment survivors tend to use sex as a means of control. As a way to soothe the pain and provide protection, the urge to have sex is like a baby’s urge to grab a blanket or teddy bear in response to the fear of being hurt or abandoned. It’s a means of wanting safety and power and control over the anxieties of being left. After reading about this, I understood why I slept with Sean that last time. And although I hadn’t had sex with Chad, yet, the fear of being rejected produced an unbearable tension in my chest.
So I worked on Anderson’s suggested exercise called “Inner Child.” It consisted of talking to the childlike self, the scared little girl who’d been neglected and abandoned. I called her “Lil.” She was protected by “Big,” my mature, assertive, grown-up, nurturing, protective, and logical side. By paying attention and giving voice to fears, the likelihood of manifesting them in toxic ways diminishes and gives way to a potent inner dialogue between the self-assured and less confident parts of the mind.
Lil: Where is he? Why is he not answering? He’s dissin’. He knew we were supposed to talk and he’s ignoring me.
Big: Well, how do you know he’s not in the bathroom?
Lil: No, he could’ve waited or taken the phone with him.
Big: You want him to use the bathroom and talk on the phone? Wouldn’t that be rude and gross?
Lil: I mean, yeah, I guess. But . . .
Big: But what?
Lil: I just want to talk to him.
Big: And you will. Just be patient. Let him call you. Isn’t faith important?
Lil: Yeah.
Big: Why is faith important?
Lil: ’Cause God blesses those who believe. Leap and the net will appear.
Big: Right. I want you to try hard to remember that. I know it’s difficult. But you can’t sca
re yourself away before you’ve even tried. Because things aren’t going as you’ve planned. God laughs at plans. So you have to go with the flow and believe that no matter what happens, you will get what’s best for you. Everything happens for a good reason. Right?
Lil: Yeah. I just get so scared. What if he doesn’t call?
Big: If he doesn’t call, that’s God blessing and protecting you from someone who doesn’t deserve you. Someone doing you a favor. It might hurt. But you will get over it and someone better will come. You are a big, brave girl. You respect yourself. You don’t chase love. Someone who wants to get to know you will call you and show you. Someone nice will give you love. Do you believe that?
Lil: (sigh) Yes. OK. I will be brave. And if he doesn’t call, forget him. He’s a jerk. And if he does? Well, we’ll see.
Big: Good girl. Either way you’ll be fine. Still beautiful. Still wonderful. Still worthy of love. And I will protect you. Always have, always will. Just give me a chance, okay?
Lil: Okay.
Big: I love you, Lil, forever and ever.
Lil: I love you, too.
The phone rang. It was nine twenty.
“Hello, may I speak to Fey?”
“Speaking.”
“Hey, this is Chad.”
“Oh,” I tried to say in my most nonchalant voice. “Hey.”
“Yeah, sorry for being late. I came home from work and my dog had shit in the hallway of my building. So embarrassing. My landlord was there showing an apartment. She stank up my entire hallway. And when I bent over to clean it, my phone fell on the floor, centimeters from the poop, the battery popped out, millimeters away, it was a mess. So I was mopping the floor, picking up crap, and fixing the phone at the time you called. I’m sorry for not answering. Is Mercury in retrograde? I mean, I’ve been looking forward to this talk all day, and as soon as I rush home and get myself together, things go haywire. It’s not my style to be late for a first date. ’Cause I know first impressions mean everything. Not to use a cliché, but they really are lasting.”
“Did that feel better?” I asked, with a huge smile on my face. “Can you breathe now?”
“Yes,” he said, coughing. “I just needed to get that off my chest. I’m all discombobulated. Today was a long day.”
“Discombobulated? Do you normally use that word?”
“No, but it just came out. I think I’m nervous. Trying to sound smart.”
We both laughed and moved on to meshed ideas and internal vibes. Sharing our days, pasts, and hopeful futures. Nodding and acknowledging supportive agreements that felt like warm blankets across our backs. Safe. Consoling. It felt right talking for two hours, touching on topics from politics to entertainment, sports, food, family, and friends. He told me about his monogamy-prone love life, full of wrong turns and erroneous choices. He shared stories of his father being killed in a fight when he was fourteen. And his mother, wanting to have a grandchild before she dies, to carry on the family’s genes and name. He confessed his drama of writing, taking a decade to finish his novel by night, while going to grad school and working as a nonprofit communications director. Two hours seemed like thirty minutes, as we talked and ignored the sweat sucking the phone to our skulls, melting wax and smearing makeup into my ear canal. Messy, yet amazing.
“Your eyes are beautiful, by the way,” he said. “That’s why I e-mailed you. I mean, I really liked what you wrote online. It was poetic. But what stood out is that you didn’t feel the need to use a sexy profile picture. Just your eyes. I like them. They’re honest. Sensitive. Caring. Really pretty.”
He called again a few days later. A few days after that.
“So you think this is strange?” Dr. Weisman asked. Her head tilted to the side. Pen in hand, ready to take notes. “His calling you regularly bothers you?”
“I mean, I just guess I’m not used to it.”
“He sounds attentive to me. Sounds like he likes you.”
“I mean, is that normal? The frequency of calling?”
“If a man likes you and is interested, he will call you.”
“So why do I feel like I want to dodge his calls sometimes? Like he’s bothering me. One time I purposely let it go to voice mail. And then I called him back, not wanting to play games. I mean, I like talking to him. But then I get scared. Like it’s going to go downhill at any moment.”
Dr. Weisman nodded. “You’re an abandoned child. An abused child. Many typically push away those who give them healthy attention, while chasing the ones who hurt and abandon them. It’s an addiction in a way. You often attract lovers with your same emotional issues. Where the abandonment feels normal, familiar, pushing all the buttons of attraction, pointing to toxic love. Making you feel like pain and rejection is what love is. Because that’s how you grew up. That’s what you got from your parents and those who were supposed to support, nurture, and love you unconditionally. But because they didn’t, attention from someone who actually shows healthy availability is new and unfamiliar. It often makes someone abandoned feel distrustful or turned off. Fearful. They subconsciously question why someone would want to pay attention to them. They push it away or sabotage it.”
“Wow,” I said as Dr. Weisman stood to open the blinds, noting the end of the session. “That’s interesting. The human mind is amazing.”
The glare of the sun made me stretch my lids wide, waking me up to common sense. Sitting forward on the edge of the couch, back straight and alert. “And I’m a good person, dammit. I deserve love.”
“Yes, you are,” she said, smiling. “Yes, you do. And you’ll have it. Healing takes time. But you can heal. You will. And you are.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say that before. I mean, except Meredith.” I sat with my hands under my thighs. “I’ve always felt like I’d have abandonment issues forever. Always dealing with my mommy shit, my daddy shit, my family-curse shit.”
“All wounds heal if you have the courage to take care of them properly,” she said, smiling. “And yours will, too.”
Chapter 32
“You’re intelligent, beautiful, talented. Why are you single?”
I paused before answering Chad’s question. Concerned about inquiries that might make him formulate judgments that, whether right or wrong, made me cringe with apprehension at revealing the baggage of a curse I was born to hold for life.
“I’m embarrassed to say,” I whispered, happy he couldn’t see the blush of insecurity rising in my cheeks. “It’s . . . weird.”
“Listen, I’m a serial monogamist. I’m in love with being in love,” he said. “But because of this habit, I realize I’ve rushed and gotten into a number of questionable relationships that I knew from week one I shouldn’t have pursued because I’ve been afraid to be alone.”
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a guy say that.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not typical,” he said, laughing. “And I’m not gay. Although I am in touch with my inner self.”
That statement was another first.
“Fey, I would go on first dates hearing my mother’s voice whining about wanting to be the old lady in the shoe with a bunch of grandkids. And I knew after a couple of conversations that this woman I was spending money on for dinner wasn’t the one. But I’d see my mother’s face crying when my older brother was shot dead before twenty-five. Since then, she always finds a way to nag me about how I’m ‘the last resort’ to carry on the family name. After thirty years, and a good therapist, I finally believe what I’ve been telling her my entire life. The right woman will come when the time is right—when I’m happy, stable, and ready. All of which I am now. I’m starting this new New Year right. But it takes time to move past those blocks we have ingrained in us, because of our families. So I get it, Fey.”
I let his words soak in. “Well, apparently I’m still single because . . .” The words drifted as I stalle
d. “I’m . . . apparently I’m cursed.”
“That’s interesting . . .” Chad said, his sentence trailing off into intrigue. “What kind of curse?”
“Well, the story goes that my great-great-grandmother slept with a pastor, and the pastor’s wife put a curse on her and all of the women of the Mitchell family to be alone and without a man forever. Destined to never be married.”
“But your last name is Butler.”
“Yeah, but I’m from the Mitchell family.”
“True, but you don’t have the surname. You’re a Butler. I’ve heard of this curse before,” he said. “My family is Creole. My great-grandfather used to always talk about voodoo, spirits, and creepy shit.”
“Okay, so tell me what this thing is.” I was eager, standing in the middle of my bedroom, motionless, mushing the phone into my head, wishing I could jump through the receiver and see Chad in person to explain what’s haunted me for years.
“Apparently my great-great-great-grandmother Mercy Decroix was a hateful bitch. She stopped going to church and got into spells after her husband cheated with her sister, Hope. Word is, on her deathbed, Mercy testified, accepted God, and admitted to all the bad curses she’d done, including the one she placed on Hope, preventing her from ever getting married. The way the sister was able to break the curse was to give her children a different last name from her own.”
“Wait, so the man curse is in your family, too?”
“Apparently it was, because there are no more Decroixs in the family. Mercy didn’t realize that when she placed her curse, she hexed the entire family’s name as well as her own. So the only child Hope had out of wedlock, a daughter, was given the father’s surname. That daughter married a Murphy and gave birth to my great-grandfather, who told me this story.”
A long silence followed on my end as I exhaled the weight of a false truth passed through generations, heaving in my soul, suffocating my security, pressuring my mind with frustrating fears of a lifetime spent alone—one devoid of healthy love, rife with drama, dysfunction, and pain, all with the man curse at the root.
