Men + Myself + God

Tag: break ups

Someone Else’s Karma

by P. Braithwaite

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I’d be lying if I said he was forgotten. Sometimes, when I least expect it, the air carries his scent: laughter, sadness, passion, love. Other times a new season of an old show will air, and I’ll remember how we sat tangled on my couch. Happily. Addicted. Oblivious. Drunk. Refusing to let me fast-forward commercials.

“Commercials are our chance to really talk.”

When it’s over, bad memories are comfort. They support your thesis – he’s an asshole; she’s a jerk. The happy memories are harder to swallow. They are an under-wire bra, sexy but constricting. You can’t wear them for long. They don’t support the present circumstances.

Forgive me; it’s 1 am and I’m nostalgic.

It’s seductive to imagine a forlorn ex-lover writing you love poems with his own blood. Or its enticing to imagine a lover who never cared — a man who never loved. A person who has moved on and has forgotten you exist. Chances are, the truth is somewhere in-between.

You never know someone else’s karma.

You never know where a person’s path may lead them, and you never know when or why they may think of you. Life has a way of moving us forward. Nature only supports growth. Memories soften around the edges and fade into our present. We don’t linger. We move forward. We heal.

But that doesn’t mean love wasn’t there.

We never know another person’s karma.

The sad truth of life is that we can never know, unequivocally, the level of love or devotion that existed within another. We can only trust in our own perceptions of the past – the love was real, the moment magic, and the ending…for the best.

The ending is almost always for the best…

But you never know another person’s karma.

You can only nourish and cultivate your own.

And so it is.

A Post for Melancholy Social Media Mavens (#31writenow, #nablopomo)

by P. Braithwaite

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Another post that was written months ago– a few days before my Birthday. Once again, it was a little too real…enjoy. 🙂

I’m writing this the night before my vacation. I’m going to a beautiful island. I’m staying at a nice resort. I’ll be spending my birthday with my brother and sister-in-law. I’m predicting a spa day and a black girl tan. These are all very good things. When I was 10, I would never have thought that I’d be vacationing with my brother and his wife. My brother and I went years without any real relationship.

It’s amazing what time and maturity can do.

So I’m excited, but I’m also a little sad.

In the age of Facebook and Instagram or Twitter and 4square, there’s a tendency to lead with the most appealing face. There’s a tendency to only meet the world with smiles. There’s temptation to construct an identity with an air of “I’m so cool.” Today, I’m choosing to keep it real.

I’ll resist the urge to Instagram pictures in a pink bikini. I’m actively resisting the urge to drown out my less flattering feelings with an obscene barrage hashtags, smiley faces, and rap lyrics (#teambirthday #teamtravel #teamimonvacation) I resist the urge to use my outward location as symbol or statement of some deeper inner state.

Because the truth is, it’s not.

So yes. I’m excited to be spending my birthday on an island. Three months ago I said “all I wanna do is spend my birthday on a beach,” and with very little planning and the wave of my magic wand…I will do exactly as I planned (weather permitting). Trust me, I appreciate my blessings. So today, I’m grateful and happy, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m also nostalgic, disillusioned and even a little sad. And writing this makes me feel a little silly.

It’s amazing what a difference a year makes.

My point? We’re allowed to feel everything inside of us. I’m not saying we should wallow, nor am I saying we should splatter all our sadness on social media (no one wants to read all that). But We’re allowed to be conflicted and complex. We’re allowed to have peaks and valleys. Feeling a little sad doesn’t make us ungrateful, and feeling grateful doesn’t mean we can’t feel sad. There’s more to any of us than meets the eye (or blog or tweet). There’s magnificence in the complexities, nuances of what we feel.

So today, as I prepare for the birthday gifts the universe has granted me, I give myself another gift: I humbly accept myself just as I am. I give myself room to feel everything I’m feeling — and give those emotions space to breathe.

If you’re feeling something a little bit uncomfortable, don’t resist it. Make peace. It’ll pass. I promise. It’ll be carried out to sea and wash up on a distant shore.

Hopefully a different one from where I plan to get my birthday tan.

Someone Is Going to Love This Blogger (#31writenow #nablopomo)

by P. Braithwaite

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I told him. I told my oldest male friend about my break up with The Besticle. I told him about how we broke up, how I blogged about it, and how that mother fu my ex called me up to complain about my blogging.

Then I cringed. And waited. On some level I knew my
Homeboy wouldn’t take my side. And…….on some level, when I wrote my break up post, I knew I was probably crossing a line.

My oldest male friend smiled. He’s known me since I was fifteen — well enough and long enough to truly understand that disagreeing with me is like disarming a time bomb. The red wire stops everything, the green one causes destruction. The right words can stop me in my tracks…

Or wait, is it the other way around?

“Honestly,” he started. “Homie has a point.”

THAT….was the absolute wrong wire…

“I’m just saying, when you write about your life,” he tilted away from me. “You’re going to face the fact that men may meet you and know more about you than you want them to know. And your boyfriend’s boys will know things about you too…”

I shrugged him off and then obsessed over his warning.

One of my biggest gifts from attending BlogHer ’13 — beyond branding advice, social media tips, the CVS swag bag and new friends — is unequivocal evidence that bloggers like me, the ones who talk too much, have deep and loving relationships.

Translation: Someone…somewhere…is going love this blogger.

Some man somewhere will be smart enough and wise enough to actually marry me. Perhaps I haven’t met him, but he will somehow understand my compulsive and incessant storytelling. He’ll be acquiescent to my need to tell the truth — my truths, my strange uncomfortable truths — and he will know that’s part of what makes me…me.

Somebody amazing is going love this blogger. And that someone will be a very lucky guy.

I met and experienced so many fearless bloggers. I met women who wrote about things that actually made me blush — their changing bodies, their battle with raising children. I met women who wrote about touching their husband’s balls. I met folks who shared stories of addictions, transitions, poverty and shame…

I, who write about therapy and poop, thought: I wonder what her spouse thinks of all this?

Somebody somewhere is going to love this blogger. But he’s going to need an epic sense of humor.

As I sat captivated by beautiful and vulnerable prose…I was comforted by the universal need for storytellers to tell their truths, and the way those truths land on foreign ears to provide laughter and healing for folks who thought they were alone.

So today, I pray for the people who love the bloggers — the people who love poets, painters, musicians, novelists and journalists too — I pray for the folks who help the bloggers live the stories they eventually write. You are beautiful and brave and stronger than you know.

Thank you for loving writers who write to love themselves.

Thank you for giving us permission.

And so it is.

#31writenow #nablopomo