"Openly Broken" My Story Part 1

Openly Broken

I am a black woman.

I am strong.

Regal.

Always confident.

It took me almost thirty minutes to find the place.  I almost gave up a dozen or so times. The voice in my mind kept telling me to just turn around.  This was a waste of time. But I kept moving forward. When I arrived I sat in the parking lot and cried.  It was such a beautiful day. I could be doing almost anything else but this. I could be almost anywhere else but here.  But that was the problem. Lately I couldn’t do anything. The effort it took to pull the covers off of me in the morning was exhausting.  When the sun peaked through my curtains in the morning I wanted the day to be over. But I remember the day when a new day meant a new beginning.  But things had changed. No, I needed this. I needed to be here.  I had tried everything else, hadn’t I?

I am a black woman.

I am strong.

I have soft hard-working hands that can do almost anything.

I have a sharp mind.

I was over an hour early.  I don’t know why but I felt like I needed time to prepare myself.  I needed to prepare to finally be honest.  I had to prepare myself not to smile and appear to be happy.  I realized that I’d had my whole life to practice how to smile when I wanted to cry, laugh when I wanted to scream, and just cover up my true feelings.  I realized that the face I showed the world and even myself was a mask.  I cried harder.  Heaving sobs escaped my mouth and my body shook.  

I am a black women.

I am strong.

I am strong with or without.

I look my strongest when I am alone.

A grey car pulled in and a casual dressed woman got out of the car.  She walked casually and confidently to an office door labeled one with something hanging from a hook that couldn’t quite see from where I was parked.  I was instantly jealous.  She probably didn’t have a care in the world.  She woke every morning to her perfect house, husband and kids and drove leisurely to her perfect job.  Her biggest concern was probably traffic and if the weather would ruin little Timmy’s softball game on Saturday.  What could she do for me?

I am a black woman.

I am strong.

But I am alone.

I waited for a few minutes after she had went in to finally wipe the remaining tears off of my face.  I checked my hair and make-up in the mirror. I sprayed on few pumps of my perfume, slipped out of my flats into my heels and got out of the car.  The walk to her office from where I was parked seemed so long. My feet felt very heavy and every step took so much effort. I had to think about every step.  I ignored the shouts in my head to retreat. By the time I reached to door I had sweated through my favorite suit blouse combo. I knocked because I didn’t know rather I could just enter.  I didn’t hear anything but I waited. A few moments later the door opened and I was greeted with the warmest smile and sincerest eyes.

When she walked me into her office I followed her in to a smaller office where she allowed me to choose where I would be most comfortable to sit.  She sat directly across from me.  I realized that the whole entire room was set up that way.  No matter where I sat she would always be directly in front of me.

I was glad the place had a homey feel.  There were pictures on the wall that represented something from just about every religion or culture.  I guess she wanted whoever came here to feel comfortable and represented. The array of religious items made me more uncomfortable because it told me nothing about her.

I am a black woman.

I am strong.

Always knowing what to say.

I have an understanding ear.

I was glad she was a she.  I was glad she was white. I don’t think I could have sat before a black woman preparing myself to tell her how weak I am.  How I’m not strong enough these days to keep it together. A white woman would be more understanding to this. I thought. A moment or two after I had sat a rush of emotion engulfed me.  How did I get here? Why am I here? I don’t belong here. My palms began to sweat.  I had to take several deep breaths.

We sat staring at each other for a moment or two too long for my taste.  She smiling. Me fighting the urge not to smile back as to not appear to be okay and the urge to burst into tears all at the same time.  It was like going to the doctor’s office after feeling sick for days only to get there and feel better and have to sort of pretend to be sicker than you actually feel at the moment.  Or taking your car to the mechanic only for your car to suddenly stop making the noise it had been making for over a month. It drives you kind of crazy.

All of a sudden I felt ridiculous.  I felt better. Like talking about me was a waste of time.  Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe I just needed to pray harder, fast longer, or read more of my Bible.  This was just a test. I should make more of an effort to be in church on time.  Stay for all three services instead of two.  Make it to early Morning Prayer. Maybe I was listening to too much non-gospel music.

“So, how are you feeling today,” she calmly asked slowly enunciating and emphasizing each word.

My eyes immediately filled with tears.  I hate it when people ask me questions like that.  It made me realize that even on my happiest day there is always something wrong.  Some unspoken, unrealized sadness that sits in the corner of my mind that I have chosen (for that day) to not give my full attention too.  

This at least allows me a temporary relief or was it that finally someone had asked me, the strong, independent, I can do it all by myself I don’t need anyone’s help, as long as I got King Jesus, am I okay and how am I feeling.

 I figured that people don’t usually ask that question unless they had a motive or angle or just nosy. My daddy (God rest his soul) always told me, “no one is going to give you anything for free, everything comes with a price.” Rarely had I found this not to be true.  But this was one of those rare moments. Now all I had to do was find the strength to finally be honest. This simple question, I realized had been answered falsely for so long that it was very confusing.

“Well actually all of a sudden I feel okay,” I said jokingly.  We both smiled. “But, uh lately,” I swallowed hard. “I haven’t quite felt myself.” My first of many tears began to fall uncontrollably.  Here I was with so much to say but nothing to say all at the same time. “I’ve been sad lately,” was all I could muster.  

I am a black woman.

I am strong.

I have large warm open outstretched arms ready to hold you.

I have large breasts soft as pillows ready for you to lie your heavy head upon.

A picture in my mind formed of me in my bed still in my pajamas in the middle of the day.  That picture turned into a movie. A movie I replayed over and over again. A movie of me in bed day after day, not wanting and not having the strength to even bathe.  I went days without getting out of bed for anything unless I had to.

My kids would knock on the door come in and climb into bed with me.  They would lie there heads on my chest and ask me what’s wrong. I would whisper a horsed Mommy doesn’t feel well.  It was true. I didn’t know what was wrong. I just knew I didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel like myself. Thoughts exhausted me.  Like the thought of getting up and going to the restroom, or the thought of eating. All of those simple things took so much effort and energy that I just didn’t have.  

“I feel tired all the time.  I don’t want to get out of bed.  I guess I just feel alone,” I hadn’t realized that my voice had trailed off until she cleared her throat to speak again. “Tell me about what’s going on in your life right now,” she said.

I am a black woman.

I am strong.

I have big beautiful lips that spread into a smile as I pour my wisdom and soft kind words into your life.

I smirked because there was a time when I loved to tell people about my life.  I was, in my opinion, always doing or planning to do something exciting. For the past 4 years I had been trying very hard to receive my bachelor’s degree.  I worked very hard. I had a lot to prove to a lot of people including myself. I needed to show them that I was not a failure and that I could finish something I started.  But here I was one semester from finishing and I had run out of financial aid and hope. At this point I was very exhausted of school and really did want to quit but then that would prove everyone right.  I was a failure.

TO BE CONTINUED...