The Four Stages of Grief Or Finding Your Way To Que Sera Sera

Stage 1: Denial:

You don’t care. Or so you say. Bbm profile? Deleted. Facebook page? Gone. He is dead to you-digitally, at least. You rant about the idiot to your friends and they tell you they don’t know what you saw in him in the first place. With high heels on your feet and your fatal drink in your hand, you toast to independence and echo the faithful “good riddance to bad rubbish.” Even the DJ must have gotten the memo because he throws Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ into his mix. This is a sign: You don’t need that fool/ punk/ player/ douche-bag. Moving on.

Stage 2: The Undoing:

Friday night’s debauchery turns Saturday morning’s grief. It hits you. You miss having him hold you. You miss having someone to tell the minute details of your life. You wonder what’s wrong with you. What did you do wrong? You ask how you have allowed a man make you feel this powerless. You cry enough rivers to satisfy Justin Timberlake. You fall apart on the hard wood floor of your apartment. Your mirror and make-up brush are witnesses to your swollen eyes and bruised spirit. No one can see you this way: One. Hot. Mess. You’re the one who usually has ish together. No, this grief is between you, your God, and your chocolate bar.

Stage 3: The Peace & Pieces:

You are fighting urges to call him. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe you’re just not patient enough. This is like kicking a bad habit complete with the shakes. But you turn off your phone, clasp your hands in prayer, and Amen your way to temporary sanity. You write a list of every bitch ass move he made. You read enough feminist poems and self-help books to make you an expert: PhD in Getting Over Jerks And Looking Fabulous While Doing It. You become the accidental work-a-holic. That research paper gets done. The closet finally gets organized-by color and fabric. And when all else fails, you go to bed and hope that your heart will feel better in the morning.

Stage 4: The Letting Go:

You’ve forgiven his flaws and accepted your own. You’ve remembered the beauty of Insha Allah. This is the letting go and letting God part. You’ve returned to your first love and free therapy: writing. You’ve found the silver lining: he at least inspired good poetry. Suddenly, a familiar song: one that takes you to your childhood and happy times. You remember the sunshine that existed before him. You remember the sunshine that will exist after him. You notice the hottie across the room staring at you. You acknowledge him and continue to type furiously. Today it’s just about you, your latte, and one exquisite moment of epiphany.

Lessons Learned From Almost Loving You

When I met you, I thought you were the one. I thought our name had been carved in sun. I craved the music of your voice, the symphony of our hands intertwined. You and me would become this we…this powerful force of poetry, politics, music, light and laughter.

There was a sweetness in this…in us. Your good morning’s fueled 10,000 summers. Your goodnights lulled me to a sleep drunk with calm and easy. Tomorrows spent with you couldn’t come sooner… today’s spent with you were too short. You spoke of happily ever after’s. I almost believed you. I almost loved you.

But there were the subtle changes…the subtle ways you showed me who you are, but I refused to believe you. The showing up late. The not showing up at all. The excuses. I don’t know which excuses were worse--the ones you gave or the ones I made. The blatant disregard for my time, and person. But I wanted to believe the best about you-even when warned not too. They told me you were all charm no substance. But, I held on to this thing between us because I believed in our beauty and possibility. I believed in you…And because, hey- bad boy’s have their appeal.

I liked you assiduously for two months and 3 days. Head spinning/spaced out/face grinning kind of like. But here’s the suicide haiku to whatever existed between us:

The burden of we/
I can no longer carry/
On the back of me

Ashe. I can no longer swallow your indifference-or my pride. Allow me to paraphrase the colored girls who moved towards their own rainbows:

My love is too whole
Too complex
Too pure
Too Paris magic
Too 1999
Too Sade soulful
Lauryn Hill educated
Boys II Men passionate
To be thrown back in my face.

So take your life back, minus me, and what that equals=a loss. Take my forgiveness...unsolicited, yes..but given nonetheless.

And I am free…