The Weakest Link
I see the hurt, but not its origin.
A generational hurt that started long before you were a twinkle in someone’s eye and passed down like a photo album or bad genetics. Some dark animus spawned under the regime of slavery that refused to die, and has become more resistant with each passing year. Or does this venomous divide predate slavery, back to the days of Eve and Adam and ripe apples and wizened trees? Either way, we the fruit seem none the wiser.
Maybe it’s less complicated.
Maybe it’s that moment when you caught your first love in another lover’s hold. Maybe it was how he danced circles around your basic questions, his stance shifting by degrees with each rendition of his save-face tales. Or maybe his strong suit was not subtlety, compounding the embarrassment of his affairs with direct confrontations between you and the other women. How many times did his sloppy moves make you feel like a fool for love?
It could have been the incessant lies. Those moments he proved incapable of producing whole truths, carefully hidden under tongue-and-cheek lacerations that distanced the intimacy you thought was there. Hidden under off-topic digressions or reverse accusations, any angle to avoid accountability.
Or maybe this blanket spite is systemic. Sewn into the spell of misogynoir that privileges him above you, relegating your existence to the bottom rung, utterly alone. His blindfold tightly wrapped in the presence of your struggle. Blind to your royal bow before his ego. And all of the monstrous egos which came after.
Perhaps it’s more severe. It comes from a place that is unsafe to speak, because it’s the difference between respect and violation, the difference between love and abuse, between life and death. Days have risen and fallen on the fear of leaving your own home, or worse, the fear of staying. Your identity crumbles when a target is placed on your head by the men who are supposed to love you in a country that has never paused to even make the attempt.
It eats.
This habitual suffering eats away smiles and trust and moments of purity. It moves you to perfect the art of belittlement and adopt the toxicity you’ve received. You now imagine your version of the truth as absolute and final, with no room for error nor apologies when you damage. You construct a fortress around yourself that prevents anyone from truly knowing you, sabotaging potential connections or souring loving relationships because of what history has proven.
It’s the narratives you create without solid evidence or discussion, that justify why you can leave on a whim, or stay to manipulate the one who is genuinely beside you. It has me repenting for the misdeeds of past lovers and hypothetical transgressions you pull from the clouds. This callous history teaches you it’s appropriate to destroy my most cherished possessions or even devolve into physical assault as long as it clarifies your point. We slip into a never-ending cycle of who can effectively hurt each other more, which, by the end, leaves us both broken.
I’m held accountable in ways I have not been conditioned to understand. I was wired to destroy my community, my woman, and myself. This programming rewards me with a blink of power. Not because it’s designed to quickly fade, but because I’m molded to lose anything that may blossom. An oasis would wither in my palm. My conditioning defines me. These perceptions of who I believe I am strangle my potential.
How many must suffer in the custody of our own before we care, speak out, and act? How can we learn to care when death and loss have become second nature? What’s the value of a life when you’re programmed to believe your own life has no value? I hate my woman and I’ll murder my brother because I’m terrified of my own worth, because I’m terrified of being seen. Seen as weak. Seen as vulnerable. Seen as inadequate. Seen as nothing. Seen and misunderstood. And condemned from all angles—including the angle within. I am weariness personified. I spread my woes to the world around me, especially to you, my woman.
Now you are finally ready actualize everything you deserve. Establishing goals in education and entrepreneurship that surpass the standards I desire to meet. Networking. Tribebuilding. Trailblazing. Meanwhile I diminish my talents into predictable boxes that benefit my isolated success or our collective demise.
It feels unfair to say that we need each other, but we do. Apart, we’re only half of what we could be. And none of what we have the power to become.
Healing looks like identifying my traumas and the corrosive patterns that arose after. Discovering the root of my afflictions without depending upon or expecting your assistance. Salving the fissure that I opened, until our home is rebuilt on sturdy ground.
Healing looks like not allowing past agonies to deter your acceptance of love and pursuit of happiness. Healing looks like not allowing mutual frustration to define how we treat each other. Healing looks like affirmation, especially in our weakest moments. You matter. You are important. I see you and I love what I see.
Healing looks like tough conversations without judgement. Without hollering, or cursing, or petty incantations.
Healing looks like letting go.
Healing looks like breathing in the warmth of each other’s light. Sharing volatile secrets and diminishing whatever power was forged by years of silence. Healing looks like letting someone love you, empowering them to hurt you, yet still trusting their intentions and actions will align with your well-being.
Healing looks like lifting you up and supporting your dreams, even without having a personal stake in your success.
I imagine our healing may feel like spring showers. Absentminded strolls under ancient treetops. Hand in hand, or arm around shoulder. Fresh air between us, full truth on the tip of our tongues. Bathing in the sun or moonlight, energizing our bodies for the long journey ahead, the journey we shall always need each other for. But for now, all that’s left to be said is I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, even more so for what I’ve failed to do. I’m sorry for starting all of this. But if you’re ready—whenever you’re ready—I’ll be here, ready for us to heal.
