“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you before…”

That got to me. I really exist to hide, I feel. But I also recognize that most of my life has been destined to not be seen. I ain’t worth a stare, worth a look. Worth any eye glance of substance. Big girl problems begets big girl solutions. But what do you do when you’ve been spotted as something to have eyes lingered on for what feels like the longest seconds of time? You shrink. Ain’t no way you’re looking at me, ain’t no way. There must be something off about me. Is something out of place? It’s my hair, my shoes, something. You can barely see my face as it is.

We caught eyes for a second. It wasn’t electric but it felt essential that gave him some energy in the return. Thank God he couldn’t see my smile under my mask. I was cracking one real heavy. I see you… He was a slim menace with wild knotted hair tamed by a taper. Glasses. Those four-eyed monsters sway me. Levi 511s and a SB Dunks. Those skater dunks with the fat tongue. We only met eyes because I happened to look over his way. It was clear that the universe, his and mine, conspired to make this moment happen.

I often wonder what it is. I often wonder, I do. I’m still the same girl who felt like she caught heaven and hell from all types in her early twenties. I’m still her. Yet, I’m not. I’m a woman now with bruises, scares, demarcations caused by lust, love and life choices. Desire went both ways when I tried to ruin my life, full-speed. I chased highs unimaginable at that point, wanting to get away whatever was labeled as “here.” It cost me a lot. Dating is one of those things I lost in that fire.

So I break the stare quickly. I can’t entertain a morsel of the shit I get on a daily basis from the men who tried to be a part of my life. Transition my pupils to an Instagram timeline barely updated, flipping through stories already seen. I still see him. Bronze skin like Jesus, a beard lined up in a way that the Messiah would have once he comes back. That’s when the smile broke through on both our parts. I think he knew I messed up. I knew I did. He strides past me, my eyes still everywhere else but where he stood. He adjusts his walk to pick up pace as I check out his kick game. Hella legit, I thought. The 2006 version of me would be weak in the knees; my NikeTalk prince came to save me from one hell of a college choice that to this day still doesn’t make any sense.

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On August 3rd, the NFL decided to appeal the six-game suspension recommended by Judge Sue L. Robinson, the independent hearing officer chosen by the league and NFL Players’ Association (NFLPA) to render a decision on Watson’s violation of the league’s personal conduct policy. Reports indicate that league commissioner Roger Goodell, or a designee of his choosing per the league’s own Collective Bargaining Agreement with the NFLPA,  will levy the same punishment lobbied for by the league during its disciplinary hearing against Watson:  an indefinite suspension without pay plus fines. The NFLPA is allowed by that same agreement to file a lawsuit in Federal court to contest that decision. They could also file a temporary restraining order, allowing for Watson to play football as the proceedings go forward. 

“We know Deshaun [Watson] is remorseful that this situation has caused much heartache to many…”  Those are the words of Jimmy and Dee Haslem, the owners of the Cleveland Browns, following the release of the disciplinary ruling by Judge Robinson. The Browns have stood behind Watson by giving him a contract worth five-years and $230 million plus a large signing bonus with a first-year designated to soften the blow of loss wages due to his suspension. 

The Haslems went on to say that Deshaun “will continue the work needed to show who he is on and off the field, and we will continue to support him.”

Throughout this entire ordeal, Watson maintains his innocence. In the two instances that he’s spoken publicly about the civil lawsuits and league investigation, he continues to assert that he hasn’t done anything wrong and that no harm and disrespect were levied onto the women suing him for sexual assault and emotional distress. This is in clear contrast to the Haslems’ stated belief that he’s remorseful and willing to “do the work” necessary to rehabilitate his image.  

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It opens up with the story of Phyllis Hyman’s last days. She told her friends and family that she was set to rid herself from the world. She wanted them to know so it wouldn’t be a surprise. The mercy part of a mercy killing, perhaps. She drugged herself into death. I think about that method often. Almost done it before. I don’t have access to any other way that wouldn’t be violent. I do but I don’t want to feel my life seep from my body. That’s too much. 

I quit my job this week because I think I won’t be here on Earth for the next one. At least those are the thoughts that permeate my mind. On the surface, it’s because I woke up and thought “this isn’t what I wanted to do.” I’ve been on this ride more than one, the bumps and hills of retail are the same everywhere. You’re a fool if you think that “this time” will be different. It never is. I remember my Auntie telling me that I needed to think about my future. That I shouldn’t be working until I’m 70, that I should think about savings. I should be in a home or my own place at this point. I’m turning 35 in about a month. I haven’t been an adult in my mind for quite some time. I think about the first few years of living here. I felt like such a teenager. I regressed a lot. The person I was before my father went to see heaven was on her way, it seemed. Nothing got in her way. She gave a damn about a future with her in it.

Death can fuck you up in ways that you ain’t really ready for. I think the trauma of it all triggered mental illnesses and suppressed thoughts that have been embedded within me for years. Kinda like my Mom. My Dad said she was fine until I was born, my birth setting off her schizophrenia. I blamed my existence for her demise. I would read all of these studies and stories about how schizophrenia easily passes from mother to daughter. Maybe all of what I feel is on-set. She was 33 when she had me. We’re right on-time. 

I went to church for the first time in eight months. This relationship I have with God is weird to me. I don’t often get it. I wonder if my passion for all things Creator was a mask to hide my fear ot what it would be like if I didn’t have someone keeping me out of harm’s way. I don’t really have that now. My Mom doesn’t live near me. My Dad’s body is crawling with maggots. My mother’s side of the family has their hands tied with my brother. My Dad’s side of the family doesn’t know how to communicate. I’m really by myself. Chosen families are cool until they choose their real families. I can never be mad at that. Blood is thick. 

I’m writing this in a dark room, my window is barely the width of a 2×4 plank of wood. I live in the basement unit of a house. I don’t get natural light that often. When I was out of work the first time, I slept during the day. Easier to do when natural light ain’t here to keep you upright. Friends don’t visit that often. I’m here by myself for the most part. My roommates don’t really know me. It’s by design. I can’t stand to be bothered. I almost don’t want people to get close to me. I don’t want them to care too much. 

You see the contradiction in all of this. I don’t want people to be witnesses to my weaknesses. I don’t want them to know that I’m not okay. It isn’t their business. I want them to leave the fuck alone. If I die in this room, it would take the smell of rotting flesh and missing rent to notice that I’m gone. I rather people find me that way anyway. Going out as a reminder of what it looks like when you don’t check in on people, or call, or text or knock on a door. Just so they can be better humans to others. A martyr for missed calls, texts and connections. Staining on consciousness. 

I can publish this and not cause a blip. My work doesn’t resonate enough. I’ve said enough to alarm most. I’m someone who doesn’t get mad when others don’t care. Life is hard enough. I can’t guilt anyone into feeling things they never set to feel in the first place. That’s part of my vice: eliminating concern. I don’t want to you care. That seems super selfish, thinking that I actually matter enough to tell you to not care. The mind is a trickster in that way. 

“An Ode To Phyllis…” remains unedited since two weeks ago. When I finish it is when you’ll know to be prepared. 

Call me pretty. Please? 

Say something to me. Let me know that I am the most beautiful girl in the world. After all this work and care, say something. Anything. Let me know that it was all worth it. Pay me for my work, damn. 

Affirmation shouldn’t have to come from you. Affirmation shouldn’t have to come from a penis-carrying vessel like you. But I want it and I can’t fight it and it pains me to sit here at the brink of tears because I think that you don’t see me. 

You really don’t see, huh? I know by the time you gift me and the physical touch you withhold at my behest that you do see me. I do matter to you. I am special. I am important. I am worth four hours and thirty-eight minutes of your day. That’s how long we parlayed on the phone. On some high school shit. Minutes of breathing into each other’s ear because being present in the moment was worth more than the absence of sound. You had to be here with me, I had to be there with you. 

But that’s not how today feels. Today, I wanted words. I wanted coos. I wanted resistance toward taking things to a more heart wrenching level because we swore we wouldn’t do such a thing. I gave you an opportunity to say something to me about the work that kept me off the phone with you earlier in the day. Five hours of standing in front of a mirror, old school jams blasting, as I parted and gelled and twisted my hair. Twenty-two inches of premium yaki with hopes of playfully swing these coils in your face. 

You asked me about my day. I told you about my impromptu hair appointment. Images of my best work have been on the internet for hours. I know you peeped. But then that monster silence creeped in and I slouched deeper into my bed, covered in disappointment. I got off the phone to give myself the freedom to cry and lament in silence as to why I’m even doing this again. 

This again thing with you and I is par for the course. Here we go again, here this thing goes again. He’s back in my life again. I let you back in my life again. You violate me again. I get angry again. I create distance again. I miss you again. You double-tap and like and retweet to show me that you miss me again. I cave to the ideas of what I thought our relationship could be again. Rinse and repeat. Again. 

Again I see here angry that you don’t see me. Why do I care so much about being seen by you? Why do I care about you not calling me pretty? 

I know I’m pretty. Why on Earth am I crying because I didn’t hear it from you?