The Walk to Anjolie

Part 1

Be alone for a while. He’ll find you. Did you ask God about him? Don’t be tied down. All these thoughts from my audience rang in my ears as I reflected on how I got here. I iced my neck with a cold pack I stole out the freezer and took the long stroll back to the home that I shared with my bipolar boyfriend. He had one of his ‘moods’ today and my neck was the one to blame for it. As I near the home I remembered how this all began.

I was alone and Carson found me. He needed an Anjolie and I needed to be complete. We met in a coffee shop and his smile overtook the room. Our laughter deafened the chatter around us. So many passed by asking how long we had been married, then were shocked to find that we had only just met. He matched all my requirements and later he said my body looked good in his sheets. One passionate night turned to one morning, then one day turned to six weeks, and I turned into his wife-in-practice.

After he returned from his job as a luxury car dealer and I cleaned off the day of working in a nursing home, we would walk together every evening after dinner under the canopy of Savannah’s famous weeping willow trees covered in Spanish moss. I’d put my long wavy hair up into a bun, pop on a sundress and we’d stroll through the neighborhood, entranced in the magic of night and a love unbeknownst to both of us. Even in light rain he’d hold me close in his football arms under an umbrella and we’d stroll embraced and laughing about the days we had. He’d always kiss my neck and said he loved my Creole skin, and would tell me wherever I was that is where home is.

Then one day I came home to find him shaking and pacing around the room sweating bullets and appearing panicked. I thought someone had died. When I asked what was wrong, he kept muttering ‘My pills, my pills. She hid them, she had to and now she knows’. I asked again and he charged at me, knocking the coffee table out of the way and jumped in my face.

“Where are my pills?! You took them and hid them and now I-I-I’m not myself, Anjolie!”

I shook uncontrollably, to the point of vibration. Terrified, I turned my head and saw that the pill bottle had fallen out of his jacket and was stuck behind the table where we keep our keys. Timidly I turned back to him and said,

“Carson... they’re over there.”

He shoved me and ran over to the bottle, tore off the top and gobbled down two pills. He collapsed in the corner by the door, drenched in sweat and panting; as he caught his breath he said,

“Baby can you bring me some water.”

When I got over my astonishment about what just happened, he explained his battle with bipolar disorder. How he feels like he is a person looking out from a prison behind his eyes while his mind and body do other things. I pitied him. I pledged that we were in this fight together. There is no cure for this, but it can be managed. And I was determined to conquer it with God on our side. My mother told me that I have a gift for healing people and that is why so many who are hurt seem to find me. So, this should come as no surprise.

I approached our home and crept in the door then glanced at the hole he made with my body in the wall, right next to our favorite photo together. He had torn up papers like a mad dog that I had printed for a holistic psychiatrist and mental illness retreats. Their confetti remains were scattered on the floor and I avoided them as I crept into the living room as if stepping on it would awaken another beastly moment.

Suddenly I heard rustling in the kitchen and I froze. ‘Please let this one be short. Oh God, I hope he didn’t hear me,’ I thought. The doctor said he has dysphoric manic episodes and psychosis. And if he is not medicated properly, that’s what makes him violent and irrational. When he is attacking me, he is attacking some things from his past. I must remind him that I am his Anjolie.

Finally, he quick-stepped out of the kitchen with a full dinner plate in his hand and rushed over to me. He handed me the plate with apologetic and sorrowful eyes and said,

“Sweetie, I am so sorry. I am so sorry about this. We’ll get the wall patched up I promise. I didn’t take my meds. I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t like the way they make me feel. I feel controlled and still unbalanced, it’s hard to explain. But we’re in this together. Maybe we can find another way.”

I glared at him with my hazel eyes burning a hole into his pitiful looking face waiting for me to just forgive him like always. I was about to throw the plate in his face, but I saw that he remorsefully looked at the bruise on my neck. I dropped the plate on the table walked into our bedroom, slammed the door shut and locked it. I heard him collapse on the floor and sob.

I laid down on the bed and had to remind myself that I was fighting his illness, escaping my loneliness masked as loyalty, and in a war with his pride.

Home

Clicked my heels three times and got my wish.

A love so unconditional and full of consequence.

A love unlike any other got me playing in the sheets and wearing coverage.

But it’s fine he’s out of his mind, just not himself.

Won’t punish him, it’s a demon we’re fighting, he needs my help.

You’ve been church hurt and butt hurt,

went to therapy and it won’t work.

No one understands or says they’re afraid,

but I keep telling you, you’re something the Lord made.

Keep repeating I’m--we’re doing our best,

the rounds in the ring don’t make me love less.

I brought this on myself by having a heart open

for him being sick and tired and wanting to be admired

Now this has become our burden

We wipe each other’s tears when he has come back to reality

I’m addicted to Cupid, we’re both broken, there’s clarity.

I hear the outside jeers and encouragement, how long will this last?

Response, how would you feel if no one gave you a chance?

Yet, I’m pirouetting on the edges of insanity and loneliness.

Gotta stand up to this monster and demand control of this.

You know you could be better

But you submit to your ego and it’s heavy

When you’re good I am your sweet treasure

And in your alternate, I’m not your woman,

I’m your fixer.

But he doesn’t want to be fixed, healed and clear.

He wants me to accept it and be a reason to endear.

Purify this for us almighty one

I am just your daughter trying to love your son

This is far beyond my reach

The monster within him is greater than the love in me.

Give him peace as I pack my things to depart.

This whole thing was an enigma from the start.

I can’t face the horror of being alone

When I have him here, the better part of my soul

There is nothing here for me to forgive

He is a victim of something puppeteering him

Clear the clutter, we will get through

This is home, I love you.

Part 2

I stayed. He finally started to go to holistic doctors and a psychiatrist, and we went to couple’s therapy. As he continued to get re-balanced, our therapist told us to build a house out of a box. We were to write down our insecurities and problems, discuss them to the point of resolution, then put them in the ‘house’. I wrote about my insecurities about myself and being alone. He wrote his whole truth, that I held close and had to forgive. After six months of this the house was full and our sessions had ended. The therapist said now that you’ve filled this old house, burn it down and rebuild your relationship again in love and care.

We took the box to the beach, lit it on fire, drank and danced around the bonfire made from our problems. He kissed and thanked me profusely for standing by him until he was healed. Then he laughed jubilantly and said,

“Light brights get it right. If you were really Black you would’ve left my ass a long time ago. But I knew you’d stick it out. That’s how you’re made.”

We burned the house down to heal us and start anew. We burned the house down because we accepted each other and said I love you. We burned the house down and it revealed your true intentions. We burned the house down and now I only see you loved me because I’m light skinned.

Light Skinned

Proud light bright, redbone, high yellow, brighter than a paper bag.

I’m plastic, but I’m classic, standard beauty for brown.

Even though I got some melanin I am doubly sinned.

Too light to be colored said my brutha, and too dark to be equal.

Where do I fit? I hate this shit, I am in tune with my roots too.

If I dare to cry, raise my voice, or ‘talk white’

I’m reminded by my kin, of my sin,

Bitch stop acting so light-skinned!

I thought we were in this together.

But I’m not a queen, I’m a fetish.

Why do you think I have privilege?

This is a curse passed down generations,

equivocation of self-love, you don’t love me you hate yourself.

Light or dark we get hung anyway, ring a bell?

This concept has morphed into a mentality

and we think it’s reality and it was just a spell,

cast to divide us, it doesn’t thrive us, but it’s so powerful

that it will survive us.

Can’t be mad this is what you understand,

but you see it goes deeper than diluted melanin.

There are so many weak by design, by no fault of mine

They can’t withstand the pressure of life so they cry,

not for help but to whine, the tantrum will diffuse give it time.

Then they tote I’m special, elite, such a catch,

baby you ain’t even worth being thrown.

Light-skinned folk, no substance can’t trust ‘em.

Won’t lie there were days I wanted to take my life

I wasn’t appreciated for what was inside.

Yet you think it’s a prize and tell me not to cry

I wish I could be pumped more full of melanin

so I too would be claimed as part of my great people.

But many submitted to the evil of ignorance

I was labeled unworthy before my kin gave me a chance.

Light-skinned folk, no substance can’t trust ‘em.

Now it goes even deeper than that, irrational fears

because a presence is a threat to those who think they’re superior.

But if the colored folk are so inferior then why is it a threat

to walk, breath, sell lemonade, or live life and celebrate?

I digress…

Light-skinned folk, no substance can’t trust ‘em.

Let’s bring it home cards on the table

I am willing to work past your ignorance if you’re able

to see that this mentality is self-imposed destruction.

But you say you’re accustomed, so now it’s a custom

to continue this ignorance and unyielding nonsense.

Let me tell your ass about your light-skinned conscious.

Running through lovers, hurting them to heal yourself.

Treating anyone as inferior to hoist your faux self-worth.

Giving life to a child just to throw them away, they’re inconvenient.

Dragging out this love so you can say I got a light bright, have you seen her.

Light-skinned folk no substance can’t trust ‘em.

The beauty is plastic, all melanin is classic, if you’re worthy get you one.

It’s much deeper than diluted melanin,

it’s a concept turned mindset turned generational sin.

Part 3

I scolded Carson all the way home. I yelled and screamed about his indiscretions and ignorance as I packed everything that mattered to me, called an Uber and got the hell out of the house. He screamed for me, got on his knees, and begged for me to come back as the car kept driving down the street. He did everything he could to contact me, except write my name in the sky. Over the next few months, the calls faded away and I got word that he was with another light-bright, singing the same sad song about his illness and telling the victim story about how the love of his life left him because of it. She can have that tea, it’s none of my business.

The bitterness I felt for being played again weighed on me. I started acting like an unloved man, being boastful and going on rage tangents so no one could see my insecurities and pain. One day over mimosas with my ‘friends,’ I was chided for sticking around for so long then teased. They knew what I had endured, including the cheating, the child, the mental illness, and abuse. Yet they all said, “Stop acting light-skinned, we women endure.” Can’t win.

As far as I was concerned each of those women was an accomplice to my pain for their entertainment. They wanted me to become like them, single and bitter. Singlehood does not constitute bitterness. Bitterness is a result of not healing and not loving yourself whilst using your pain as a platform for your worst self to be prominent. When I realized their motives, I felt hopeless. Friendships, family, love all feed into who we become, what our soul is made of.

One day my father said to me, “All that rage won’t feed your soul baby girl. Seek your peace for your power and then you won’t feel out of place.”

Breaking In

A heart beating doesn’t mean you’re living

You got life, but the universe ain’t giving,

a clear sign of chance, romance, or breakthrough,

but I must trust the most high for my truth.

I’m a woman a walking womb giving birth

to nations, revelations, absolutions, and worth

for so many and now I have to do it for myself.

It’s time to reap after paying a lot of debts in hell.

This body is a house, but my soul makes it a home

I know this, so I shouldn’t feel like I’m alone.

Always being someone’s soldier and yet

having to fight all of my wars alone.

Twirl on them haters like it's a trend,

girlfriend let me break it down for you again.

You get one life and many chapters

gonna have to retire certain characters.

What has bitterness done for you?

You’re weak and burying your truth.

God understands the bitter but don’t like the ugly.

You’ll hand deliver karma, and it won’t be funny.

Smoke will clear from the revenge had

and your bitterness will be purposeless, how sad.

Your home will be tarnished and fit for the wretched

You’ll equal your enemy’s evil but your spirit will be unrested.

We all want and deserve a new beginning.

Whether it’s finding yourself or crossing borders

but most won’t give the chance to be winning

Run for it, fight for it, create a new world order.

Pain is such a visceral teacher

I hate it, I love it, glad that I knew ya

Sometimes there is a point to it all

most times it’s just to make you stronger.

Get along now, move your feet

you’ve got a lot of time to keep

wondering, but why not live?

Life and love is such a gift.

The purpose of your pain was to heal you baby

Grow from broken, this is a new foundation

Kick the door down and make this your home

Be thankful, you broke in your new soul.

While I walked through the sun-kissed tree line of Wormsloe and the last touches of light danced on my face, I felt free. No, I wasn’t married. No, I didn’t look for or have any romance. And no, I don’t feel alone, I got me. All those things that I thought I needed were dead weight to the growth that needed to happen.

Love is many things, but most importantly it is a second chance to revitalize your soul. Anjolie is finally home.