Easter Sunday, 2016. Excuse me, Resurrection Sunday, 2016.

The light fixture in my 179-year-old church was swinging. Swinging. It was ornate, beautiful--I always appreciated vintage features, probably because I grew up in a house of antiques--but loose. None of the other fixtures quite swung like that one. I was mesmerized.

"Please fall."

I was sitting under it, and in fact, I angled my posture so that if it did fall, there would be no question, no doubt.

I'd be gone.

"Please fall."

I'd get home after service, and crawl into bed because that's what I do when I want to be comforted--I lay in a ball. I stare into space. I truly veg out.

"This is too much."

Jon comes to check on me. Of course, I say I'm okay. What else was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to tell him how I felt completely alone in my marriage and that the lack of support was weighing on me? Was I supposed to express that I felt that his colleague who our pastor continued to pair him off with (disrespecting our union in the process) was actually better for him?

Hell no. I can't be that vulnerable. I have to be strong.

"I'm fine," I say.

I'm lying.

I begin to sob. My face could easily replace Kim Kardashian-West in the competition for the ugliest cry.

Maybe I should create an emoji...Monimoji maybe?

Anyway, he heard me. I hate that I don't have privacy.

He panics.

"Should I call _________?"

No.

"_______?"

NO.

"_____?"

Hell no. I'm fine. Leave me alone.

I was breaking down. I was in the throes of an emotional breakdown. My husband, of course, didn't listen to me. He called my friend.

She rushed over and talked me through my fears, doubts, and insecurities. It helped. Until the pattern returned.

This spring/summer. It returned. The tightness in my chest. The desire to say that nothing was wrong when I actually wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.

The walls were once again closing in.

Conversations with my mother and a good friend set me on a course-correction. Momma gave me permission to stop offering myself as a sacrificial lamb, and the friend implored me to find my life--my purpose.

This is the path I've been on ever since. Not every day is easy, but I finally realized that I don't actually have to play the "strong Black woman" trope. That, for almost 30 years, I wasn't allowing myself to be fully human.

It was time.

Time to let go of the mental and emotional shackles. Time to begin saying "no" and being okay with my "no."

Time to finally, finally choose Monica.

That's what makes me a strong, Black woman.