“John (sic) is better off without you.”

Two weeks ago, my estranged cousin used these words during an argument to hurt me.

And I’m not going to lie, it hurt. “He doesn’t know,” I thought. “He doesn’t know about the neglect, the emotional and financial abuse. He doesn’t get it.” OR (and this is more of an issue) “He gets it, but thinks that it’s what a husband is supposed to be.

Neither of our fathers were terrific examples.

This piece, while his statement was the impetus for my train of thought, is not about him or our argument. It is about me and my love of self. If you came for family drama, don’t hit the “x”, instead stay, and you may learn something.

As I sat with what that cousin said to me, I realized, “Yeah, Jon may be better off without me, but you know what? I’m much better off without him.”

I’ve never been healthier (financially, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, physically), or more confident of my purpose and driven.

How and ever…

You know when I felt this before?

This time last year.

I backslid, y’all.

I was living free, stumbling around certainly, but becoming Monica unapologetically. I imagine myself as a fawn learning to use its legs for the first time—clumsy and cute.

Then again, I’m also vain.

Last year, I was rediscovering me. I was also giving myself permission to be me. And, almost on queue, those who knew me when lost their minds.

“Why is she cursing so much?”

“What is this sexuality?” *clutch the pearls*

“Why is she so blunt? She was taught better than this.”

Not knowing that this has always been me. The me I’ve felt I needed to hide behind to appease everyone else.

Which is what made it so easy to backslide.

I grew up as a people pleaser. A Black, girl child ain’t safe in a society that expects she is also eternally polite. *stepping on my soapbox* I could only be me in the corners of my bedroom, because I always felt I had to be someone for everyone else. bell hooks explains this so well in “Talking Back.” If you have time, please read the entire book. Us teaching our daughters to be polite and polished, prim and proper, telling them that “good girls” don’t speak, and especially not out of turn, is incredibly crippling. So are the comparisons. I cannot tell you how I felt I had to live up to peers in order to be accepted. Seldom are we encouraged to truly be ourselves—whatever definition that is.

Family tip: telling your child, “I bet such and such doesn’t do x, y, or z” is not the way to encourage the child in your life. It demoralizes them. Many never recover.

So that’s why when y’all were sending those “Are you okay sis?” messages last fall, I felt more offended than loved.

Because I was truly fine. Was I going through some things? Yes, but I’m human and entitled to every feeling. Also, those situations were necessary and were helping me become Monica. Ask the right questions. A couple of friends did.

But I fell into what was comfortable, and let the words of others tell me what I was feeling.
No, I didn’t have “crazy eyes” when I was counting down to the new year or whilst singing “MacArthur’s Park.” Seriously?

I. Let. Others. Tell. Me. How. I. Felt.

Ain’t that about a bitch?

Okay, I’ll accept some responsibility here. I mean, I am the same woman who, when she was asked what her “post secret” would be, said, “No two people know the same person.” At the time however, I didn’t have the wherewithal to flesh out what that meant and why I felt I needed to hide--why I needed to wear the mask.

You know the writer’s block that I’ve been struggling with for roughly 9 months? Well, it began with a conversation when another party decided I should be more sensitive to how others feel. To water down and censor, my story—to appease others. That memory was highlighted recently as I explained to my aunt what my purpose is. I am supposed to tell my story. No matter how hard it may be. Perfection is not reality. I am not perfect. My family is not perfect, nor are my friends. None of us are.

My train continued—

That’s your problem. That’s where you went wrong. You stopped focusing on Monica, and starting focusing on others.

You went back to caring about the opinion of others.

When I say I’m trying not to care about what others say, I don’t mean that selfishly. I mean that I won’t let the opinions of others overshadow what I know to be true.

Those conversations with my cousin and my aunt, his mother—

Those conversations reminded me to be true to Monica.
My mother hung out with Monica this weekend. And we got along famously. We even shared a non-alcohol induced, head-back-guttural laugh at how our lives have intersected.

I’m living free. I’m being me. And I love me. I’m not going back. If you’ve met Monica in the last year, you know HER. The choice to rock with her is yours.

I finally understand that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. That understanding is so freeing. As many young, relatively successful, Black women are asked, “What advice would you give to your younger self?” The sooner you learn to be okay with Monica, despite others, the freer you’ll feel.”

Perhaps this is why I like Beyonce more in her later years—she’s left the controlling compound.

I have no other way to end this, because I don’t feel it has a true ending, so I’ll just say,

-Fin-

And for those who think I need “appropriate counseling” (appropriate meaning the Lord), this is what my Bible plan, “Living Free” said: “Have you noticed how we tend to be drawn to people who fully live from their freedom? Life is more than knowing we have a Savior. It is also living out our salvation.” Maybe now I’ll have some credence.

Wait….