I was daydreaming and listening to Destiny’s Child’s song “So Good” from the album The Writing’s on the Wall, the CD that actually gave away the game. I mean, it was on a whole ’nother level. I got this CD before I was ready for it. Had I been ready for this CD when it came out, I would have avoided my baby’s daddy altogether. I mean, my situation is all in and through this CD—truly the commandments of a worthwhile boyfriend, let alone a baby’s daddy—and then these lyrics pour into my ears: “Stay, baby, please stay …” I was moved to tears, but those tears did not fall, only because I did not know why I’d be crying. Beyond being sensitive, I was pained. And then a flashback memory came to me …
He’d come into the living room where Brooklyn and I were watching something on TV. Brooklyn and I were sitting on the floor, legs crossed Indian style as if we were both kindergarteners listening attentively to our teacher. It kind of resembled the scene from Forrest Gump where he’d met his son for the first time at Jenny’s house, head cocked to the side and all. I enjoyed watching kids’ TV shows and educational shows on Nick Jr. with Brooklyn. Lyulle maintained that I enjoyed them more than the kid. He was right. It was nostalgic of my childhood. I could see how cynical I had grown, and I wanted Brooklyn to hold on to his innocence as long as he possibly could.
“What do you want from me?” I spewed.
Standing there, I could see the defeat in him. I turned my head back in the direction of the TV, never to return my gaze upon him.
He left the living room, he left my sight, and he left the house.
Where he’d gone, I knew not, and if he’d returned, I cared not. Maybe he would call me later to check on us, or maybe he would not. I was indifferent. What I was certain of was that I would not be calling his dumb ass. I’d see him in two days or so or whatever.
All I had really wanted to do in my heart was love him, but something was holding that feeling at bay. Something was hindering me from expressing my true feelings. It may have been guilt. In fact, I was quite sure guilt was one of those things holding me hostage. I was ashamed that I had slept with someone.
Even though it was months prior to this time in our relationship, the deed still haunted me. I had enjoyed it. I had craved it and was satisfied. Lyulle knew it too. He’d known I had done something. He could see the death in my eyes.
I had gone through so many changes. I was still carrying baby weight. I was 127 pounds when I had conceived, and my body still held on to an excess twenty pounds. Lyulle said I looked fine, sexy even. I felt fat and sloppy. I had lost all of my hair due to stress. The illustrious locks that had grown while I was pregnant were long gone. There I found myself, fat, bald-headed, not making the money I deserved to make, and in a relationship I was drowning in. There was no way I could win. Having been diagnosed with postpartum and severe depression, I maintained the most positive attitude I could reach, which, internally, was not very positive at all. I felt passive aggressive, cynical, sarcastic, and defeated. I was losing.
Those very streets I drove across only months ago had been highest time in my life, when I was a junior in college at Ohio State University, making home visits with men pursuing careers and medical degrees and becoming engineers. I had ended up with a low-life felon. How? It had been as though all of those things I had lived with before encountering Lyulle had never even existed. I had no more possibilities, and the thought of even one of those events left me feeling beat down. I would not allow myself to think about them and how they made me feel. I had confidence two or three years prior to that, but it had run out on me. My confidence gauge was on E for empty. All that was left was negativity. What had happened to me?
I was angry and utterly disgusted all the time, let down and filled with resentment. I was hurting. I was still holding onto the past hurt. I still had bleeding wounds from early on. I had not completely forgiven Lyulle. Nothing short of contempt did I have for this individual, but I smiled through. I hated him and secretly wished he would drop dead, simultaneously loving him in essence. He was Brooklyn’s dad. He was just a fuck-up and fucked up. Those were the thoughts I had toward him, and so was I though. We were going through so much and with much alcohol. We never did any drugs. We should have, at least weed. I was angry, and so was he. We fought. We argued. We’d kill each other. I would kill him with communication or lack thereof. He’d kill me with violence. Still, it was “we” above all.
I kept busy much of the time. He kept busy as well. We barely spent time together and never did anything fun. We had no money to do anything extra. I was staunch in my unhappiness. I was unfulfilled.
“Jericho, I wait all day for you to come home, and what do you do? You fall asleep. I want to see you. I want to spend time with you.”
“I am here all the time, Lyulle.”
“What? No, you’re not.”
I stared at him.
“And when you are, you just fall asleep. You eat and sleep. You don’t even spend time with Brooklyn.”
On and on went his bitching and complaining, and I didn’t want to fight. I let him finish his rant, and after, I went into the other room with Brooklyn to our queen-sized blow-up mattress, turned on the lamp to rest, and then slept.
The truth was he was right. I was always gone. I was always tired, and I did not care because if he could support us, then I could just be home and just hang out. I always felt I needed and wanted to do more. I could do more but felt held back, and it was his fault. I had no optimism. I was hard to love and hard to live with.
I was lying to myself all day every day that things were falling apart. The only thing actually falling apart at this time was me. I was feeling down in the dumps, and he’d only kick me down farther, as far as I wanted to go. I did not remember saying anything off the chain to Lyulle. I never really wanted to speak with him anyway. It was often what I did say that moved him and the way I had said it. The venom flowed all in and through me. It sustained me assuredly. I kept calm and maintained myself. We maneuvered around each other. The love was gone. We barely even kissed. We fucked, but we never made love. I sucked. I don’t remember us being affectionate at all, really, during this time. Again, I did not care. I wanted to leave. Better yet, I wanted him to leave.
I was ugly and unhappy with myself and with our relationship. I was unhappy with life, and he was attempting to make the most of it in his own way. His anger was displaced as I never knew which person I was going to encounter, and he was communicating with a person who could not see herself. I could do no wrong. I was irritated all the time. I was only happy when Lyulle was happy, which he was not often. Feeling like failures, we were both dying.
It had been six months since the last fight and was as peaceful as possible. It was odd, but at least we were not fighting. I was working. He was doing whatever he was doing.
I was soon to learn of a person named Whatley. While I went to work, this nigga was fucking a bitch. Ladies, can’t we always rely on our sixth-sense intuition to let us know our man is a lying, cheating scoundrel? I resent that part of my psychic abilities as a woman but would not have been able to survive without it.
“What up, Thomas?”
“Hey, bro.”
“What you up to?”
“Shit, chillin’.”
“Yeah, J here. She says what up tho’.”
“Yeah, where Whatley at? Oh. Right there? Cool. Cool.”
There was back-and-forth chattering that I could not make out, though the name did ring a mental bell in me. Who was this mystery person? I would soon find out.