I live with my baby mama but I swear on my kids we ain’t f@cking – #Ninja2 | #LetItPurge #PurgeItThursday #DiggingInTheBag | @phettehollins #DITB

ditbmain

Purge

1. to rid of whatever is impure or undesirable; cleanse; purify.

2. to rid, clear, or free (usually followed by of or from). ~Dictionary.com

Stories connect & heal us. Sometimes we’re stuck and don’t even know it. It becomes a new normal. Second nature. But if you find that you keep ending up in situations that have you questioning who you are as a person, go against your morals/values, or, to put it plainly, just don’t make you feel good about yourself, then it’s time to get that shovel, and dig deep (within).

When we repeat patterns, we’re stuck. There are lessons to learn from these experiences. If we don’t get them, they will keep showing up until we do…for however long it takes. Took me almost 20 years.

We teach people how to treat us

Initially, I was going to do this –> #DiggingInTheBag <–series in chronological order, but I changed my mind. It didn’t feel organic. I’m into things happening naturally, flowingly. 🙂 (If you don’t know, I make up words. It’s better this way) If it don’t fit, don’t force it. So, however the experiences come to me is how I will convey them.

Congratulations, you are officially a side chick

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There was no paperwork signed inducting me into this new position. I acquiesced. I accepted this job, oblivious of its opening. By the time I peeped my new job duties and questioned them, I was told to read the fine print of the figurative contract and refer to where it states “and other duties as assigned.” Nobody reads that shit. Well, I didn’t.

Let the patterns begin

It fascinates me that I can playback a particular event and see it totally different than I did before. That’s because I have –> new eyes <– and over time as we mature, we see things for how they are…and not how we want them to be.

When we gon’ get to the good part

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Me @21 yrs young. Rocking the creamy crack do, Mary J. Blige honey blonde, asymetric cut w/my spring jacket from Winkleman’s. Couldn’t tell me nada.

The guy in the pic is #Ninja2 (in my attempt to keep folks anonymous, I’ve given everyone an identifier so that I can keep track). Ok, so, this is #Ninja2.

We were teenagers in love. I was his first. He wasn’t mine’s, though. He’s one year older than me, but 2 grades ahead (had them smarts). I met him in the Spring of ’89. He was cute & little, but sexy like Big Daddy Kane.

bigdaddykane
Yup. He looked like this.

We hung out at each other’s houses. Went to Cedar Point. Met each other’s moms. This was for sure for sure gonna last…until he kicked me to the curb my first week of high school. Guess he couldn’t dare be seen with a freshman. 😦

That was it. We were done and didn’t talk for a few years. Buster.

The “Contract”

Jump ahead to 1996. I’m 21; he’s 22. We saw each other. We’re geeked up. We reminisced. We promised to stay in touch.

We kept in touch. We linked up. We screwed.

We linked up. We screwed. Repeat.

We linked up. We screwed. We went to the movies. Repeat.

We linked up. We screwed. We went to the movies. We went to concerts. Repeat. As a matter of fact, in the above pic of us we’re at a concert. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Few weeks went by and I noticed he would come to my place, but I couldn’t go to his.

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That’s when I was hit with the “I live with my baby mama but we don’t f@ck no mo.” Not only were they NOT having sex, but they also “sleep in different rooms.” 

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Silly Mortal

I’m the type that believe what people say until it’s proven otherwise. If you tell me you’re going to call me, I believe you. If you tell me you’re sleeping in another room and are in the process of getting your own crib, I believe you. If 6 months has passed and you’re singing the same song on repeat, theeeeennnnnnnnn it’s a prollem.

According to my journal entries, I felt early on something wasn’t right, which, I’m glad I revisited what I wrote because my recollection was a wee bit different (we all know that memory alone cannot be trusted, right? That’s why we need RECEIPTS, which in this case is JOURNALS). I forced myself to believe that he was being truthful. I would page him and he wouldn’t respond for days. *sidebar: How many of y’all remember beepers doe? I had a cute purple one.

$10 OBO Purple Pager
Kinda like this one

He would called at 10pm/11pm almost every night, not giving 2 damns about me having to work in the a.m. When we did link up, he stayed out all night, sometimes not going home until midday the next day. So, in my young, naive mind, ain’t no way he had a woman who would tolerate that. I was wrong.

Shredding the Contract

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6 months later. Wash. Rinse.

There was this spot that everybody in the world (well, in Romulus 🙂 ) went to every Thursday night called The Ultimate Sports Bar.

We met up as usual. But on this night, I declined for us to “hook up” afterwards. I thought that would tip him off that something was up, but it didn’t.

We went out separate ways. Instead of going to sleep when I got home at almost 3 am, I sat by the phone, waiting for it to ring…because I knew it was going to ring. He never called after the club for two reasons: #1 Often times we were together, and #2 When we weren’t, he went home to her. He definitely wasn’t going to call then.

My nerves were shot. I kept checking to make sure my phone was plugged in, and that the ringer was on. I obsessed like that for an hour…then the phone rang.

He was cussing me out before I got the phone to my ear. The time I spent with him in my youth and over the past 6 months, not once had I ever heard him curse. But that night, he used them all, and also spewed “Bitch, I’ll kill yo hoe ass.” That’s when I knew it was really real.

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I…WAS…CRUSHED.

Yes, I expected him to be a little mad, but not big mad. Not cuss me out & call me out my name. Noooo, not that.

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A couple of months prior, he called me from his house phone but forgot to press star 67. For those of you who aren’t old enough to remember what that is, –> Google It <–. I wrote the number down…just…in…case.

I called his baby mama the day I was to meet up with him at the sports bar. I knew he wasn’t home. I didn’t bother blocking my number…’cuz I’m a G & real G’s do gangsta…sike. Let me stop playing. But when a woman’s fed up…WATCH OUT!!!

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I chickened out and hung up when she answered the phone. She called right back and asked for me by name, politely.

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She knew who I was because #Ninja2 casually told her that we ran into each other a few months back. They’d had a previous convo about me taking his virginity when we were younger. She didn’t suspect anything…until he started coming home…late.

My version:

We’ve been messing around for 6 months and he’s working on getting his own place so we can be together forever and ever.

Her version:

Me & #Ninja2 never broke up. We sleep in the same room, in the same bed. Every night. Had sex last night. And we’re moving to a bigger place soon.

She thanked me for sharing and apologized that I had to go through that.

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She was the one who urged me to carry on with my plans to meet up with him and act as everything was “normal.”

This experience caused me to close myself off and trust no one. I went on to be that chick who didn’t care if you had a chick because I was going to use you just like you were going to use me, and not invest my feelings.

While I may have shredded the contract with #Ninja2, there were more side chick contracts to come. And this time, I signed on the dotted line.

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