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- Fear of Moving Forward - Experience Life
- Fear of Moving Forward
- Nicholas Sparks
Check out Commandment 2: Thou shalt not obsess. Check out Commandment 3: Thou shalt stop fearing the pain of breaking up and confront it. Check out Commandment 4: Thou shalt stop doubting yourself and get angry. Check out Commandment 5: Thou shalt be accountable. Check out Commandment 8: Thou need to get a life! Check out Commandment Thou must close the door and move forward. Amen to this article—I needed it today, too. I am exactly at this point with my life and my ex-EUM. But, that being said, I am closing the door to this chapter of my life. The only thing left to conquer is that I know he will come skulking around sooner or later, and I am going to also verbally end it with him.
Again, thanks NML, for the words of wisdom! Love you. Trust you. Embrace you. Enjoy you. NML, thank you for another amazing post. Closure was the last phase of the break up that I was struggling with. I was moving on, but thought that I needed that last bit of information, something that I believed would explain the final reason for the break up… but would it really make a difference if I had that information? There could have been many reasons, but that was not the issue. Despite all the pain and tears, I am not giving up moving forward.
The process to where I truly want to be may take a while, but at least I am aware now, and I have learned from this experience. I know I have been guilty of that in the past. Forgiving him, but mainly forgiving yourself and learning and moving on IS going to make you so much healthier in the long run, therefore more loving and self confident.
No one says it is. But it is much easier than spending the better part of your future on pipe dreams, fear, pain and broken promises. Make a promise to yourself that from now on, you will treat yourself the way that you wish to be treated. You know what else, I just had another thought… Chances are that if you could confront them for closure, would they say what you want to hear?
Would they take their responsibility for it all? Would they honestly and truly put your mind at ease? I know. Been and done. You know the answers already, right? And right now, it needs to be about what benefits me. Potential does not a relationship make. Armed with a bit more self-knowledge, I can carry on with my life, and I wish him the best with his. Voices argue louder than the music. Cuss words fly left and right. My first thought?
Kenya walked up on Denasia like she promised. But the voices are deeper than theirs.
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A second shot. There are way too many people and way too much curly hair for me to catch a glimpse of Kenya. He pulls me through the crowd, shoving people out our way and stepping on shoes. That alone could get us some bullets. I look for Kenya among the panicked faces, but still no sign of her. Khalil leads me to a Chevy Impala parked under a dim street light. We screech off, leaving chaos in the rearview mirror. He sounds like my parents. At least not around Garden Heights. Doubt those bullets were meant for her, but bullets go where they wanna go.
Is this chick for real? Khalil gets his hairbrush out the compartment on the door. Something was bound to pop off. I nod. Garden Heights has been a battlefield for the past two months over some stupid territory wars. But when he left the game, my street royalty status ended. Khalil drops the brush in the door and cranks up his stereo, blasting an old rap song Daddy plays a million times. I frown. Like, check this. Meaning what society give us as youth, it bites them in the ass when we wild out. Get it? Told you he was relevant. I need to hear it from him. He scoots closer to the steering wheel.
He wipes his nose before his lie. I got tired of choosing between lights and food. They fired her. My phone vibrates again, probably either Chris asking for forgiveness or Kenya asking for backup against Denasia. He probably thinks it intimidates me. Really, it annoys the hell out of me. The only thing worse than protective parents is protective older brothers. Remember that time at your birthday party when he kept telling you what to wish for? I roll my eyes.
Fear of Moving Forward - Experience Life
Half the time, I thought she came over just to see him. What we used to call ourselves? The Hood Trio. One was the usual birds and bees. Back then, I doubted anything was going anywhere anyway. While all the other girls sprouted breasts between sixth and seventh grade, my chest was as flat as my back. Momma fussed and told Daddy I was too young for that. Only speak when they speak to you.
Daddy has the biggest mouth of anybody I know, and if he said to be quiet, I needed to be quiet. He cusses under his breath, turns Tupac down, and maneuvers the Impala to the side of the street. Nobody around but us and the cop. I remember something else Daddy said. Khalil cranks the handle to roll it down. Khalil groans and takes his wallet out. The officer follows his movements with the flashlight. Khalil gets out with his hands up. One-Fifteen yanks him by his arm and pins him against the back door. Blood splatters from his back.
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He holds onto the door to keep himself upright. An ear-splitting scream emerges from my gut, explodes in my throat, and uses every inch of me to be heard. I jump out the Impala and rush around to the other side.
Fear of Moving Forward
Khalil stares at the sky as if he hopes to see God. His mouth is open like he wants to scream. I scream loud enough for the both of us. Too much blood.
I hope he sees God. I blink through my tears. Officer One-Fifteen yells at me, pointing the same gun he killed my friend with. Police cars and ambulances flash all along Carnation Street. People stand off to the side, trying to see what happened. The bright lights spotlight me, and people crane their necks to get a peek. I try to tell them to stop. Please, cover his body. Please, close his eyes. Please, close his mouth. Get away from his car. But the words never come out. One-Fifteen sits on the sidewalk with his face buried in his hands.
Daddy is moved aside, and Momma wraps her arms around me. She rubs my back and speaks in hushed tones that tell lies. We stay this way for a long time. Eventually, Daddy helps us out the ambulance. He wraps his arm around me like a shield against curious eyes and guides me to his Tahoe down the street.
He drives. A streetlight flashes across his face, revealing how tight his jaw is set. His veins bulge along his bald head. She did an extra shift at the emergency room tonight. My stomach twists. All of that blood, and it came out of him. An hour ago we were laughing and catching up. Now his blood. I throw myself across the backseat and push the door open before the truck comes to a complete stop. It feels like everything in me is coming out, and all I can do is let it.
When we get home, she helps me undress.
Daddy carries me to bed, and Momma brushes her fingers through my hair until I fall asleep. Nightmares wake me over and over again. Momma reminds me to breathe, the same way she did before I outgrew asthma. My eyes strain against the brightness of my neon-blue walls. I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, trying to recap the night before.
The party flashes in my mind, the fight, One-Fifteen pulling me and Khalil over. The first shot rings in my ears. The second. The third. It happened six years ago, but I still remember everything from that day. She was chunky her momma told her it was baby fat , dark-skinned, and wore her hair in braids that always looked freshly done. I wanted braids like hers so bad. That was like saying we had a free water park. I remember looking at Daddy and pleading silently. He said I could go, as long as I promised to be back in an hour.
Almost everybody in the neighborhood was there too. Just having fun. I was the only one who noticed the car at first. A tattooed arm stretched out the back window, holding a Glock. People ran. Not me though. My feet became part of the sidewalk.
Natasha was splashing in the water, all happy and stuff. I dove into a rose bush. It was Natasha though. Her blood mixed in with the water, and all you could see was a red river flowing down the street. She looked scared. That nickname. My parents claim I was always munching on something from the moment I got off the bottle. My voice has extra bass in it. We walk slowly to the kitchen. Black Jesus hangs from the cross in a painting on the hallway wall, and Malcolm X holds a shotgun in a photograph next to him.
Nana still complains about those pictures hanging next to each other. We live in her old house. She gave it to my parents after my uncle, Carlos, moved her into his humongous house in the suburbs. Uncle Carlos was always uneasy about Nana living by herself in Garden Heights, especially since break-ins and robberies seem to happen more to older folks than anybody. She refused to leave, talking about how it was her home and no thugs were gonna run her out, not even when somebody broke in and stole her television.
About a month after that, Uncle Carlos claimed that he and Aunt Pam needed her help with their kids. Daddy and Seven are talking before we get to the kitchen. They go silent as soon as we walk in. Momma opens the fridge, the door crowded with takeout menus and fruit-shaped magnets. We never have pork. Seven smirks across from him. Throw my little brother, Sekani, in there and you have the same person at eight, seventeen, and thirty-six. Momma passes behind Seven with the bacon and squeezes his shoulder. She clears her throat. If he puts his hands on you, let me handle that. Seven nods then looks at me.
Somebody finally acknowledges the cloud hanging over the kitchen, which for some reason is like acknowledging me. Momma had to throw it away. Momma turns around to the skillet. Daddy releases a slow breath. Just RIP Khalil messages, fuck the police, stuff like that. It ends up on national news. People get death threats, cops target them, all kinds of stuff. I always said that if I saw it happen to somebody, I would have the loudest voice, making sure the world knew what went down. I think I know every episode word for word. I even relate to the theme song.
A couple of gang members who were up to no good made trouble in my neighborhood and killed Natasha. After last night, it feels stupid to be mad at him. I guess I can see why she says that. I never invite them over. Why would I? They live in mini-mansions. My house is just mini. I made the mistake of inviting them to a sleepover in seventh grade. Momma was gonna let us do our nails, stay up all night, and eat as much pizza as we wanted. What if I succeed?
Joseph Burgo, PhD, has a few suggestions for moving beyond the anxieties that are holding you back, and for building a sense of calm confidence along the way. Your email address will not be published. City and state are only displayed in our print magazine if your comment is chosen for publication. I needed this so much.
I hit rock bottom a few days ago, but I am trying my best to learn how to learn and to accept change. I am co-producing an new magazine, Emerge, exclusively on the Apple Newsstand.
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