We all show up as our own best representive, masking our flaws and the very worst in us, but does it have to be to the detriment of others?

Anonymous told to Ida Harris:

As charming and as fine as he was, Azim turned out to be a real piece of shit. He was so trash, if you googled “piece of shit,” a chocolate turd would pop up with his face attached to it. He pursued me the way a dog harrasses a cat, relentlessly, until I gave in and became his woman, but shortly after that — this fool flipped the script. As soon as we made our relationship official, he became reckless and lost all respect for himself and me.

On numerous occasions, I had to catch an Uber to and from work because he’d sneak thief my keys and disappear with my car. One day, I left a voicemail message on his phone threatening to report it stolen before he responded to my calls. When he finally showed up, the car was filthy, the gas tank was on E, and the driver side window was dangling by its wires. I was enraged as he stood in my living room, enthusiastically explaining how he was in a car chase with the police.  

“You ain’t gotta pop shit no more because I’mma be in the crib for a few days laying low,” he said.

I was flabbergasted as I listened to him tell me the details of running a light and not wanting to get another DUI charge. I went the fuck off. My anger and tears were met with his lips on the back of my neck, whispering that he’d make it up to me. I rejected his bullshit and moved away from him. He embraced my body from behind, massaged my tits and bent me over the arm of the couch. I’m embarrassed to say, but there’s something totally disarming about a man you come to love, being on his knees, begging for another chance while his tongue is deep in your ass and his fingers are playing with your pussy. I’m just saying.

That day set the tone of our toxic and codependent relationship. Azim started asking for a few dollars, here and there, to get haircuts. Then those request quickly turned into needing money for cigarettes and liquor. Against everybody’s warnings, I eventually allowed him to move in with me. I was determined to help my man get on his feet for once and all. I wrote him a stellar resume, filled out applications for him and made sure he had the proper attire. But I quickly discovered Azim could not hold a job; not even if breathing depended on it because he’d be dead the first 48. He’d get the interview, get hired because he was charismatic, and get fired because — well, he was a bum. He would be notoriously late from getting high and drinking the night before or he would stop showing up all together. He made up every excuse as to why he was not blame — “the company was racists,” “they ain’t giving your boy enough hours,” “they don’t pay well,” and my dumb ass would cosign. I was down for my man and knew he’d get it together.

Months had passed before his DUIs caught up with him. One night around 3 a.m. I got a collect call from the Dekalb County Jail. It was Zim. He was pulled over and arrested for a broken tail light, driving with a suspended license, and having outstanding DUI warrants. He needed me to pay his $2000 cash bond and get “our” car from impound. Like the ride or die chick I became, I leaped at his request, despite having to be to work for my 7am shift. I went in my stash and took the bail money and the car money from the funds I had been saving to buy a condo in Midtown, Atlanta. Freeing my man was a priority. I walked in that jail like I was a queen rescuing her king. I couldn’t process it then, but we walked out there like big mama rescuing baby man. What did register in those wee hours of the morning was how powerful his dick felt, particularly, when I saved him. He fucked me like pussy would be extinct once the sun came up. In an hour, I came four times; once on his two fingers, once on his dick and twice on his face. I never did make it to work that day.

“Good dick will imprison you.”

Four years later, I was still cosigning the idea that Zim would do better, but I was at the end of my rope. My bank account was empty, my self esteem was low and my spirit was broken. I had been laid off my job, and was now juggling two part-time gigs to make ends meet, while Zim played hustle man a few hours a day. He’d do odd jobs around the neighborhood and come home with groceries to last two days, an ounce of weed, and a bottle of cheap vodka that would hardly carry him through the night. Over the years, I was trying to build something fruitful with someone I thought was my soul mate by supporting us and pushing him to do his best; but in reality, I gave up my sanity and happiness for a junkie, a drunk and a hater. I was already a curvy thick girl, but I gained weight in all the wrong areas. Gradually, he began making fat jokes, calling me Pillsbury doughgirl, F.U.P.A ( fat, upper, pussy, area) and muffin top. He made me feel like Ms. Celie from the color purple.

To make matters worse, his lame, broke ass was cheating. I found a used condom in the backseat of the car. He nutted up and flipped it and accused me of cheating. He had the audacity to say the rubber was mine. From then on, he ceased fucking me and eventually stopped sleeping in the same bed. I had officially stooped to an all-time low when I found myself begging him sex and him denying me; it got so bad, I settled for giving him head, yet receiving nothing in return — not even a cuddle or kiss. When I got up the nerve to tell him it was over between us, he said

“It been over, but you gon’ always want this dick,”

Deep down inside, I felt he was right. My dignity was in the toilet, till one night I was up late, scrolling the innanets and I came across a YouTube video with powerful message that resonated so deeply, I swore it was made exclusively for me. Sobbing like somebody died; and that somebody was me. I watched that video at least 22 times that night, and in heavy rotation over the next two weeks. The message became my mantra.

The third week, I got up the courage to change my door locks and gather all Zim’s belongings into three big garbage bags and set them outside the house. When he returned to my home that day, he quickly found out it was no longer his. He pleaded from outside the door, but I refused to let him and spoke very clearly through the door.

“Nigga, don’t make me call Dekalb County Police out here; now get the fuck on.”

And he did with his tail tucked between his legs. I was grateful he left without creating a big scene. Since that day, I haven’t seen Zim, but he did call me a year later to ask what happened between us. The answer was simple: “I remembered who the fuck I was.” Shout out to Derrick Jaxn, the self love ambassador. 

Go to the profile of Ida Harris

Ida Harris

I be writing. I’m aiight with standard English, but poetic with Black Vernacular. I’mma dope dealer, too.

6 comments

  1. Tammy Fritz says:

    This scenario has been played all too many times in every single person I know including myself….The worst thing I could have done was allow my daughters to live this experience with me and do exactly the same shit. Im determined to break this foolishness before my grands are old enough to know what a situationship really is.

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