Hi. I am Tanya and I'm co-dependent.

What does that mean?  Well, I have come to understand codependence as the development of character defects as the result of long-time exposure to and relationship with abuse, neglect, and abandonment.  At least, that's what is at the core of my codependence.

​As I approached my 38th birthday, I felt as though my life was falling apart because I couldn't figure out what was happening to my relationship with the love of my life or how to get back to feeling joy and happiness again. I was convinced that the answer was just right under my nose and as soon as I figured it out, we would be good, and I would be happy, again. Because I could fix this. I mean, I'm "Tenacious Tanya", after all. But, I was clambering in every way possible, until on the evening of my birthday, the argument of arguments between us resulted in the hardest rock bottom I ever could have imagined.

In what I've mentally dubbed his "three hour raging tirade", this man I loved so very much threw insults and cuss words at me. Angry in a way I've never seen before, he pointed out that it was my controlling, need to know everything, and petty ways that left me with a string a failed relationships. It was as if every story, every hurt, every vulnerability I'd shared with him over the last three years was converted into a bullet and on my birthday, he shot every shot there was. Into my heart. Into my mind. Into my spirit. I sat there, terrified, heart pounding, unsure of what I should expect next, as he stormed through my house in the wee hours of the morning, slamming doors and packing his belongings, stomping up and down the steps, and insisting that only a pussy would want to marry me. But, he wanted to marry me. Actually, he was going to propose to me. But, "I just won't let anybody love me." Refusing to engage, I didn't say a word. I just took the shots. It was mentally and emotionally the worst night of my life and it was the wake-up call I needed. Because, despite his fucked up delivery and despite his fucked up timing, what he said was true. I am controlling. I do have an insatiable need to know everything. I am petty. And, I do indeed have a long trail of failed relationships. His angry tirade was a mirror, one that highlights your flaws, and reflects back to you only the worst of who you are. Who, in their right mind, would want to marry me? He was wrong on many levels, but I could not deny the other startling truth: he was right.

Leading up to this night, I started reading a book entitled, "If You Loved Me, You'd Stop" because I had previously figured out that his drinking was the root of our problems, and I was going to figure out how to get him to stop drinking. His drinking had become an obsession of mine. I watched, with judgmental eyes, how much he drank and how much of his money he spent to maintain this habit. I fed my resentment, which was continually brooding in the undercurrent of my love for the two years that we lived together. His drinking triggered my unresolved childhood traumas of feeling inadequate as I watched my father choose drugs over taking care of me. That's how little Tanya felt and that's how I'd been feeling in my relationship for years. If only he'd stop drinking, I could stop feeling inadequate. I equated my value and worth to his willingness to stop drinking. If only he'd stop drinking, he could save enough money to finally file for divorce and marry me. If only he'd stop drinking, he could finally take me on a trip. He could finally take care of me. This slowly transitioned into, if only he'd stop drinking, I could stop taking care of him. I could stop obsessing about him drinking and driving, feeling nervous and scared that the next wreck, he was going to kill himself, in my car. I could stop bearing the financial load of our blended family. I could get back on track with managing my money as I was before he moved in. I could reap the benefits of my hard work, multiple degrees, and career advances. If only, he'd stop drinking. Every time we argued about his drinking, he'd ask questions like, "who's to say what's too much?" He'd say things like, "everybody drinks. You drink." I bought this book because I was confident it would give me the right responses to finally get him to see he had a problem and his problem was ruining our relationship and threatening our happy ending. Yeah, well, the author knew something I didn't. It wasn't "just" his problem. I had a problem, too. To test this, a short assessment of 36 questions hit way too close to home. So close, to be honest, I got mad and stopped reading the book. I wasn't ready to see myself as the problem. Not until my 38th birthday. I didn't actually hit rock bottom. It hit me. It met me where I was and forced me to see myself differently. I knew on that very day I had to do things differently. I had to heal and shed this childhood shit I've been carrying around for what seems like my entire life.

As I started looking into codependency, it was as if information and resources just fell out of the sky.  Right on time! I don't believe in coincidences, so I took this as a sign. The nod from God that I was on the right path, the universe's reward for my commitment to being and doing better. Learning that I'm codependent has changed and saved my life.

I now know that my codependence has impacted every relationship. Beyond my romantic relationships, these co-dependent thought patterns and behaviors have shown up in every other relationship that's ever been important to me. My family, my friends, my colleagues/peers, and especially my children, have been subjected to my codependency, because it had become so deeply rooted in my thoughts and behaviors. It was normal to me. It was "the devil I know" and it was familiar. It had become so pervasive in every aspect of my life that I would have eventually killed myself from a stress-related disease. I might as well have been smoking. I was just as much killing myself slowly as any chain smoker.

I didn't want that for myself. So, I committed to changing.

I've been going to therapy. I've been connecting with others who struggle through the same issues. I've been reading and reading and READING SOME MORE. I've been unpacking, writing, crying, praying, and healing. But, I've been still very co-dependent. I was still holding on. I was still convinced our happily ever after was achievable. I was excited about his moving out because I was so sure that would be HIS wakeup call, and he'd start his own recovery. I knew I was ready to do the work to get to a healthy Tanya. I fantasized about what our happy and HEALTHY relationship would be like and I was chasing the mirage it presented to my wounded and thirsty soul. I put up boundaries all the while violating his. Then, shamefully letting him violate mine. I stood up for myself only to back down, afraid that I was going to ruin any chance for this future I was clinging to. Then, I shamed myself for not recovering faster and for still acting out codependently. I shared every epiphany and realization with him and discussed openly and freely the hard-to-swallow truths about myself that I now understood, with the hope that he'd be proud of me, he'd see how hard I was working to get better, and he'd equally charge his way towards his own recovery. Because, that's really what mattered most. For the six weeks I spent living with the man I loved the most and still desperately wanted to be with but couldn't be with until we were both healthy, I was tormented worse than when we were together. I was confused and afraid. I was at one moment happy then the next crying myself to sleep. I was okay then I wasn't. I was ready then I chickened out. All I really wanted was to know that at the end of this work I was doing, I was going to have the happy ending I wanted with the man I wanted. But he wouldn't give me that. And ultimately, his last words to me were that I'm disgusting, he fucking hates me, and he never wants to talk to me again.

I thought my birthday was my rock bottom. It wasn't. That night, upon hearing from his best friend that I'd called him for advice about him/us, I was accused of being a liar, a sneak, and a cheat. I was disgusting and had no boundaries.

I was, to say the least, devastated. I have never before been told that I was hated. To be said with such vehemence as he yelled into my voicemail, I felt every bit of the fucking hate. And then, and only then, did I finally let go.

Letting go of someone you love is unbearably hard. But, learning to love myself as I have loved him (and those that I loved before him), I must believe, is worth this journey of what seems like a million steps. But, I know that I'm on the right path, and though I've only got enough light for the step I'm on, I'm trusting God and I'm trusting the process. I'm Tanya and I'm co-dependent. And I'm grateful. Because now I know and can do something about it. And I will. Because, I'm "Tenacious Tanya" after all.

11/04/2019

He whispered in my ear, "you're beautiful"
And for the first time in my life, I felt the gravity of those words
Holding me down like an anvil
Because they were laced with the simplest sincerity
And yet laden with emotions beyond those two words
They conveyed that I was being seen as a Queen worth more than her weight in gold
In those two words I was being told
That my crown wasn't a display of riches but rather a helmet
Protecting my most valuable asset
And if only I would be brave enough to let him
He'd be honored enough to set them
Deep inside my heart where no one else could get them
Hidden treasures for my pleasure and the building of my esteem
It was these two words that allowed me to see
That I am not defined by my history
Of lovers lost and lovers tossed
Lovers who didn't know they would pay the cost
Of my ultimate happy
Lovers who pushed me into the arms of him who would be the one I prayed for but didn't trust that I deserved
Served to me not on a silver platter
But on a smattering of my deepest emotions
That no one else cared enough to analyze
Because if they did they would have realized
That it was amazing all that I survived just to stand in their presence
But his presence is my present, and those two words are my gift
As he continues to lift my spirit, I soar to another level of love I didn't know existed
And this cardiac arrest can't be resisted
Because I gladly hand over my heart to he that makes it beat
Slow and steady with his steadfast reassurance
Those two words give me the freedom to be me
And so I live
For another day to hear him say,
"You're beautiful."

Just the other day, I discovered by way of Facebook (of course), an article about a little girl that was dying of cancer.  With all other medical alternatives exhausted, the doctors tried an experimental treatment of injecting her with the HIV virus.  It worked and the girl was healed!  She now lives a healthy, cancer- (and HIV-) free life!!!  The story was touching and watching the girl go from her death bed to a healthy life brought tears to my eyes.  Medically, it's exciting and I hope that this will indeed be a step towards curing cancer.  I know far too many lives (mine included) that have been negatively affected by cancer and I think the cure for cancer will be the first step towards the most profound evolution in humanity.

But I continued to think about this article, this story, this miracle and the implications of it, for me, were far more profound.  I couldn't help thinking about how something that has been a curse in its own measure, turned out to be the greatest blessing in the life of that family.  And it makes me think about how so many times that proves to be the case in life.  There are many ways to think about it but I look back at my life and I'm amazed at how many "curses" have turned out to be blessings.  They might initially present as "blessings in disguise" but sooner or later, the mask is removed, the veil discarded and the blessing fully and wholly revealed.  And if I were to be completely honest, my greatest blessings in life actually started as what seemed like my greatest curses.

Every source of hurt, pain, rejection, and disappointment has been transformed into something beautiful and wonderful in my life.  And I can honestly say that I've smiled more smiles than I've shed tears.  We say things like "the Lord works in mysterious ways" but that's just because we're limited in our understanding of how a curse so tragic and terrible (like HIV) can transform into the greatest blessing (like a cure for cancer).  But it's there, and it's always been there.  We just didn't know.  And often, it takes such situations turning full circle before we can reach that understanding and acceptance that something bad was actually for our own good.

Of the entire Bible, the verse that has always most strongly resonated with my spirit is Roman 8:28.  "And we know that all things work for the good of those that love the Lord and are called according to His purpose."  Regardless of your religious affiliation, I believe this to be true for everyone individually as well as us all collectively.  And if we could reach that understanding and acceptance that something bad is for our own good BEFORE the curse turns into the blessing, how would that change us?  How differently would we live our lives if we faithfully held onto this understanding?  How much faster would you forgive those that hurt and betray you if you knew that in time, in some way, that their actions would end up helping and benefiting you?  My friend and I were discussing the life of Nelson Mandela (may he rest in peace) the other day and like many, we can't help but marvel at his ability to forgive. I believe if I can harness this understanding and acceptance in the midst of the storm and the curse, I can have the rainbow and the blessing before they show themselves.  I can forgive and I can be happy.  I can have a joy that surpasses all understanding because every cloud has a silver lining.  So, as the year 2013 comes to a close and I start reflecting on how I'm going to make the next year the best year, I would like to work towards putting into practice this understanding and acceptance so that I can receive the blessing before it even manifests.  It's there and I know it. And if I ever forget, all I have to do is think about the smile of that little girl that was blessed with HIV.

A friend of mine wanted me to anonymously share something she'd written. Names have been changed but the poignant intensity of the message therein remains.




The anniversary of my Kyle's birth. A day no one understands. A day for
me, of intense struggle. The contractions started early in the
morning. I said nothing to the loved ones around me. I fed my children
breakfast. I silently breathed through contractions. We did chores. We
ate lunch. Breathing slowly and silently. The day wore on. The pauses
in my day, the breaths longer, wondering when I'd admit to myself that
the day had come. A noticed grimace on my face as I stoop to sweep the
dog hair, leaves, and dirt from the mud room floor. "Oh, just a
cramp." I mumble to my best friend. I am nine months pregnant, after
all. But I just want to be alone in my body, my experiences, my fear.
Self-loathing. Disgust. And a quiet knowing that there would be a
child soon and a decision sooner than I knew how to make it. A child I
couldn't afford. A child of adultry. A child that for me, was a
constant reminder that I was to blame for the hurt look in my
children's eyes when their father showed up to take them from my arms
every week. I was alone and isolated with this growing human in my
womb. I despised myself and thus the child. How could I keep a child I
loathed? How could I mother and care for a baby unwanted, unloved, and
already a burden? My children had already heard too much, seen too
much, gone through too much to have the worry of me in labor on the
day I had to return them to their father again. I silently breathed as
I reached in the fridge to get milk for my daughter. I took a long
time looking for the box of snacks in the pantry. I moved slower that
day, to hide from my fear a few moments longer. Contraction. Load up
the kids. Contraction. Run back in for the forgotten blanket.
Contraction. Another trip inside for the favourite stuffed animal.
Contraction. Start the car. Pray. Red light. Release into a
contraction until a voice from the back seat tells me the light is
green. Arrive at the "marital home" to leave my children. To leave my
flesh and blood. To see that look in their questioning eyes of "Why
don't you live here too anymore, Mommy?" Hugs and kisses as they run
to put their stuff in their rooms. With the curtains I had sewn. In
the beds I had made. To play with the toys I had bought. It was my
house, and I wasn't there. The door closes in my eyes as another
contraction builds. I walk across the yard that I've played cowboys
and indians. The birthday party where we made volcanos erupt outside.
The ice cream treats. The lemonaid stand. The garden I made with the
kids, covered in weeds. Breathe through the contraction, struggle
getting the key in the car door through the tears. Pray and drive back
to my house alone.
My doula and I had plans for dinner that night just to get my mind off
things. She knew how I felt about this pregnancy. She knew I didn't
know if I could love this child. She was the only one who knew my
fear. I canceled our dinner plans, telling her to stay home with her
son and enjoy him since labor had started.
In my room, I curled under my blankets. 5:00, 6:00. Time was endless
and flying by. I showered. An intensity surrounded my body and I sat
on the floor of the shower, choking on the water, or maybe tears.
I know the time is close to go to the hospital, and I realise I never
thought about how I would get there, nor get home. Driving was no
longer an option. My doula calls to check in and concludes I need to
be on my way to the hospital, and I confess I hadn't thought about how
I'd get there. She comes to my house, I had a bag packed, but had
forgotten about a ride.
Soon, we are checking in. The lights and crowd in the hospital
increase the noise in my mind, the contractions are pulling me inward,
but there are forms, passersby, chairs, florescent lights, magazines
on tables. I crave my home, my bed, my children. I want to curl down
and hide from the process. A wheelchair arrives and I'm ushered to
pumps, thermometers, and devices I can't comprehend. I want to scream
"I'm giving birth, why the hell are you asking me where my drivers
license is?" Instead, I fall further into the contractions. Inside my
head. I don't answer. Finally, I'm in a room that is quiet. The hands
and faces and contraptions have left and I'm as alone as I will get
with a child in my womb. My doula, my midwife, myself, the two
heartbeats in my body beating together, merging and separating. The
idle chitchat of the two women caring for me. Contractions. Hiding
from my fear. Deeper within. The small bathroom provides a space to be
further from the voices. In there, I feel my body. I feel the
contractions fully. Alone. With child. I moan, I sway, I let it be.
The fear of my mind is lost to the power of my body. The time is soon.
The decision is far away.
A gentle knock comes, I'm ushered into the bed to be checked. I don't
want to be checked. I don't want the hands and devices. I want to be
alone. My mind can't form the words. My body responds to their urging
words my ears hear. Intensity rises. A question spoke, "Don't you want
this to end sooner?" "Yes!" I cry! Fear, words, pain, loss. Confusion.
And a rush of wetness between my legs. Her voice simply stated, "I
barely did anything and your water broke." The cushion gone, the
baby's head comes crashing down on my cervix, not fully dilated. The
contractions constant. Breathing, thinking, fear. Don't you want this
to end sooner? If only she knew. I didn't want to be there. I didn't
want to be alone, having a child. A mouth I can't feed. A reminder. A
painful reminder. Again, the voices, telling me to move this way or
that. The physical pain worse than I remember. The fear greater than I
ever knew. No turning back. No anesthesia for this life I have
created. Breathe. Push. Fear. Pain. Head. Shoulders. Knees. And toes.
I'm grateful that the pain is less. I like breathing slower. I don't
hear crying and my heart jumps. I ask if the baby is okay.
Contemplating what answer I want to hear most. Was a decision made for
me?
"Its a boy," someone states. "He's not breathing well. We are working
on clearing him out."
I want to see. Bodies surround the silence. Voices interfere with what
could be crying, coughing, or maybe just one of the machines.
Endless time. Thoughts. Questions. Burdens.
The baby cries. Loud and clear.
Cleaned, swaddled, with a little bonnet on, he's handed to me. I feel
confused. He's cold, and I put him on my chest to warm him. Hands
reach to take him from me and I know my body can warm him better than
their machines. He's breathing, too fast, too shallow. And cold. I
don't understand if I love this child, but I know I don't want him to
suffer and I know if he can listen to my heart beat he'll know he's
not alone. He'll breathe better. He'll warm up. Our bodies were just
one.
The hands reach for him and I hold him back. The voices argue. I keep
telling all of them that I just want to hold him to make him better.
The hands are back. He's taken out of my arms.
Machines become his mother and he's wheeled out in a plastic box to
another room with better mother machines.
The room I'm in, with people all around, and I'm alone in my body,
alone in my mind, alone with my soul. As I muster strength to argue
with the voices and hands that took my baby, the question I've
struggled with for nine months comes in my mind, and I fight to be
beside the baby anyway.
A wheelchair is brought to me when it becomes clear I will walk and
find him if they don't take me to him. I'm wheeled down and up and
over and through. Through a window I'm allowed to look and I get up,
walk over to the door and knock. Until I can hold him I won't sit back
down. Inside the room I'm given my child. For a moment only they say.
I hold him and let him nurse. I argue to stay. I'm wheeled out,
crying, alone, tired, afraid.
Still the question.
He comes to me, delivered in that damned wheeled plastic bin. He had
been deemed "healthy" now that the machines had the numbers the
doctors desired. I'm exhausted. I hold him and we sleep together.
His name is Kyle, I know that. His brother and sister are brought the
next day to meet him. My ex-husband whispers a crude remark in my ear.
It is a short visit. The next night, my doula gives me a ride back to
my house. And Kyle and I begin to work on the answer to that question.
...
Six years later, I stand looking into his room. Trophies. The rocket
poster. The ceiling painted with the moon, comets and the most
beautiful sunset ever. The spiderman fort. Frankenstien and a skeleton
glowing on the wall. The floor littered with art, toys, legos. The
rocks sticks and feathers collected.
The dog hair, leaves, and dirt that need to be swept off the floor.
I forget that there ever was a question. And know the answer is love.

It is with a heavy heart that I petition your love, patience, and understanding as I seek to restore my heart and peace of mind.  You see, if there’s anything that my 32 years in life have taught me, it’s that this world can be a dark, scary, lonely, and fucked up place.  There are evil human beings that are capable of the most atrocious acts that my mind cannot even comprehend their purpose.  Why breath would continue to grace the lungs of selfish individuals who seek to destroy, take what’s not theirs, and cause hurt, pain, and suffering upon the lives of others who mean no one harm is beyond me. Frankly, I’m tired.  I’m tired of seeing good-hearted people in pain. And I’m tired of being one.  I’m tired of seeing success fall at the feet of those who deserve it least while struggle and strife follows those that deserve the utmost of happiness.  For reasons that I will never understand, someone took from me a choice that was mine and mine alone to make. And in the process, they robbed me of a peace of mind that I took so long to find. The solace and the comfort of knowing that I can safely live in a world where things beyond my control continue to affect my life was fought for and earned.  I worked HARD to heal the broken pieces of my heart.  I surrounded myself with love and lovely people until I was reminded that there’s a lot of GOOD in this world.  I sought counseling and I was JUST getting to a place of understanding and acceptance.  I found serenity in changing the things I could and accepting the things I could not.  I was there, I really was.  And I was happy.  But now, I’m scared and I’m angry and I’m hurt.  I went to a party about a year ago, and I woke up, alone and naked with a sore vagina.  And the last thing I remember is being handed a drink by the same individual I was later told was the last person to be seen with me that night.  I have neither proof nor recollection, but I’m almost certain that this person took advantage of me.  This person raped me.  And that’s not right.  My first instinct was to suppress this, and for over a year, I’d done a good job.  To some extent, I believe I convinced myself this didn’t happen. Then my next instinct was to blame myself.  I know better than to accept an open drink. I know better than to trust random people, no matter how nice, friendly, or cool they seem.  I knew better.  But, I let my guard down and was so busy trying to have a good time and party like a rock star that I allowed myself to be in a compromising situation.  I’m not to blame, though. Whether he drugged me or not, I can’t say.  But, he knew good and damn well that I was not in the presence of mind to consensually have sex with him.  And previously, when I was sober, I had rejected his advances for several reasons.  Whether I was even conscious or not when this happened, I also cannot say. All I know is this realization has hit me hard, and it’s gonna take a lot for me to get back to where I was.  So, forgive me in advance.  I’m not really in a good place, and I don’t know how to get back there.  I ask for your love, patience, and understanding as I figure out how to cope and heal.  I’m uncertain about where this process will lead me, or through what, exactly. But it’s probably not gonna be pretty.  Feel free to delete or block me if you feel necessary; I won’t be upset.  I wasn’t even going to share this as I’m doing now.  But fuck that and fuck him.  I’ve got a voice and that is one thing he can’t take from me.  As with every other jacked up thing that’s happened in my life, I’m determined to make sure my pain is not in vain.  If I can help just one woman prevent this from happening to her…..

Just bear with me and please, pray for me.  This too shall pass.

Sincerely,

Tanya

P.S. FUCK RICK ROSS TOO

I have a closet in my mind that I have used to protect my heart
And with each unbearable life experience
Determined to push forward and go on
To persevere and to rise above
I’ve thrown what I couldn’t face to the side
For life hardly seems to lend me the time and opportunity to really deal
To fully heal
To piece together a complete meal
That will sustain me
And so, I cope the best way I’ve known how
By tossing what I couldn’t process
And neglecting what I couldn’t digest
Into this closet
And at first, it wasn’t so bad
Everything neatly contained and out of the way
I pushed forward and went on
I persevered and I rose above
I even found a way to love
Despite the fear and pain that were hidden within
This closet
But left unattended to, except for further contributions to
The closet became a jumbled mess of emotions
And every time I set out to clean and organize the disheveled space
It seemed almost an impossible task to face
And so, I closed the door once again
Determined to shine and win
To achieve in spite of
But life never slowed down enough
And before I knew it, the closet was no longer sufficient
To contain all that I wanted to put in it
And with each new experience and painful situation
I found myself struggling to close the door
After an avalanche of unresolved issues
Spilled out of the closet
Yet, I’d somehow find a way to manage to get it all back in there
If only I could leave it shut
If only people would just do right
If only everyone I loved, loved me back, in equal measure
If only what I was trying to contain in the closet
Didn’t continue to surface and show itself outside
But it did
And it does
Unfortunately, I can no longer open that closet door
Without everything I’ve thrown inside spilling out
And this closet in my mind no longer protects my heart
Overwhelmed, I become
As I take in this mess that I’ve essentially created for myself
Without the slightest idea of how to begin to clean it up
But I must
With the full knowledge and awareness that because I haven’t
When new painful experiences happen
I can’t even tell what I’m responding to anymore
Love keeps no record, yet I’m steady keeping score
Of everything that has ever hurt me in my life
And I’m tired
So item by item, I will deal with this closet in my mind
And piece by piece, I will heal until I’m able to find
The strength to leave the door open
Do less fearing and more hoping
Continue my constructive coping
Storing those valuable lessons
But tossing the hurt I associate with them
I must go back so I can go forward
With Sankofa inked on my skin
I’m still determined to shine and win
To achieve, in spite of
Life never slowing down enough for me to clear the closet
I will
Heal.

Chapter One

Mama's like a bird now
Her soul's got wings to fly
With freedom, hope, and dignity
She soars the eternal sky
With keen eyesight she watches me
From her perch upon her tree
Making sure her young one's safe
Mama's like a bird now
 
Mama's like a bird now
Sitting on my shoulder
Sometimes she feels so close
I think that I can hold her
When her feathers brush my face
They leave behind a lovely trace
Of what my mama used to be
Mama's like a bird now
 
Mama's like a bird now
I think it's not so bad
She sings a beautiful song to me
When I'm feeling sad
One day I think I'll be one too
Til then I know just want to do
Keep all of mama's dreams alive
Mama's like a bird now


            One book I feel that has most aptly captured its subject matter is Maxine Harris’ “The Loss That is Forever”.  In this psychological compilation, Dr. Harris explains and exemplifies the affects of losing a parent in early childhood.  Indeed, this is a loss that is felt forever; it is one that shapes and molds the child for the rest of his or her life.  My mother died in May of 1986 when I was four years old.  Lupus was the culprit and robbery was the crime.  The earliest of my retrievable memories occurred after the death of my mother.  I remember my sixth birthday and the bike and the Snow White cake and the jealousy of my stepsister because I had received more than she had on her birthday.  Even the yellow polka-dotted dress and bouquet of balloons brings a fond smile to my face.  I remember my father’s wedding to Maxine, the woman I would know and love as my mother for most of my life.  I was the victim of maternal robbery because try as I may, I have always been unable to remember my mom.
           
            For many years, I had convinced myself that mom’s soul was also housed in my body.  I had dreams of living our lives together:  two souls in one body.  I would hear people talk about her still being with us and I would quietly laugh to myself “oh, you have NO idea!”.  It was as if I had the grandest secret and as long as I kept it to myself, no one and nothing could take her away from me again.  But then logic put on the ski mask, held me up at gunpoint, and stole my mother from me before I even had time to protest.  I somehow knew that it was illogical and highly improbable that my mother’s soul was residing in my body. So then I took to the sky.
           
             Even now, there are times when I look into the sky, that place where the clouds are parting and the sun’s peeking through, and I can see my mom.  I can see her watching me, loving me, and protecting me.  I see her in rainbows and shooting stars, eclipses and thunderstorms.  I feel her caress in the wind and I hear her voice in the natural sounds you hear when you slow down enough to experience life.  I learned early in life, probably around the age of 8, that wherever God existed, there too I could find my mom. And with a child’s natural innocence, I was able to see God in all the beautiful wonders of the world.  I marveled at all things natural because they reminded me of the omnipotence of our Creator and assured me that His plan was obviously for the best.  Solace.  Comfort.  Love.  My mom never left me; she simply transformed to exist in other entities.  Yet and still, the loss remains forever.
            
            Twenty six years later, I mourn my mother’s death. Every time I have a question I would want to ask her but can’t, I remember the robbery.  Becoming a mother myself was one of the scariest feelings because I couldn’t even remember my own mom.  For Warren’s entire fourth year, I lamented disremembering my mom, appalled at the consideration that if I had died, he would forget me too.  You mean all these nights without sleep, all the love and sacrifice, all the hugs, kisses and special moments would just be forgotten?  How could this child who I worked so hard every day for four years to give the very best just up and forget me?  How could I then, forget the woman who had given me that much?  Guilt began to eat away at me as I struggled with this comparison.
            
            I was robbed. I was cheated. But even worse (and most important), I was blamed.  Internally, but no less real.  I don’t mean to undermine the mother figures that impacted my life in a meaningful way.  Debbie Schroeder, Susan Warren, Rose Mary Lee, Sharon Cooley, Debbie Norris, Cynthia Salaam, Jackie Cox, Paula Blackwell, Lillie Brantley, Zeeyon Robin Walker, to name a few.  These women, along with the ones my father wed, have been an integral part of my life.   Through them, I learned the grace, the smile, and the love of a woman.  From them, I learned the power of my mind, the meaning of unconditional love, the benefit of an honest day’s work, the strength of a Godly woman, the truth behind the Black family, the potential of a single mother, and the unwavering, undying, unmatched, and underappreciated BEAUTY of the Black woman.  Those lessons transformed me; these women took me in as a child of their own.  They saw me as the motherless girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved. And love me, they did!  Still, tears well up in my eyes every time I think about what I could have learned from the woman who gave me life.
            
            I believe from her I could have learned about some of my quirky ways.  It’s the whole “nature versus nurture” debate.  Am I who I am because of my genetics or because of my upbringing?  I believe the answer is both.  From her, I could have learned about who I was as a baby/young child…you know, those things that Daddies just don’t remember!  Was I always talkative?  Did I show early signs of being intelligent?  How did I get along with my brothers?  Was I neat or messy?  Did I hate the color pink even then?  In missing mom, I feel I have missed a part of myself.  I consider what I’ve been told ALL my life, “you are JUST LIKE your mom” and it makes me wonder “am I?”  If so, then knowing who she was from firsthand experience would have helped me understand who I was, am, and will become.  Perhaps it wouldn’t have taken 25 years to realize that I was born to be an educator.  Maybe I would have known sooner the type of men I would be attracted to as well as the type of men who would not be any good for me.  Arguably, I would have known that I cannot change my natural disposition (which I have tried several times) and instead invest my time and energy into using it to my advantage instead of as a crutch or handicap.  I would have known the world is not ready for a soul like mine; but I would have rested assured that there was a special, designated place for it.  Or… everything could have unfolded just the way it did (as fate or destiny would have it) and having mom here would not have made a difference.  The point is, because she was stolen from me so soon, I will never know for sure. What I do know is that I got my name from her and I cherish that immensely.
           
             It seems simple enough.  T-A-N spells tan.  Add a y-a and you’ve got my name:  TANya.  But all through my primary education, I was forced to correct people who pronounced my name as though the ‘a’ was a short ‘o’ sound.  I was relentless when I came to teachers but more forgiving of others.  I can recall my 8th grade year in English class.  One day, we had a substitute teacher.  When she incorrectly called my  name during roll, I was shocked that I didn’t have to correct her.  The ENTIRE class retorted “it’s TANYA”.  Now in my adulthood, I’ve had people ask me “what’s the difference?”  Sometimes I reply by stating that one is my name and the other is not.  But the truth of the matter is, I wanna scream:
 
“IT’S ALL I HAVE LEFT FROM MY MOM SO STOP BEING A DICK ABOUT IT AND GET IT RIGHT!!!”
 
But when is it ever appropriate to say such a thing?!!!?
            
            I am not sure if the senility had already set in or if she was really telling the truth, but my grandmother said that she came up with my mom’s name as a thanks to God.  Being her only child, my grandma was THRILLED to have her baby girl.  She said from “Thank ya” she took out the ‘h’ and the ‘k’ and got Tanya – the name that would forever represent her appreciation for God’s gift.  Seems a bit of a stretch, but that’s what I’ve been told. So, it’s only fitting that I do my best to live up to the name, right?
           
            I have picked everyone’s brains and memories about my mom.  From my brothers (who were only 6 and 8 when mom died) to my father to her parents and stepparents. Unanimously, she is describe as the type of woman that I only hope I will be.  As a daughter, wife, mother, and friend, she represented the qualities that I strive for in my daily walk.  She was, without a doubt, a remarkable and irreplaceable woman.  She is my loss that is forever.

About a year ago, I did something small that turned out to be quite meaningful:  I got fitted for a bra.  They say that the average woman wears the wrong bra size, and having large breasts, I considered that I was probably in this category.  I had no idea, until that fitting, just how horribly I was treating my body.

I won’t go into my personal details, but I will state that I discovered during that session that I was wearing bras that were 3 cup sizes too small with a band size that was too big.  I also learned that 90% of a bra’s support is supposed to come from the BAND, not the straps.  The straps only lend 10%.  Because I had been wearing the wrong bra size, my straps were attempting to lend the additional support that my band could not provide, and as a result, I experienced constant pain in my shoulders.  But, I had grown so accustomed to this WRONG FIT that when the lady put on a bra that actually fit, as it was supposed to, it felt awkward...uncomfortable even.  I was asking her if the straps should be tighter, because I didn’t feel them pulling on my shoulders.  What I really should have said was, “hey, isn’t this supposed to hurt???” because in essence, that’s what I meant.  She assured me that the bra was as it should be, and that many women experience a similar reaction to the RIGHT FIT because they’ve been wearing the wrong one for so long.

Honestly, it took me about a good two weeks to both physically and mentally adjust to wearing the right fit.  I did play around with the straps a few times, and I had to FORCE myself to accept that I actually COULD and SHOULD have a bra that does not hurt.

While this could be a lesson in and of itself, to women out there who have grown accustomed to wearing the wrong-sized bra… in this experience, I realized that people everywhere have similar experiences and reactions when it comes to relationships.  And that is why I shared this bra-fitting story, because I was one of them.

You see, just as with the bra, I’ve been in all kinds of wrong fits in the relationship department.  And, truth be told, THEY HURT!  And sadly, I’d become so accustomed to the lack of support and the pain that it’s almost what I expected.  I would have never considered myself a bitter or angry woman.  And I never would have admitted outloud that my experiences had disheartened me to the point where I’d given up hope that I COULD and SHOULD experience a loving relationship that doesn’t hurt.  But, I was lying to myself and everyone else.  And I know this because, when I FINALLY found myself with a right fit, it felt awkward at first…uncomfortable even.  I knew, just like I did with the new bra, that it was indeed the right fit; it just took some getting used to because I’d grown so accustomed to the pain that I expected it.  As such, I had to mentally and emotionally adjust to being with someone that treated me right.  I had to force myself to accept that I deserved a healthy, happy, loving, and supportive relationship that doesn’t hurt.

Just like a good-fitting bra, a relationship should lift you up, make you feel good, and support you…and it’s not supposed to hurt.  It’s supposed to ADD to your comfort and security, not TAKE AWAY from it.  It’s purposed to do more for you than you can do yourself.  I remember the days of feeling RELIEVED *as soon as* I got home and took that ill-fitted bra off.  It was like I could finally breathe.   Similarly, I can recall the times when, after I stopped crying, I realized a relief after shedding a relationship that wasn’t right for me.  I could breathe again, no longer holding my breath and waiting for the knot in the pit of my stomach to ease up.  I was no longer trying to stuff more into a man/relationship than he had the capacity to receive (and adequately support).  I was no longer enduring pain for the sake of what seemed better than nothing at all.  But now that I have experienced what love is supposed to feel like, I’m almost ashamed and embarrassed that I dealt with the wrong fit for so long.

I had my reasons for wearing bras I knew didn’t fit me.  They were cheap and easy to find.  I honestly and truly thought it was better than nothing.  I knew that if I wanted a bra that truly fit me, because of my size, I’d have to spend 10 times what the smaller and averaged breasted woman would have to spend. They could go to their local Wal-Mart or Target and find a bra their size; I couldn’t.  If I wanted a bra that fit, I’d have to wait, because what was right for me does not come a dime a dozen.  In the back of my mind, I knew that the man for me would be one for whom I’d have to wait.  I knew that he’d be just as unique as I am.  And most importantly, I knew that he’d have to have the capacity to receive and adequately support all that I am.  I love how everyday he makes me realize just how wrong those other relationships were by being exactly what I needed, wanted, and deserved all along.  I appreciate that he was patient with me as I adjusted to the love he offered, and even as I went LOOKING for pain and found none to be there, he understood.  And I am happy that while his words are beautiful and heartfelt, they mean that much more to me because they are confirmed and reaffirmed by his actions.  I’m in awe, as I watch this man effortlessly mend my broken heart, and tenderly love me in a way that I never thought was possible.  I’m amazed that, though in my mind he’s done and does enough, he still wants to do and be more for me, because that’s just how worthy he thinks I am.  He loves me. And it is because of him, and my good-fitting bras, that I can now confidently say that love is not supposed to hurt.