Written By: Tiffany Patterson

As living alone during the pandemic continues, reading has become almost impossible because my mind is filled with so much noise--years of buried trauma, guilt, and shame working its way upward. 

As a distraction, I started watching way too many shows on streaming apps. And after burning through a tremendous amount of content, I eventually joined social media, particularly Clubhouse, to listen to hours of a bunch of anybody’s pontificating about controversial topics. 

This indulgence led me to a few triggering Clubhouse conversations. “Black women: failed relationships are YOUR fault” or “Would you date a divorced person?” the rooms were commonly titled and led by individuals who were neither a Black woman from a failed relationship nor a divorced individual. I was exhausted by the tiresome comparisons between Black women and white women. These Black male moderators not only believed we were not pretty enough, but they also thought we were incapable of loving and being loved.

Aware of the eccentricities of social media, I was still angry, yet curious and dismissive, yet hurt. These titles and the commentary hardened how I felt about myself--unwanted, undesired, defective,--and soon, I banned myself from entering those rooms again. While everyone is entitled to their opinions, their opinions should not erode my existence; though forged through generational pain, I am not obliged to tolerate it.

For too long, I have allowed other people’s pain to inhibit my growth. As a result, I struggled to own my past and not see it as a failure but a valuable experience. I was embarrassed to accept that while I did not regret my relationship, I regretted getting married for the sake of fulfilling the wishes of my father, who enforced his cultural and outdated ideas of women upon me and my sisters. I regretted believing that my only decision was settling for what was expected of me rather than advocating for what I wanted--and being okay with ruffling a few feathers if it meant finding happiness on my own. 

With all my inherited insecurities, I was sent off into the world with a broken heart and paranoia that the first person I had mistaken as the love of my life would run off with its pieces, leaving me with an emptiness I refused to imagine. Although, it did not quite happen that way. Instead, I met that emptiness with all the pieces in my hands, having broken it myself many times into smaller pieces leaving nothing wholesome to share with someone special. 

It took me some time to finally acknowledge my pain and shame, yet my desire to heal. Honesty and healing are two precious gifts I denied myself of for so long. I was taught that someone else should heal me because I was incapable of doing so independently. Yet, through the pandemic, I continue to heal and carry myself in superhuman ways. 

Reminded of the Clubhouse conversations and the things I told myself, I too often gave myself reasons why no one will ever love me and never any reasons why someone will. And knowing that if someone couldn’t love me the way I wanted to be loved, I was hurting myself by pretending they could.

I have not completely broken free from the negative thoughts swarming my mind, but I am finally putting up a fight. I am learning that love is a joy we permit ourselves to have. So, I am committed to permitting myself the joy of knowing I am worthy.

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