Love: A lot of songs, poems and multi-volume treatises have been devoted to the subject. So, in these strange days when we could use it the most, what’s left to say about the strongest of human emotions?  Plenty.

For this theme, our writers share narratives about romance, lust, friendship and self-love. From navigating passions during the coronavirus crisis to hiding it from relatives, these stories examine love’s necessary place in turbulent times.

Anonymous writers share stories about romance, friendship & self-love. These unbiased stories examine love’s place within society as well as ourselves.

Love, Romance & Friendship Narratives - The Doe

Love

“You know what I mean, Gloria, because you be having sex, right?” was the question asked to me by the brown-skinned, round-afroed boy sitting to the right of me in computer class. Now, any other day, if he spoke to me, it would elicit a smile spanning across my face (accompanied by butterflies in my stomach). He was my eighth-grade crush. However, on that day, after that question was asked, there was no smile, no butterflies. Instead, they had been replaced with a furrowed brow and a sassy response of: “No, I don’t know what you mean. I am waiting until marriage to have sex.” I was 13 years old. I was 13 years old and had made the decision to save myself until marriage—and there I was in my seventh-grade computer class proclaiming it, doing so with great confidence.

I was confident—well, somewhat so. At that age, I couldn’t tell you what being a husband truly entailed or explain the nuances of sex. I wasn’t confident in those things, at all. However, what I did know was that I would love him. “Him” being the man I would stand at the altar with, professing my love to before God, our friends and family. I was confident that I would love him in a way that I would never love anyone else.

I was 13, but I had heard it enough in movies and from real-life married couples. You know, the whole “I didn’t know love until I met you,” referring to a spouse as she gazed into his eyes. Taking these cues, I couldn’t imagine—and didn’t see the point in—giving away something that I deemed so precious, so special. I couldn’t offer it to anyone besides the man that I would vow to love through sickness and health, richer or poorer, until the only thing that would separate us was death itself. This kind of love would be one of the three types that would keep me committed to the proclamation I had made so confidently in my seventh-grade computer class.

Years later, I was introduced to the second love: self-love. I had been the friend who witnessed the worry on my friend’s face as she shared that she had contracted an STD. The friend who sat on the phone listening as my friend cried after having had her second abortion. The friend who heard the hurt in her friend’s voice as she said, “He told me to make sure I go get a Plan B pill,” after having had unprotected sex with a guy she really liked.

After being that friend, and experiencing consequences secondhand, I decided I wouldn’t allow myself to experience them firsthand. That protection was rooted in self-love: a love reflective of a mother’s love that protects her child from foreseeable harm. Like that maternal instinct, I loved myself so that I would keep myself from the hurt of a guy ordering me to take a pill ensuring no lasting evidence would result from our encounter. I loved myself enough to spare the shame of testing positive for an STD. I loved myself enough to avoid years of unanswered curiosity, living with a hurt so deep from an abortion. I loved myself enough to stay committed to the decision that would bring that very protection: saving my virginity.

The third type of love I embrace is for God. I have always loved God and, because of that, I never really questioned what God commanded of me—I ignorantly obeyed. Some would say that is how it’s supposed to be, but I did eventually develop a curiosity in one of God’s commandments. As I began to gain an understanding as to why God gave commands and guidelines regarding sexuality, it was like God was giving me a heads up. I realized that the commandments that God gave, the guidelines God set, were given in love. God wanted to protect me and, with that understanding, I gained a deeper love for God: a love full of gratitude. It was a love that would allow me to trust God’s will and God’s way—knowing it was for my best.

Love. Love has always had the power of influence. The influence doesn’t always work out in one’s favor. But love has served me well. Love was what influenced me to make the decision to save my virginity. And it was love, presented in different forms, that influenced me to stay committed. It has been 19 years since making the decision to wait until marriage to have sex. At 32, each type of love still shows up in my life when their service is needed. Sometimes it’s the 13-year-old’s love for her future husband; sometimes it’s the self-preservation derived from self-love; sometimes—oftentimes—it is God’s love and will that keep me rooted in my decision. They all assure me that the decision that I made in a seventh-grade computer class is one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life.

Why I’m Saving My Virginity at 32 Years Old

Some odd years ago, I was born and, then, immigrated to the United States with my family. I went to public grade schools. I grew up with a mom, a dad and a sibling. I lived in a house that had a tree in the front yard. I rode bikes. I took piano lessons. I went trick-or-treating for Halloween. On October 31, 2010, I went trick-or-treating for the last time. It wasn’t because I grew up and became too old. It was because I grew up and told my parents I am gay.

“It Gets Better” was a campaign that was running all over the internet back then. Neil Patrick Harris was the main face of that movement. He told young LGBTQ+ people that the struggles they were dealing with were only temporary—that “It Gets Better.” He in his fancy suit, on TV, telling me that in three, six, ten years: It gets better. I looked at him first with envy, thinking how lucky he was to be able to live his life without fear, without prejudice. He and his fancy suit, perfect haircut, white smile, and eyes that looked like they had never expressed sadness. I sat in my worn-down pajamas, with an awkward body that I was still growing into, just trying to think about what life would be like without prejudice.

“We would rather have a straight and homeless son, than a gay and successful one.” These 15 words were uttered to me on October 31, 2010, and are forever etched into my mind, physically branded into my skin as a reminder, and repeated on every day I go on.

I think maybe Neil forgot to include “sometimes never” in his commentary. Sometimes it might never get better. Sometimes it might take a lifetime. Sometimes. Never. Just never. Of course, time is relative, 2010 was ten years ago. But it seems like yesterday. I’m reminded of it every time I take my shirt off. I walked on eggshells for what seemed like forever. Unsure of what tomorrow will bring. Maybe suicide?

In the fall of 2013, I was ready to rebrand myself. I received a couple of college scholarships, but there was a gap that I had to fill. My family is notorious for being competitive, especially among family members. I could not be the one person—the eldest child out of all my immediate cousins—to not go to school, or culturally worse, go to a community college. I had to take out student loans. I had no choice. It was shame.

Then, I fell in love for the very first time. I was very happy. What is love? I am of the opinion that people in the LGBTQ+ community are five to ten years behind our heterosexual counterparts when it comes to love: simply because we did not have the same opportunities. Then I fell out of love—mostly due to struggling with figuring out who I am, what my identity is.

“We would rather have a straight and homeless son, than a gay and successful one.” Success is a finicky thing. It’s different for different people, what a cliché thing to write. Neil Patrick Harris was wrong. It doesn’t get better. Why me?

I had two choices: Either continue to feel down, or to keep my head up and pull myself up. Whatever happened to rebranding myself? I focused on my goals, my dreams, my hopes, my livelihood.

Ten years after coming out of the closet as gay, Neil Patrick Harris was right. It got better. Much better. As I am writing this, amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, I am sitting on a Zoom call with a slew of friends I've made throughout the years. I am still learning more about who I am. Originally I thought it got better in 2013 when I went to college. Then I thought it got better in 2016 when I fell in love. Now it’s even better in 2020. It will always get better, this isn’t the end: If it is, then I’ve lived a very sad life. My relationship with my parents has gotten better. I need to apologize to Neil Patrick Harris for hating him so many years ago. I’m sorry. My life isn’t perfect, but it’s loads better than before. It definitely got better. Why? Because of me.

Neil Patrick Harris' Message to Gay Youth: Video From Liqtimi

Short Reads

New Beginnings

Coming Out to My Parents Wasn’t Easy, but It Was Worth It

Being plus size in the late ‘90s and early 2000s, clothing choices were far from fashionable. Add in the pressure of being a teenager wearing baggy jeans, oversized sweaters or gauchos and bell sleeve floral shirts: It’s no surprise that when it came to the boys, I was a late bloomer. In my senior year of high school, my sister gave me a pair of lightly washed denim jeans that showed off my figure. It was the first time that I realized that I had hips for days, and fitted clothes made me look far less frumpy than anything else in my closet at the time.

The first day I wore those jeans to school, heads turned. I probably wore those things at least twice a week from that point forward. There was a newfound confidence that awoke in me. Suddenly, I cared more about what I looked like. I discovered that eyebrow waxing and acrylics weren’t just for special occasions anymore. Most of my Saturdays were spent in the hair salon. This confidence followed into my college years: While it was a bit of a culture shock to me, it didn’t take long to adjust. I was suddenly visible, and to be honest, I loved the compliments and the attention. 

I loved being the person who wasn’t seen as conventionally attractive and still left the party with the finest male there. I'm not sure if I chose the ho life or if it chose me. Either way, I loved the power that came along with it. I do know that my ho phase was a good-ass time. All of it (and them). I was a preacher’s kid, so my unburdening seems to be on-brand for a somewhat geeky person deeply submerged into Southern Christian culture. Most of my weeknights were filled with church-related events: dance rehearsal, choir practice, bible study, connection group, a conference of some sorts. Now some of the church kids were fresh as hell, but I respected the house of the Lord—for the most part.

There was something incredibly intoxicating to me in the power that came along with having a roster of men at my disposal. The rush of going out with multiple men on the same day was a high that sent my ego into orbit. I remember having a party one night and “scheduling” the three men I was seeing at the time to make an appearance because I wanted to spend some part of my birthday with all of them. 

The ho phase wasn’t strictly about ho’ing around: Although I was dating multiple men, all of them weren’t sexual partners. That’s nasty as hell. Occasionally there would be a loose commitment. No matter how much I tried, faithfulness was not my strong suit. The monotony of settling down paled in comparison to the rush felt when being in the thick of a ho phase.

I used a color-coded calendar to keep track of whom I went out with and with whom I slept. There were men just for date nights, some that were a guaranteed good time after a drunk night and, yeah, even some just for conversation. However, as much excitement as there was in dating multiple men at the same time, each relationship brought greater clarity. The biggest epiphany being: "Bitch, you’re getting too old for this."

Some of these men were also involved with other people. Some didn’t have any ambition or goals, some only wanted a beneficial arrangement and more than one left the indication that should I fall pregnant, I would be parenting on my own. On the surface these men were good-looking but what could they really offer beyond a few meals and admittedly (sometimes) lackluster sex? I think part of the reason I kept reverting back to this phase was that the more men I met—and took some time to learn who I was—the more I was able to see what I did not want from someone whom I would be seriously dating. It was easier to avoid vulnerability by erecting this wall over my heart and emotions. I continued to play the game because this way, I was in control.

On a whim, I found myself creating a profile on Plenty of Fish. Browsing the profiles, the right swipes were beyond generous because I wasn’t looking for commitment as much as I was looking for a distraction from life. Some fresh meat would be just what I needed. As the ho phase goes, a batch of gents gained enough of my attention and the selective weeding began. From this round of folks, I ended up meeting a few of them in person. In true ho fashion, I met them on the same day.

Over time, my communication with a lot of men began to dwindle. I ignored the infamous “you up?” text at 4 a.m. with one guy in particular. This one guy. His exuberant confidence made his mere presence command attention. The light that reflected from his eyes when he talked about things he was passionate about was blinding. And I could get lost in them forever. He had a smile that would calm the roughest seas. Everything about him felt new yet familiar at the same time. As time passed, we were hanging out quite often (not even having sex) and I never felt the need to be anyone other than myself.

Almost instinctively, I began to let my guard down. Of all the men I had previously dated, he was sui generis. While I didn’t know a lot of things relating to relationships or commitment, it was certain that anything I could possibly want in a partner could be found in him. He was intelligent and handsome but also patient, attentive and reassuring. His ambition and motivation were infectious. But, most of all, he was a provider; I felt safe with him. Even on the days that we were upset with each other, there was peace and comfort in his presence.

I remember the day that I genuinely wanted to lay all the cards on the table, quit the game and officially focus on this one person. Somehow, in the midst of ho’ing, I started falling for this man. We were at his house eating ice cream after dinner, watching the original Lion King and it felt so nostalgic. It was almost like one of those moments where a married couple would be reflecting on their relationship and asking each other, “Can you believe this is where we are now?”

He said, “I want you to listen to this.” He played a song that expressed his love toward me. It was a perfect moment. I knew, without a doubt, that every word in that song was about us. For once, there were visions of the future and a desire to grow old with someone. I didn’t want to see other people. I didn’t want to hurt him, only learn how to love him truly. What the hell was happening? Every broken piece of me was suddenly whole. “Redamancy” is defined as to love and be loved in return. That’s what this had become. Our relationship was the first time that I experienced what it felt like to be genuinely loved for who I was. And to genuinely love someone as well. It was pure. That feeling alone was greater than any power that I had felt previously. Even now, years later, nothing else compares.

I can’t say that we would have met had it not been for my mindless swiping that night. One could even say that the universe knew what (and whom) I needed, even when I didn’t. It seems weird to be grateful for a ho phase, but without a doubt, this relationship was the greatest blessing. As the old saying goes: You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince. 

How I Fell in Love During My Ho Phase

Prison sometimes can feel like an affectionless desert. By the age of 20, I was in here dying of thirst. A lifer twice over with blood-stained hands from sins I had committed when I was 15, I carried the weight of despondency. What can bring a kid who has a life sentence back from the brink of despair? 

One day I found myself sitting in my maximum-security cell, drowning under the waterline of our criminal justice system—a stone of hopelessness fastened around my neck. On the winds of a sentence of 40 years to life-plus, I carried the curses of those I had harmed, winds that blew out the internal wick bearing my spirit’s light. My eyes were blurry with tears that flowed from a spring of contrition and regret. I needed air; I wanted out of my pain, but I sunk under, deeper and deeper. 

Within me, an echo chamber reverberated with the verbal stones heaved at my 16-year-old identity four years earlier during court proceedings: “Evil kid…murderer…a danger…you should suffer…you should rot in prison.” 

That day, this harmony of hate was stuck in my head on repeat, synchronized with Jay-Z rapping out of the radio on the locker. He sang, “This is the number one rule for your set; in order to survive, gotta learn to live with regrets.” The results of my deeds were killing me; my regret was becoming too much to bear. 

I could no longer live knowing I had caused two mothers to suffer, both my own and the mother of the young man I had murdered. I could no longer live with the self-hatred that infected my being. How could I survive the rest of my life in a place that constantly reminded me that I was worthless and unwanted? The stabbings, the shootings, the racism, the correctional indifference, the deep loathing of human life around me was overwhelming and unrelenting. 

I sat in my cell that day resolved on suicide. I reasoned it was the most loving thing I could do—for me, my family and the family of my victim. I had stolen someone’s son, brother, love; a theft not repayable that left me spiritually broken. I even stole away the hopes and of my parents as they gazed and gushed over me in infancy. 

That day, I thought that my life wasn’t worth much, but it was all I had left to give. 

As death drew closer and closer, I became more and more convinced that what I was about to do was love. 

On that day, the prison was on lockdown. My cellmate was away at work; no one was out of their cells; the guards were in their office; the timing felt perfect. 

The cell walls absorbed the cold air that blew through the vent. If they thawed, it felt as if they would come down. The sobbing that escaped my heart and mouth muffled Jay-Z’s voice. I only heard his words in between breaths that had quickened to match the rate of my pulse. As I looked up at the light fixture to gauge if it would hold my weight, I soon felt I was running out of time. I wiped my tears with the sheet that I held in my hands.

A voice inside my body sounded like my own. It sang, “You won’t hurt anymore, just do it. Do everybody the favor. Just do it already, piece of shit!” I was overcome with sadness. The voice goaded me still. “I’m going to,” I thought. I just needed a moment. The voice sang on in the courtroom stones, the Jay-Z, my sobbing. The song within me had reached the climax of its crescendo. 

Suddenly another voice joined the chorus. “Jacobs, you straight? The fuck?! You good, bro?” The voice was my buddy, Preach. He was incarcerated a few cells down from me. Like me, he had been locked up since he was a child and also had 40 years to life. I looked up from the floor to see his face in the cell door window. 

He pounded his hand on the top of the metal door and shouted to the control tower, “Open 118, Perez!” The door hummed open. Preach came inside my cell. I hid my face in the sheet in my hands. I was ashamed to have been seen, caught, in such a low moment. 

All at once my thoughts raced. I was flooded with more voices inside asking questions: Does he know what I was about to do? Who will he tell? If people know, will they think I’m a bitch?! Weak? Will the guards find out? Will my family? Question after question and thought after thought.

Then he touched my shoulder. Suddenly, the questions and thoughts stopped. The perpetual anthem of hate ceased to play in my mind. There was something in his touch. Something soothing, healing, something God-like.

Preach squatted down beside me and said, “It’s gon’ be alright, Jake.” His song was better than mine. I lifted my face from the sheet and his eyes found mine. I sang, “I can’t do this shit anymore, Preach.” My despair was out of tune with the love hymn he sang with his touch. He stood up and demanded, “Get up!” and lifted me off the toilet. Without words he pulled me into his embrace. He hugged me gently but firmly. 

I wept into his shoulder and held on to him for dear life. His hug was everything my soul needed that day. The love I felt inside his arms cleared the fog that obscured my thoughts. When we pulled apart, he said, “Don’t you ever let them get you here.”

He held me for a brief moment only, but that moment has stuck with me ever since. He stood in my cell that day, never taking his hand away. He encouraged me. His words, his touch and presence told me I was worthy. In that moment, I was wanted, at least by him. I chose to stay alive for the sake of his love and friendship. 

There is no greater love than one that makes living worth it. Moreover, this one act of love allowed me to see that there were other loves for which I could live. During this darkest moment of my life, it was Preach’s love that lit my way out of despair.

Preach continued giving me that love until I was transferred to another prison. He’d check up on me every day. He enlisted his cellmate and my own to do the same. They all loved on me. We loved on each other to keep one another alive. 

Today no matter what institution I’m in, I make it a point to show this same love to other incarcerated people. And, if you look around any prison yard, you’ll find a “Preach” on each of them. They are the people who affirm the life and worthiness of other incarcerated people. It’s a tradition, a cultural custom in this world. 

For me, this love-custom saved my life and became my own way of life. I am forever grateful for Preach’s love, a love that pulled me out of despair.

A Fellow Inmate's Love Saved My Life in Prison

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

LGBTQ Voices

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Money

Lord help us: They say it's not polite to talk about religion or politics, but—hey—we've already talked politics, haven't we? Prayer's up.

Religion

“Look at how cute you were!” The text from my mother was accompanied by a photo of me at around 8 years old, when I was a flower girl at a relative’s wedding. The bride and I wore white dresses; we each held a bouquet of roses and baby’s breath. My smile was naive, milk teeth showing. I was missing one in the front. I’d seen the photo before but not for years. A rock formed in my stomach; I knew it was me, but I didn’t recognize myself as that little girl. I tapped the screen to close the text app. I wept. 

My parents divorced when I was 5. At 7, we moved in with my mother’s old flame. He drank. He’d soon turn violent, and my mother would follow suit on both counts. We didn’t know that when the photo was taken. 

I was a precocious child and a voracious reader. I knew big words but not always what they meant. I was probably also a little sassy, a combination that didn’t bode well around grown-ups who liked to drink and sometimes got violent when the empty beer cans began to pile up. My childhood had scores of fill-in-the-blank details regarding alcoholism and domestic violence. However, this story is not about those years. 

The violence and alcoholism escalated. I lashed out. In homes like mine, this often happens. Someone becomes known as the black sheep, and the family pins their issues on them. I was that sheep. My mother gave up custody when I reached 13 and turned me over to the family court system. Over the years, my placements ranged from juvenile detention to residential programs to group homes. 

The goal of the foster care system is to reunite children with their families, if possible. My social worker was kind and saw a bright something in me that she knew the system would crush. When I was 14, she helped my mother make plans to move to Arizona near our closest relatives. This was a beacon of hope, a carrot on a stick; once my mother moved away from her boyfriend, I’d be able to go home. I talked about the move with my counselors and the other kids. That summer, I had a hard time thinking about other things. Moving to Arizona was a mantra I couldn’t get out of my head. 

“You’ll go home as soon as we can get your mother on her feet,” my social worker said. I studied her dark ponytail and glasses. She was younger than my mother. She’d never lied to me. It was easy to believe what she said. 

“How soon?” I asked. “When will I get to go to a new school?” I weighed the possibility of moving right away and starting my first day of high school in Arizona rather than another placement.

“When are we moving, Mama?” I asked. I was on a day pass. On Saturdays, I was allowed out for a few hours. We went for Italian food at a strip mall restaurant every week, then we’d run her errands. I pushed spaghetti around on my plate. I’d always order water and the cheapest item on the menu so my mother could save up for the move.

“Soon. I just need to get some things in order.” 

My mother dragged a piece of bread through the sauce on her plate. It was always a similar answer: “I need more time.” “Soon.” “Be patient.” It took me a long time to realize she was only ever saying, “We’ll see.” Later, she’d drop me off at the residential center and go home to her boyfriend. 

Summer came and went. I started high school in the same center. I spent holidays there when some of the other kids got to visit home. Home was still unsafe for me with my mother’s boyfriend there. I trusted my social worker and my mother. I believed she was moving. Someone would have told me otherwise, but there were delays. I didn’t know what they were, but it was easy to convince myself that I was at fault. 

I considered the delay often, wondering what I’d done to make her mad. I needed to be better: better behaved, better grades, better daughter. I obsessed over this but never arrived at the correct answer. “Good enough” fit. I vowed to make myself good enough that she’d finally move and let me come home. 

Fast-forward through my teenage years. I bounced around from placement to placement. Moving to Arizona lost its form as language. It was as much a part of me as my hair color or the shape of my hands. My mother was moving. All I needed to do to get her there was to be good enough.

We never moved to Arizona. I believed I wasn’t good enough. I turned 18 and aged out of the system. 

Fast-forward through my 20s. I was angry but lashing out only at myself. There was nobody around to tell me certain things weren’t a good idea. There were drugs, some worse than others. I took my clothes off for money. I pierced and tattooed myself in regrettable ways. I went to jail. Twice. I was not good enough, and I was hell-bent on proving that to myself and everyone else. 

Fast-forward a bit more, because I got my shit together in an exceptional way. “Good enough” and “moving to Arizona” had been there since I was a teenager and they’d never left. It was the only way I could relate to my mother. Thus, without realizing what I was doing, I spent many years demonstrating that I was good enough. I got an education and a good corporate job. I have initials behind my last name. I married well. I spent lavishly on my mother; I had no idea how else to demonstrate “good enough.” 

I had anxiety. I had mood swings. I had insomnia. I had medication to dull everything to a perfectly flat line. However, regardless of my achievements, I never stopped trying to be good enough. Sometimes, anxiety paralyzed me when I’d leave my mother’s house. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t need to. I had a pill for that. 

Circle back to my cell phone, the text message, “Look at how cute you were!” and the photo of me as a flower girl. 

“That little girl had no idea,” I sobbed to my husband, referring to my photo in third person. It was an ugly cry. I was red-faced and shaking. I wiped my nose on my sleeve. He wrapped me in his arms, unsure of what to say. My tears dampened his shirt. He knew every inch of my history. “She might as well have been following a bouncy ball toward the edge of a cliff.” The child in the photo had never been hit, kicked or slapped by a grown man. She’d never let strangers pay to touch her. 

What is the opposite of a damaged human? The answer is that photo. I was shattering in my husband’s arms, remembering what I’d been through: physical violence, abandonment, longing for my mother to love me enough to move to Arizona and all the ways I laid down in the gutter in anger at myself. I pulled away from my husband. 

“Look at how cute you were,” I repeated my mother’s text message between sobs. “You did this to me,” I spat at her, sobbing, even though she was many miles away. I collapsed into my husband again. “You never moved. That little girl had no idea what was coming.”

I had a powerful moment of clarity: I’d spent decades trying to be good enough when it was no longer feasible for me to “come home.” Our entire relationship was based on what moving to Arizona meant to my teenage self. 

I haven’t spoken to my mother in a few years. You’re not supposed to say this out loud: I wish she would die. I’ll mourn, not for the loss of her as she is but for the loss of the mother I never had. I’d like to get it over with. I want to grieve for that little girl, begin to heal myself and finally move on. It won’t break me, because I’ve built a solid support system in my life. However, I know it will try. 

Ancestry

Health

I Wish My Mother Would Die So I Can Get On With My Grieving

Travel. The word itself conjures up images of balmy beachside evenings, bustling cities and new adventure. I have always loved travel, whether discovering somewhere new or revisiting an old favorite. A few years ago, Dubai was the ideal destination, and it wasn’t long until the word filtered down about all the exciting developments that were happening in the country. My then-husband, a contractor, was smitten.

He had always been excited by architecture and development, and the stuff happening in Dubai made him giddy—the tallest buildings, the man-made islands and the fast cars. He wanted in. We visited as a family once or twice, and although I liked it, I wasn’t as smitten as he appeared to be. It was a little too ostentatious for my style, but hey, it was hard to fault the five-star hotels, the great restaurants and the evocative Arabian landscape.

Despite this, I always felt there was a dark undercurrent there, something ugly lurking beneath the shiny surface, and it made me nervous. The busloads of overworked and underpaid migrant workers being ferried around the city to various construction sites did nothing to endear me to the city, nor did the sight of them sleeping under shady trees in 40 degree Celsius heat. Anything that’s too good to be true usually is.

My husband began spending a lot of time in the country, building business connections, and his infatuation with the lifestyle was growing stronger every day. Despite my misgivings, that summer, my children and I packed our bags to join their dad and spend the summer in Dubai for what we were promised would be “the holiday of a lifetime.” I wasn't fully sure I wanted to spend two months there, but I decided to go with the flow and support him in his new ventures. I was excited about a summer adventure but also a little nervous at the prospect of being away from home for so long. My husband was a workaholic, but at home, I had friends and a support system to help out. This was going to be a totally different ball game. 

Straight off, I felt something had changed. All the time spent away had an impact on him—and not in a positive way. It felt strange. We were rarely able to see him with all his work commitments, and when we did, he had an entourage of staff following him everywhere. Getting time alone was like asking for an audience with the pope. My husband had been a successful contractor back home, but deep down, he was a normal country boy who worked hard and enjoyed his family and friends. Now his jeans were cast aside (he had taken to wearing designer suits), and he had even found his own tailor. The customary 4x4 he usually drove had been traded for a fancy sports car, and he had people who appeared to be around just to do his bidding.

As the days ticked by, it became obvious to me that this new persona was alien to us, and I wasn’t a fan. The influence of the wealth around us made him rude to people, and I was constantly embarrassed. He, on the other hand, seemed to revel in his newfound (self-appointed) status as some sort of don. Big things were happening, he said, and I needed to suck it up while he climbed the ladder of success. 

A few days into our stay, I organized a sitter and persuaded him to go for a drive and some lunch so that we could talk. I was unsettled and felt like I didn’t know the man I was married to anymore. He was a stranger. True, we had had our ups and downs throughout the marriage, but through it all, I had known who I was dealing with. Not anymore.

He shrugged off my concerns and informed me that his future was Dubai-based, and as a result, so was mine. I laughed, but my face drained when he told me that he had already started looking at schools for our kids. I was speechless, and for the first time in all the years I had known him, I was scared. Dubai had a reputation for not being the most hospitable place for Westerners, and as for women…well, I had heard enough stories to know that I didn’t plan to ever live there or send my kids to school there. 

But my protests fell on deaf ears, and a week into our visit, he advised me that he had hired an interior decorator to help me decorate the villa that we would be living in and that money was not an object. I was aghast—this was never the plan, or at least any plan of mine.

Somehow, I had devolved into a place in my marriage where my opinion was not considered. I was reminded regularly that he was the breadwinner and that as long as I didn’t cause trouble, I would be well looked after, spoiled even. Back home, we had been well off, but the way he was spending was next level; I knew we weren’t in that league. But prestige and power had intoxicated him, and as he patiently explained to me many times, Dubai was a place you had to fake it till you made it. “Fake” was certainly the word that I clung to. 

The days dragged on, and after a week or so, we moved from the hotel into a villa that my husband had leased for the summer while the villa he had bought was being built. I was lonely and confused by the change in his personality, but I rarely saw him alone, as his posse was always around. When we socialized, I wasn’t allowed to sit with him while he was in the company of local Emirati business associates and was instructed to sit with the other women. Having a glass of wine raised eyebrows, and my Western dress was not appreciated whatsoever. Once, I was left sitting in a sweltering car for hours as he stopped off to see someone on our way to dinner and totally forgot I was with him.

It was all surreal, and I felt powerless to do anything about it apart from appeal to the man I had married. Sadly, he no longer existed. Eventually, sensing my frustration, he suggested I invite a friend to come stay to keep me company. Desperately in need of a friend, I jumped at the chance. Two days later, she arrived, her face etched with worry after the stories I had told her. She didn’t know the half of it.

She spent a week with me and the kids, but by the end of it, she was anxious to get home—and get us home too. I wasn’t arguing. As the date of her flight crept closer, I tried to figure out a reason to tell my husband that I needed to go back home too, but any hints that I made were instantly dismissed. I had my passport, and the kids’ too, but I knew I didn’t have enough cash in the bank to book five last-minute flights home. I was stuck. And then, I caught a lucky break.

My husband had to return home for a week to sign some papers, and then and there, I decided I would be going home too. He begged us to stay and wait for him, but I knew this was my chance. With my friend in my corner, we insisted he book us all flights home together, and finally, because she was there, he relented.

And so we packed our bags and boarded a flight home, never to return. He did return eventually, but the damage to our relationship was done. Dubai was not the first or final straw in what had become a strained marriage, but it was certainly the straw that wielded the most impact. By the end of that summer, we had separated for good, although it took years for our eventual divorce to be finalized. But that’s a whole different story.

The Holiday of a Lifetime Ended My Marriage

I heard her car race up the gravel driveway, and within seconds, she was banging at my door, screaming. As soon as I opened the door, I could tell by the wild look in her eyes she was high.

“Calm down, I can’t understand what you’re saying.” 

I attempted to make sense of the story between her screams and crying. Was her baby in danger? Where was he? In the car?

“You have to help me! Why aren’t you helping me?” she yelled. 

“I’m trying to, but I can’t understand…” 

Frustrated, she turned away, and I followed her back to her car, glancing at the empty car seat in the back. 

He, I assumed, was her ex-boyfriend and the baby’s father. Before I could answer, she slammed her car into reverse and sped down the street, leaving me feeling like I’d been hit by a typhoon. It was a feeling I was well used to after 10 years of parenting my moody foster daughter. But she was a mother in her mid-20s now. I’d expected the teenage dramas to have settled down by now. 

I went back inside and comforted my younger children. It wasn’t their first experience with her increasingly erratic moods, and they were scared.

“She’s gone,” I reassured them, but within minutes, we heard her car in the driveway. 

“Go into the bedroom and stay there, OK?” I told them. “Put on a movie.”

I rushed outside to stop her before she got to the door. Whatever was going on needed to stay outside. She slammed her car door, screaming and even more wild than before. I glanced up at the neighbor’s house, feeling embarrassed about the explanation I would have to make later. “Help me!” she shouted in my face. When she drove off again a few seconds later, I knew the only help I could give her was one she wouldn’t like: I called the police.

Her drug use started at 14. My foster daughter had spent most of her childhood around her birth parents who both openly smoked weed, so when I smelled marijuana on her clothes, it hadn’t shocked me. As far as I knew, that was it. 

We had very open conversations, and our relationship was close and loving. She came from a family of addicts, and we talked about it with the hope she could break the pattern, something she desperately wanted to do. She was creative and bright, outgoing and positive. She wanted to embrace life and not waste it on drugs and alcohol. 

One day, she came home from a friend’s house shaking. “She shot up, right in front of me!” she said, her eyes wide. “I told her I never want to see her do that ever again. I can’t believe she does it!” Weed was one thing, but hard drugs? She was furious to hear about anyone doing that. 

When her cousin started getting into trouble with drugs and crime, she raged about it for weeks and in the end cut her off. Drama seemed to surround her, but mostly because of other people—the friends she chose, her birth family and the kinds of boys she dated. 

But when she got pregnant, split up with her boyfriend and entered a custody battle, things started to change. At first, I thought he was being manipulative. Her ex called me several times, bad-mouthing her and then threatening me. “You know she’s on meth, right? If you don’t help me get full custody, you’ll regret it!”

“Rubbish,” I thought. “There’s no way she’s on meth.” Yes, she’d lost a lot of weight after the birth of her son, but her morning sickness had been terrible and it took its toll on her body. Every time I saw her, she was her usual self, laughing and playing with her son and my younger kids. Surely I’d notice if she was on meth. I decided to tell her what he was accusing her of. She’d need to know for the custody case anyway. 

“Of course not!” she said. “He’s the one who does drugs!” 

It seemed believable. I’d only met him a few times, and he was nice and polite to my face, but he clearly had two sides to his personality.

Over the next few months, though, her behavior became more inconsistent. Then, she befriended a few gang members and guys with known police records. She’d never been a great judge of character and had an interesting mix of friends, but this was a new level. Meanwhile, my own life was changing. 

My husband and I got a divorce, and my focus shifted to creating a new, peaceful home for my younger kids. I touched base regularly with my foster daughter and helped her with her baby where I could, but I didn’t have much energy for the increasing drama. “She’s an adult now,” I reminded myself. After years of helping her through breakups, friendship dramas and disappointments, it was hard to pull back, but it felt important. She hated it. 

“Just help me!” she screamed at me in the driveway as the police tried to calm her down. 

“We are,” they reassured her. “We’re taking you to the hospital.” It wasn’t the help she wanted, but it was what she needed. I stood back, out of reach, and let them take over.

When I’d discovered she was on meth, things started to make sense. Her skin problems, her increasingly aggressive and erratic moods, her disappearances for days at a time. In the few minutes after she’d driven away, I’d quickly phoned her ex-boyfriend and found out why he had the baby. She’d gotten high, gone to see him and threatened to harm him and then herself. Knowing she’d followed through on threats before, he’d become worried, taken the baby and gone for a walk around the block, trying to figure out what to do next. 

The police dropped her off at the hospital, found her ex-boyfriend and dropped the baby at my house while they questioned him: no nappies, no bottle and no idea how long I would be babysitting for.

The hospital discharged her later that day, and she was allowed to come and collect her child. She looked calmer and thanked me for babysitting, but I’d had enough. Was this kind of helping changing anything for her or enabling her drug use? How long do you keep helping someone who won’t help themselves? A few weeks later, she left her child with a friend for three days while she indulged her habit. I rang child protection services. 

They gave both my daughter and her ex drug tests, and a judge awarded full custody to the baby’s father. Maybe now she’d get professional help, I hoped. While the trial was on, she made threats to her ex, to me and to members of my family. We discovered she’d borrowed thousands of dollars from various friends and family—they didn’t know it was to fuel her habit, and she had no intention to pay it back.

None of us had been helping the way we’d thought we were. 

She wasn’t safe around me or my children, and I decided I couldn’t have her in my house anymore. I grieved for the sweet, fun girl I’d raised who had dreamed of a better life, but that girl hadn’t been around for years. She’d died and someone else had replaced her. Drug addiction is like that. The only way to help her now was to set firm boundaries. I offered to take her to rehab or even to meet her in a cafe to talk, but I made it clear she wasn’t welcome in my house while she was using. She refused to see me. 

It’s been three years now. I’ve heard through other family members that she claims to be clean, but she’s said it so many times, it’s hard to believe her. There’s been no rehab and no signs of real change. Who knows? I hope she is clean for her sake and her child’s. Sometimes, though, you have to make the tough call. Maybe it’s not the right call to make—people have told me it’s harsh, and they could be right. Personally, though, I felt it was my only choice. I hope one day she gets the help she needs.

My Daughter Was Addicted to Meth: I Had to Let Her Go

One night, while we were reading on opposite ends of the couch, my partner, let’s call him Isaac, said the words that ended our relationship of six and a half years: “I just can’t let it go.” 

“The kid thing?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

We’d talked about kids on our first date—he wanted them, and I didn’t. I told myself maybe one of us would change. Maybe once I had healed my trauma and established my writing career, I’d decide that I wanted to be a parent. Maybe once Isaac had a dog and a demanding work schedule, he’d decide that he didn’t. Instead, a couple of months shy of my 40th birthday, it finally broke us. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. 

It ran deeper than that—to our roles in the relationship, our autonomy, our conflicting ideas about gender—but neither of us had the language or framework to articulate that, so we fought about kids.

Before I’d met Isaac, I’d been single for nearly a year, a year in which only one person had shown any romantic interest in me. I’d worried that my sexual and romantic life might be over, a prospect that, at the time, felt unbearable. I’d been raised to believe that love was the most important thing, that when I found “the one” they’d be my purpose, my center.

When Isaac and I broke up, I again faced the possibility that I could be single for the foreseeable future, but this time, it felt fine, even a little exciting. Over the previous two decades, I’d dated five people for at least two years a piece, and I’d lived with each of them. I was tired of trying to mold myself to other people’s preferences. I found I enjoyed living alone, free from judgements or expectations. I wasn’t expected to take care of anyone but myself. It was wonderful. A friend who visited that summer said, “Single looks really good on you.”

I began to imagine what new shapes my life might take. I wondered why I’d spent so much time and energy in pursuit of “the one.” I’d never really believed that we all have a perfect match, and yet I’d felt compelled to find a person to permanently and singularly attach myself to. I didn’t want that anymore, but I realized that permanent celibacy might not be for me either. I decided to explore other options. I looked into swinging but was disappointed to find that swingers tended to come in pairs, and besides, even the fantasy of sex with strangers was completely unerotic to me. I tried books and podcasts about group sex, kink and open relationships.

One day, on a relationship advice podcast, the host described an arrangement Bill Gates had with one of his exes: Regardless of who they were currently dating, Gates and his ex met once a year for a weekend getaway. “People can do that?” I wondered.

Before Isaac, my relationships had ended in betrayal or cruelty, and I moved on as quickly as possible. But Isaac had been kind and compassionate to the end—and in the months since. There was still deep love between us. I began to wonder if we could keep that love while also allowing each other to pursue the things we couldn’t give each other. 

Curious about what love could look like free from the confines of monogamy, I read The Ethical Slut and listened to the Multiamory podcast. I attended a local polyamory discussion group. I took time exploring my needs and desires. I began to think about my dating history differently. I’d built a life with five different people. It began to seem more like a technicality than a meaningful distinction that I’d loved and been intimate with people sequentially rather than simultaneously.

Viewing myself through the lens of any one of my past relationships presented a skewed picture, one in which I looked gay or straight instead of queer, where certain parts of my personality were amplified and others receded. In friendships, I knew that I needed a variety of people to support me and share different aspects of my life, but I’d never previously thought of romantic relationships this way. It began to seem strange that I’d expressed love by trying to control someone’s connection to others.

During all of this, Isaac and I still hung out, but we never talked about getting back together, until one night about nine months after the breakup. I don’t remember the conversation leading up to it, but I found myself screaming at him that he was an idiot. I told him that he loved his independence, that he didn’t have the time or emotional energy for kids and that he’d thrown away what we had for a hypothetical. I watched him crumple under the weight of my words. He left in tears. After that, I avoided him for a few weeks until he texted me that he had “things to say” and wanted to say them soon. 

I asked him to meet me in the park. I was nervous. I wanted to be able to move while we talked. It was a warm, sunny day, and the trails were crowded, but it had also rained recently and they were studded with muddy pits. We kept having to pause to let people pass. Isaac started by telling me he’d decided he no longer wanted children. While I was still trying to absorb that, he said he wanted to get back together. I had expected criticism or an announcement that he’d met someone else. Instead, he said that he was refocusing on his writing and his relationships and that he was looking for a new job and hoping to move away by the end of the year—unless I wanted to get back together. I was confused. I still loved him, but I wanted all these other things, things I’d so far explored only in theory. 

For the next four weeks, we met up every few days to talk. I told Isaac about how much I liked living alone, how I was rediscovering my queerness, how I wanted to explore polyamory. He talked about how he’d realized he wasn’t making time for the things he cared about, how excited he was about the idea of living in a bigger city. He texted me inspiring quotes by Louise Gluck and Leonard Cohen.

Excited by each other’s growth, we started dating again. Isaac was sweet and thoughtful. He respected my autonomy and didn’t push for too much of my time. We went ice skating and out for delicious meals. We talked with an intensity and mutual patience that were completely new to us. But despite all the communication, our relationship took on an uncomfortably familiar heteronormative shape. Isaac paid when we went out. I cooked for us when we stayed in. We didn’t see anyone else. We had conventional missionary position sex. We were talking about doing things differently, but what we were doing felt depressingly familiar.

After a few months, I ended things again. I told him it was because I was “more queer than I’d thought.” I wanted to live in a way that didn’t align with gender norms or cultural expectations. I wanted to date women, but more than that, I wanted to love on my own terms. 

I thought he’d be angry. I thought he’d never want to talk to me again. Instead, over the next few weeks, he reached out consistently to ask how I was doing. He asked about my queer identity and my experience as a woman. He spoke to me openly about his grief over the loss of the relationship but also his hope that we’d be able to stay friends. 

When we were dating, he’d presented me with an upbeat, unfaltering optimism, but once we fell apart again, he let himself be vulnerable. I found that openness irresistible, and one night, about a month after the second breakup, he asked if he could kiss me goodnight, and I said yes. That was four months ago. In the time since, we’ve built a structure that is purely our own. When we’re physically together, we’re deeply engaged, and when we’re apart, we give each other lots of space. I’m dating two other people in addition to Isaac, and he’s actively looking for jobs in a city two hours away. We’ve agreed that we’ll never have kids and never live together again. Sometimes, it’s scary to love someone in a way that is so unentangled, but it’s also the best relationship I’ve ever had. 

It Took Eight Years and Two Breakups to Save Our Relationship

Everyone remembers the best sex they ever had. It stays in the memory forever—the powerful physical and emotional sensations are unforgettable.

The best sex I ever had was six months into my last relationship, with a man I had fallen completely in love with and who went on to become my fiance. A man I was with for seven years. It was the first time I understood sex could be more than a physical release and the chasing of pleasure. That specific evening, it was as if our minds and bodies were in harmony. We climaxed together, whispering our love in each other’s ears, a moment that now makes me cringe writing about but that, at the time, felt entirely natural.

I think about that experience a lot because it completely changed my perception of love and sex. I think about it because I’ve been chasing those feelings ever since but have never managed to get back there. Even with that same man, I have never since felt quite as perfectly connected with another human being, either physically or emotionally.

I’m certain that day is at least part of the reason why, when I split up with that man five years ago, I stopped having sex. That wasn’t the plan at the time; initially, I did what most people do and decided to take a break from intimacy while I recovered from the trauma of my breakup.

But weeks became months, became years, and here I am, five years later—37 and not having sex.

To put it simply, I don’t see the point. I had my fair share of casual sex during my late teens and 20s—one-night stands, hookups and a long-term friends-with-benefits situation during which sex was physically fulfilling but completely devoid of emotion and connection. On top of that, when I became single again in late 2017, I discovered that the nature of dating had changed in the preceding decade, driven by the emergence of dating apps.

The statistics surrounding dating apps are staggering—323 million people use them worldwide, and by 2021, revenues stood at $5.61 billion. Tinder, Grindr, Bumble and the vast array of other apps have transformed the way we meet romantic and sexual partners. Sex is more accessible than ever before—it’s become transactional, quite often anonymous, without emotion, and I find myself instinctively rebelling against it.

Whenever a friend disappears off to a different house or meeting place during the evening, returning later to find themselves blocked or ghosted by the man or woman they had been intimate with only hours before, I find it depressing. Can you really find love through a Grindr hookup?

Many of my friends are now in open relationships, more than happy, they insist, to satisfy their physical needs with a handsome stranger before returning home to the one they (say they) love.

I have the same debate endlessly with friends, many of whom believe monogamy is unnatural, impossible even. Eventually, they reason, every couple will face three choices: stop having sex altogether, open up the relationship to other people or break up.

I counter that point with my own belief that if a relationship is built on love, it will last—even become stronger—regardless of whether sex is part of the dynamic.

The trade-off here is that I am waiting for love—and if I don’t find love, will I ever have sex again? 

I know how this all sounds. I am routinely and relentlessly mocked by friends for my views on sex, and I understand that completely. To be honest, I’m surprised myself. Sex is, after all, the ultimate pleasure. Why deny yourself that pleasure? Am I just overthinking it?

As Joe Orton, the famous playwright, once said: “Get yourself fucked if you want to. Get anything you like. Reject all the values of society and enjoy sex. When you’re dead, you’ll regret not having fun with your genital organs.”

It may be one of life’s most pleasurable experiences, but it is also one of the most intimate. To waste that intimacy with a stranger seems futile. Sex is best when it is an expression of love. Until I fall in love again, my abstinence will continue. And I’m happy with that.

Why I Won’t Have Sex Without Love

Like with most things in life, if you’ve not personally lived through an experience, you really don’t know much about it. I know this well from living a life of secrecy. The most difficult part of identifying as anything other than a straight person in Nigeria is the energy it requires to conceal this vital aspect of yourself. 

In other words, I live with the constant fear of not doing anything contrary to the norm, behaving like a straight person would, with little to no room for being anything else. We all just try to conform so no one can ever suspect anything is amiss in our chase of conventionality.

Coming from a typical Nigerian family, it’s difficult to be liberal with your thoughts. It’s believed that the father speaks on behalf of the family—other members are simply meant to fall in line or they risk getting cast out. It may seem very hard to understand for most, but I guess when your life and reputation depend on it, we all do things we never thought we were capable of doing. In this case, it’s the act of being inconspicuous.

I always knew there was something quite different about me. While my friends in high school were busy trying to catch the attention of boys, I was busy forcing myself into thinking about them too. But catching the attention of a boy just felt wrong to me. Even then, I did it to seem normal.

I wasn’t really aware of much after that. I had a boyfriend, and I only really cared about graduating, so the thought of dating went away—and so did the boyfriend. Fast-track a couple of years later: I was in love with my friend of the same sex, let’s call her S, and we both felt an effortless attraction. Although we had to be really sneaky about it, no one really paid us much attention, so we carried on for years. 

Reality interrupted when S was taken in for a deliverance at our church for being possessed by a demon. That’s when I knew her parents had found out about her being gay. In our country, being gay is synonymous with being allied with the devil, but S became unapologetic and fierce about it. “Haven’t you heard I’m the spawn of the devil himself?” she would yell, seeming insane to anyone who had just met her. I knew she was cracking under the pressure of being conventional and perfect. 

S was a gentle, sweet soul, but not long after the deliverance, she simply vanished. I think she was sent somewhere—I never really found out where. I was brokenhearted and had to move on in silence without telling anyone about S and our time together. If anyone noticed my sadness, they must have felt I was just missing my best friend.

At 20, I began to understand the bigger picture, realizing my childhood struggle with being gay was just a drop in a bucket. The biggest shock was realizing that almost everyone I met who identified as gay in Nigeria had a similar story as mine. Eight years ago, the government passed a law in which anyone who identified as gay or who was caught in the act with someone of the same sex was to be sentenced to a 14-year jail term. Knowing this law existed, a few gay friends came together and moved our scene underground to keep us hidden. 

Still, we encountered so many problems with the law or with blackmailers, and at some point, we all agreed the whole trouble was too much and it was best to stay secretive. During that time, our biggest issue came from people who infiltrated our scene under the pretenses of being gay or bisexual. Then, they simply vanished a week or two later, and almost immediately, the place would get raided or shut down. It was deeply upsetting to know some people think being gay is a fun, one-day choice.

Of course, it’s not. But in Nigeria, we have to be more subtle and careful to avoid suspicion; otherwise, our careers or families could be gone forever. We’ve had some really famous gay Nigerians speak up, but they still get to leave the country. Their brief and very privileged stays, along with their wealth, make them untouchable in Nigeria—effectively, being openly gay or bi is dependent on how much money or influence you have. 

As I often say, Nigeria is not so much anti-gay as it is anti-poor. Just a couple of months ago another law was passed, which can impose those found guilty with fines of up to $1,200 or six months in jail. Yet the rich and famous are not affected by this—just the average Nigerians. In what we often call “jungle justice,” gays or cross-dressers who are caught on the streets here are often either stripped naked or beaten, sometimes to death. 

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