“I’m so fucking dumb.”
At least that’s what I thought to myself while I allowed my inner voice to scold my actions. When this thought popped in my head, I was walking through blistering humidity in a very filthy transient neighborhood. At night.
like I was marching off to war. There are a whole lot of sad reasons why I allowed my overinflated pride to allow me the audacity to was stomp down the street all the way home while I was pissed off.
For starters, my car was not running (again). Oh, I also forgot my bus fare at home. And somehow, asking for a ride from a coworker seemed a whole lot more uncomfortable than walking through a dangerous neighborhood at 80-something percent humidity. So like a completely foolish dumb ass, I chose to walk home instead of asking a co-worker for bus fare, or asking a coworker for a ride home.
While I harrumphed home, I really had to stop myself and ask myself what the entire hell was I doing? Why I was walking. Like, really? I wasn’t walking because I left my bus fare at home, or because I was too prideful to ask a coworker for a ride. I was walking because I gave up on wanting something more for myself.
Real talk, I don’t have to walk anywhere. Ever. If I tried harder, I probably wouldn’t have this problem.
I had to admit to myself that as a black woman in America, I have a hell of a lot more choices than what other women around the world have. Some black women will never have a choice to go to college. Or get a decent job. Or marry the person they actually love. Or have the choice to work their entire asses off for a brand new vehicle. I could have been doing that and more, but instead I was walking and feeling sorry for myself.
When times get hard, you don’t feel bad for yourself. You pull yourself up by the boot straps, and make yourself mentally stronger. By breaking down in tears when my car died, or allowing pride to get in the way of making sure I had a safe way home, I was only displaying to the world that I was feeling bad for myself. Pitiful.
I was walking because of what I did with my choices. So why feel bad about it? Why not accept the fact that I have to work a little bit harder if I never wanted to walk through a dangerous neighborhood at night ever again?
I guess I had this heart-to-heart with myself because I finally had to admit that I was failing miserably at consistently providing for my family as a second bread winner. The truth was that I had already failed. But that’s not a bad thing.
Those days where I felt sorry for myself, and cried about my troubles were the times where my child saw me as a weak woman. But what could be more beautiful than my son watching his mom become a stronger woman by getting her shit straight? Really, what could be more beautiful than that?
I still have a lot to work on with myself. But if anything, I’m happy that I came down on myself so hard. Things are going to turn around for me, but never again will I feel sorry for myself for the situation that I’m in. I know what I have to do. Now all I have to do is get it done.