B.O.F.A

Dear Lover, 

B.O.F.A: “Let me come over and kiss you down below.” 

Eboné: *sends address*

Looking back on my time with B.O.F.A, I must confess that he entered my life at the right time– and not for the reasons you might expect from the simple text exchange above. I had recently left my Na-Na's house, and let me tell you, those were the beginnings of some truly challenging times for me. Throughout that period, I encountered numerous hurdles, and I was constantly in search of sources of happiness, no matter where I could find them.

I met B.O.F.A through a mutual friend at his workplace, and it was pretty obvious that he had a crush on me. Standing at average height with a medium build and a beautiful smile, he had a charm that captivated me. This man was truly handsome. Looking back, one of the things I really loved about him was his voice. It wasn't super deep or anything, but there was something about it that just drew me in. Perhaps it was the hint of a Southern accent that added a touch of familiarity, making me feel incredibly comfortable and at ease in his presence. Each time I visited my friend at her workplace, I couldn't resist the temptation to swing by his desk, engaging in conversations that often extended well beyond the workday.

One day, as we were chatting, he opened up about his unhappiness in his relationship with his fiancé. Now I know it’s niggas that use these type of confessions as part of their game, but I genuinely believed him. As time went by, I'd occasionally find myself thinking about him. Then, one night, he texted me with a pretty bold text, exactly like the message you saw earlier. At first, I tried to turn him down, thinking maybe he was just kidding around. But he was persistent, and eventually, I couldn't resist any longer, and I gave in to temptation. I figured, why not? I deserved to feel good, even if it was just for a brief moment.

I was completely aware that my actions were wrong, and I constantly tried to remind myself of that fact. But there was a magnetic energy between us, an undeniable connection that just pulled me in. It could have been our mutual longing to escape the burdens of reality and seek solace in moments of pleasure, even if they were brief. Despite my reservations, B.O.F.A. showed up at my place and delivered on his promises….. and then some. 

There's a unique vulnerability that comes with being naked in bed with someone, as if it peels away any pretenses, leaving you exposed as your true self. We shared countless nights in that intimate space, where we not only bared our bodies but also our souls, revealing secrets and details we had never shared with anyone else before. I've always had a knack for making people feel comfortable, and I often tapped into that super power during these vulnerable moments.

I couldn't help but wonder why he remained in a relationship that clearly didn't fulfill him. Maybe, selfishly, I wanted him to see the potential I saw between us. During one of our late-night discussions, B.O.F.A opened up about the challenges he faced in his relationship. He shared the burden of financial dependence, where his partner was the primary breadwinner. I listened intently as he revealed the internal struggles he grappled with, torn between the comfort of their financial stability and the emotional void that had slowly crept into their relationship. 

B.O.F.A words struck a chord with me, as I contemplated the sacrifices I made in the name of security. It was evident that B.O.F.A's predicament was not unique, especially in a city as demanding as New York. The fear of financial uncertainty, the mounting bills, and the overwhelming cost of living often lead individuals, including myself, to remain in situations that have exceeded their expiration dates. 

He also entrusted me with a deeply personal secret – the possibility of struggling with a sex addiction. During our conversations, he didn't hold back, providing explicit accounts of his encounters with multiple women, even during a trip with his fiancée. While I've always believed in offering a safe and understanding space for such discussions, I must admit that my pums dried up pretty quickly. I can hear my girl down below saying, "You sholl know how to pick them."

As he spoke, I couldn't help but wonder about the choices he was making. If he was capable of such actions towards his girl, it raised a lingering concern about whether he might do the same to me. It was a stark reminder that how you get them can sometimes be how you lose them, and this realization added a layer of complexity to our connection that was difficult to ignore. Listen, I had deep feelings for B.O.F.A, but I wasn't no dummy.

When we were together, it was as if the world faded into the background, and all that mattered was the electric connection between us. We made each other feel desired and wanted, an intoxicating feeling that overpowered any rational thought. The stolen glances, the whispered words, the tender touches—they all created a sense of longing that kept us coming back for more. But it wasn't just about physical attraction. We made each other feel understood on a deeper level. Our late-night conversations were like therapy sessions, where we shared our dreams, fears, and insecurities without judgment. In those moments, I felt truly seen and heard, and I believe he did too.

However, as intoxicating (and toxic if I’m being honest) as our connection was, it came with a price. The guilt and moral dilemmas we both faced were undeniable. Speaking for myself, I found myself torn between the intensity of our emotions and the nagging awareness that our actions were questionable. As time went on, it grew increasingly difficult for us to carve out moments to be together. Our schedules constantly clashed and eventually, it began to strain our relationship. After a while, I had to step to myself as a woman and ask, "Eboné, what are you doing? Because this doesn't feel right." Deep down, I knew it was wrong, but as it so often goes, I felt compelled to challenge my own judgment.

I began to distance myself from him, and B.O.F.A. started to notice. He would reach out sporadically, asking if we could talk or just checking in to see how I was doing. Although I genuinely cared about his well-being and had a desire to talk to him, I knew it wasn't a wise idea to engage further. Eventually, these sporadic exchanges dwindled, and we gradually stopped talking altogether.

Just the other day, I was leisurely scrolling through my Instagram feed when, lo and behold, I stumbled upon a familiar face – none other than B.O.F.A!  You know Instagram loves to be messy chile. With caution, I browsed through his pictures and this man's beauty still shone through, even after nearly a decade had passed since our time together. As fate would have it, he eventually tied the knot with his fiancée, and now they're blessed with beautiful children. From an outsider's perspective, it was evident that love had found its way back into their relationship, and both he and his now-wife radiated happiness. Their smiles in the photographs seemed genuine, their eyes sparkling with a shared connection that spoke of years of companionship and understanding. It was as though they had weathered storms and emerged stronger on the other side, their love rekindled like a warm, comforting flame. Their family pictures painted a picture of contentment, and the presence of their beautiful children seemed to fill their lives with boundless joy and meaning.

I made the decision to reach out and send him a message, expressing my deep pride in his accomplishments and extending my heartfelt wishes for his continued well-being. To my surprise, he responded within minutes, and I could sense his excitement through his words.

Both of us took immense pride in our respective achievements. I celebrated a significant milestone in my professional journey – being signed to a network. In turn, he regaled me with stories of his flourishing businesses, generating substantial income. Yet, it wasn't merely his success that filled me with pride; it was the journey we had both embarked upon individually, striving for our own versions of freedom.

Despite our imperfections and the intricate nature of our relationship, I recognized the incredible effort we had both invested in forging our paths to success. Our conversations weren't just about our individual accomplishments; they symbolized our shared determination. They underscored our belief that, despite life's twists and turns, we could each carve out our unique realms of fulfillment and achievement. In our distinctive ways, we were both on a quest for the freedom we had long yearned for, even though it wasn't a path we journeyed together.

Our conversation felt like we hadn't missed a beat. We spoke about his children and he mentioned that he had undergone a vasectomy, feeling more liberated. That raised a first red flag. I expressed admiration for the city he resides in, and without hesitation, he promptly proposed that I should pay a visit, extending an invitation for a personalized tour. That was the second red flag. While it was tempting to entertain these propositions out of curiosity or nostalgia, I knew that my self-worth deserved better.

I came to the realization that some things never change with certain people, and it's perfectly acceptable to let them remain as memories of the past. Although he had once been a Breath Of Fresh Air in my life many years ago, I made the decision to leave him there, cherishing the memories from that time while acknowledging that some things are better left behind.

Love,

Eboné

Me, Myself, & Her

Dear Lover, 

Once upon a time ago, there lived a woman whose presence demanded attention, her complexion as pristine and fair as freshly fallen snow. She was married to a man and together they built their lives in the beautiful South. On the surface, their union seemed strong, but deep within, the woman experienced an enduring sensation of isolation that clung to her like a weighty veil.

I don't know for sure if they had children, but what's really evident is that her life lacked joy. You could almost feel her heartache, a constant reminder of the love she longed for but could never quite hold onto – it always seemed just out of her reach. It's tough to pinpoint the exact duration of their marriage, but I think a lot of women, including myself, can understand that overwhelming sense of loneliness even when you're in a relationship with someone. As time went by, it became clear that her partner wasn't just causing her emotional and psychological pain, but was also physically harming her. The bruises were impossible to ignore. Yet, it was evident that even though many were cognizant of this distressing reality, it was still disregarded, leaving her feeling abandoned.

She turned to her family and friends, crying out for help, yet her tears fell on deaf ears. As her frustration grew more intense, she found herself exploring the very purpose of her existence. Amidst the whirlwind of thoughts, she contemplated the significance of a life where her partner's actions revealed a lack of affection, and her pleas for support were met with indifference from those she held dear. Above all, a troubling realization took hold — a sensation that she might lack even self-love. After all, she questioned, if self-love truly existed within her, why would she find herself trapped in such a heart-wrenching situation? The weight of her emotions grew overwhelming, leading her to succumb to the embrace of depression.

Following yet another tumultuous and fiery argument with her husband, she found herself behind the wheel of her car, accelerating swiftly.  It didn’t register to her that she was speeding and if it did, she didn’t care. Her emotions were a whirlwind — a mix of hysteria, exhaustion, and fury. In her heart, a resolute decision formed: this was the day she would finally leave him. Yet, in the midst of her determination, an overwhelming sense of isolation gripped her. Loneliness had been an unwavering companion, a shadow she couldn't shake, and her cheeks bore the traces of tearful acknowledgment of this enduring ache.

Amidst these tumultuous thoughts, a familiar yet darker notion began to take hold — the consideration of putting an end to her suffering once and for all. As she approached a bridge, her speed increased. Tonight held the potential for a drastic decision, it seemed. However, an unexpected transformation began to unfurl within her. It was as if a glimmer of hope, whether from an external influence or an inner wellspring of resilience, whispered to her. What if this moment didn't just mark the end of her marriage, but the birth of self-love? What if the love she had always yearned for already resided within her? With this shift in perspective, she attempted to ease her speed, embracing optimism over despair.

Yet, fate played its hand with a cruel twist. Control slipped from her grasp, and her car plunged off the bridge, sealing her fate in tragedy. The verdict: death by suicide.

During my session with my Akashic Records reader, she shared this story with me. While I empathized deeply with the woman's plight, I found myself puzzled about the reason behind my reader telling me this. Before I proceed, let me provide you with a brief understanding of what an Akashic Records Reading entails. An Akashic Records Reading is a metaphysical practice that involves delving into one's Akashic Records, which are believed to be a cosmic repository containing the collective mosaic of human experiences, thoughts, emotions, and events spanning across time. Those who practice Akashic Records Reading claim to be able to enter a meditative or trance-like state and access these records to gain insights, guidance, and understanding about various aspects of life, including past lives, current challenges, relationships, and potential future paths. The information obtained from the Akashic Records is believed to offer deeper insights into one's soul's journey and purpose.

My reader disclosed that the story she had shared was, in fact, a portrayal of one of my past lives. In the silence that followed, heavy with significance, I was overcome by a surge of emotions. Tears welled up in me before I could even gather my thoughts to respond. The truth in her words resonated deeply with me because, much like the woman in my past life, I have also known the pain of isolation, the marks of abandonment, and pain caused by far too many people I cared for. However, it was a specific revelation that truly solidified the connection within me. When her passing on a bridge was mentioned, an involuntary gasp escaped me. Bridges, since my earliest memories, have ignited a distinct fear within me. Approaching them would envelop me in an eerie sense of discomfort, and up until that moment, the source of this unease remained a mystery.

I vividly recall a time during my college years when I had to cross a lengthy bridge surrounded by water; the fear was tangible. I was so hesitant to trust anyone else in the car to drive over that bridge, as an unshakeable feeling told me that something ominous was looming. Furthermore, I ended up resorting to speeding, a frantic attempt to put more space between myself and that particular bridge. What's intriguing, as I reflect on it now, is the fact that the bridge in question is located in the South. As I shared this with my reader, a quiet stillness enveloped her too, leaving her momentarily without words. My tears flowed even more freely. In this moment, I was a jumble of emotions, my words stumbling over one another as a flood of questions poured out. Among them, I asked about the meaning behind this revelation. Despite the dissipation of my bridge-related fear, I couldn't shake the thought: could my life meet a similar end?

In the midst of my emotions, I couldn’t help but ask, "Was I a white woman?" My question caught my reader off guard, considering that the phrase "pure as snow" is giving a whole white woman. Though the specifics of her racial background remained unclear, both my reader and I couldn't help but share a fleeting moment of laughter.

As my nerves finally calmed down, my reader shared a nugget of wisdom that has stayed with me to this very day. She conveyed that even within the unyielding grip of isolation, true solitude was never my companion. The woman from my past life had been a constant presence, standing by my side through it all. When the weight of loneliness felt almost unbearable, she provided comfort. I couldn't help but wonder if I had mistaken the weight of loneliness for her attempt to reach out, blurring the lines between my own emotions and her intentions.  It struck me, right then, that she had been there for me in the very way she longed for someone to be there for her. 

Moreover, my reader offered guidance on how to face these moments. She encouraged me to embrace the loneliness and counteract it with positive affirmations, highlighting that both the woman from my previous existence and I shared the resolve to overcome. Moving forward, my reader unveiled that the lingering grief from my past life was rooted in a lack of self-forgiveness, a sorrow that stemmed from the tragic way her life had come to an end.

As our session came to an end, tears welled up within me once again. I found myself revisiting countless instances when feelings of loneliness and abandonment had overwhelmed me. Memories from my past resurfaced—like the time I went to school with a busted lip and no one, not even the teachers, asked me what had happened. I recalled nonchalantly telling my friends that I fell out of bed instead of revealing that my mom had caused it. And the repeated confessions of loneliness to my friends, as well as the ongoing struggle with self-love, came rushing back. To be honest, there were moments when thoughts of ending my own life crossed my mind. For an extended period, I clung to the belief that things would never get better, and, if I'm truly honest, that feeling of hopelessness endured for what felt like an eternity.

With that being said, I put substantial effort and financial resources into my personal development, committing myself to fostering self-love. The journey was challenging yet incredible—evolving from unease in solitude to embracing my own company. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the embodiment of authentic growth.Through dedicated therapy sessions, addressing the wounds of my inner child, and restoring my bond with God, I can boldly proclaim that a bitch is healed. But this transformation wasn't a linear path; it was marked by moments of self-doubt, breakthroughs, and setbacks. There were times when I questioned if all the time, energy, and resources I was investing would truly lead to a better version of myself.

Yet, with each step forward, I began to witness subtle shifts in my mindset and behavior. I learned to challenge the negative beliefs that had held me captive for so long, replacing them with affirmations of self-worth and acceptance. It wasn't just about changing my thoughts; it was about rewiring the very core of my being. One of the pivotal moments came during a therapy session when I revisited those childhood memories that had haunted me for years. Confronting the pain and acknowledging the impact it had on my adult life was excruciatingly difficult, but it was also liberating. It allowed me to release the grip those memories had on me, paving the way for healing to take place.

And then there was my journey back to spirituality, reconnecting with a higher power that had always been there, patiently waiting for me to reach out. This rekindled bond provided me with a sense of purpose and a belief that I was never truly alone. Won’t He Do It!

So, as you read this letter, I want you to understand that healing isn't just about reaching a destination; it's about embracing the entire journey—the highs, the lows (and the lows were ghetto baybee), the breakthroughs, and the setbacks. It's about acknowledging the strength it takes to confront your demons and the courage it requires to seek help when you need it.

The feelings of loneliness and abandonment have been noticeably absent from my life for quite a while, and this brings a deep sense of joy. This contentment isn't just for myself, but also for Her. I often contemplate her journey, wondering if she ultimately found forgiveness and inner serenity. I prefer to think that she did, and this notion fills me with a warm smile. While she might not have attained it during her own lifetime, I am confident that she found it within mine.

P.S. I am no longer afraid of bridges.

Love,

Eboné

Old Man Part 1

Dear Lover,

Growing up, witnessing individuals grappling with drug addiction stirred a deep sense of empathy within me, as if I shared an unspoken connection with them. Despite my young age, I felt compelled to offer them financial assistance, fully aware that the funds might be directed towards sustaining their drug dependency. However, my intention went beyond providing material support. I longed to convey to them that they were not alone, that there was someone, even a child, who truly cared about their well-being. Little did I comprehend at such a tender age that the relentless clutches of drug addiction had infiltrated not just my community, but also my own family.

When I first set foot in New York, a deep desire for a romantic partner took hold of me. I longed for a relationship that mirrored the captivating synergy between Beyoncé and Jay Z—a harmonious blend of a Southern girl's essence with the vibrant energy of a Brooklyn-born man. One unforgettable night, I had a very vivid dream that left a lasting mark on my memory. In the dream, a tall and dark-skinned man approached me, capturing my attention. Despite my usual preferences, which didn't incline towards bald-headed individuals, I couldn't ignore the profound sense that this encounter carried a divine message from God. It felt like an unmistakable sign that my destined boyfriend would soon enter my life.

One day in 2011, I received an unexpected message in my inbox on Facebook. A woman reached out to me, seeking to confirm the accuracy of my mother's name and the name she provided for my father. Not having any prior acquaintance with this woman, I was naturally skeptical and assumed it to be a potential scam. However, she reassured me that she was an ex-girlfriend of my father, and astonishingly, she revealed that he had been tirelessly searching for me throughout the years. Intrigued, I inquired why she chose to find me on Facebook, to which she explained that my father had always spoken fondly of me, igniting her determination to assist him in this pursuit. The lengths to which a woman will go for the sake of love should never be underestimated. It may sound unusual, but the idea of having a father was something I had never truly considered. Like the saying goes, you can’t miss something you never had. While growing up, I noticed many of my friends had their fathers in their lives, but it never struck me that I didn't have one. Furthermore, my mother never spoke about him, not even once. And to be honest, I never felt compelled to ask her about him either. The subject just never crossed my mind.

I shared my phone number with my father's ex-girlfriend, unsure of what to expect next. I can hardly recall how I found myself on the phone for the first time with my aunt, my father's sister, but our conversation stretched on for hours, and the tea was running over chile. It suddenly dawned on me that an entire family on my father's side had been searching for me all along. The sheer intrigue of discovering this unknown family consumed me, as if I were unraveling the missing parts of my own identity—elements I knew didn't come from my mother, but couldn't pinpoint their origin. My aunt shared with me how I came into existence out of pure love, with my parents desiring me deeply. It seemed like the perfect love story, until it wasn't. I won't lie, my aunt divulged all the revelations, not to expose her brother's secrets, but to ensure I knew the truth about my roots, even if it brought pain. She explained that she understood her brother well enough to believe he might be too ashamed to reveal his entire truth, opting instead to present himself as the better parent. And then, right at that moment, she delivered the shocking revelation: my father had been struggling with drug addiction for almost thirty years.

During my initial conversation with my father, I found myself unusually quiet. Perhaps it was nerves or simply not knowing what to say. I listened intently to his voice, desperately searching my memory for any trace of familiarity. It irritated him when I addressed him by his first name, but calling him "dad" or "pops" seemed like a far stretch, if you asked me. He took pride in sharing that he had been quite the ladies' man, yet assured me that I was his only child. Lucky me lol. He couldn't fathom the idea of having more children and not having a relationship with his firstborn. In an odd gesture of love, he asked if I had any tattoos, as if it were a measure of his devotion, mentioning that he had my name inked with hearts across his chest. As we exchanged pictures through our phones, I couldn't help but notice that, despite his past struggles with drug addiction, my father was undeniably a handsome older man. He stood tall, had a dark complexion, and a bald head. Reflecting on the coincidence that his appearance matched the exact description from my dream, I couldn't help but contemplate the irony. I always believed that God had a great sense of humor, but this time, He gwan too far!

 We talked for hours, delving into uncomfortable topics such as potential sexual abuse, my aspirations, and the nature of my relationship with my mother. While I reassured him that I had not experienced any sexual abuse, a wave of silence fell over him when I disclosed the physical abuse I had endured for many years from my mother. Having seen images of my father, unfortunately, I can now understand why my mother harbored so much resentment towards me—I looked just like this nigga. It's amusing how parents often attempt to present themselves as superior to the other. He went in on her. Despite my challenging childhood, I made it a point to remind him that he was in no position to pass judgment on my mother.

He began to open up and share the story of how he and my mother had met as teenagers in New York, embarking on a journey of young love. To my surprise, I discovered that they are still legally married, which had always puzzled me as to why my mother never officially tied the knot with the man she had been in a long-term relationship with. He also delved into his past relationships, proudly stating how women couldn't resist his charm. While I appreciated his honesty, I wasn't particularly keen on hearing about his romantic encounters. It was quite intriguing, though, how he had a preference for either white or insecure women, and he went on to explain his reasons behind it. I suppose he was trying to impart some wisdom to me, but at the same time, I couldn't help but think that his choices in women might have contributed to the current situation he found himself in. I always say a man who can’t control his meat will always be stagnant in his feet. 

One thing that became clear about him was his brilliance. Perhaps one day, I will have the opportunity to share his story about almost beating a case that significantly impacted the course of post offices. If my memory serves me right, he went straight to college after completing 9th grade. Later on, he was drafted into the army and held a significant position, which led him to relocate my mother and me with him. Driven by curiosity, I couldn't resist and inquired why I had never been aware of his existence despite everything seemingly going smoothly. Part of me wanted him to acknowledge his struggle with drug addiction, to admit that it had kept us apart. However, he never confessed to such use. Instead, he shared a different story—he recounted a particularly intense fight he had with my mother, one that likely turned physical. He claimed that the following day, upon returning home from work, he discovered that we were gone. I was two years old. I must admit that I wasn't entirely surprised to hear this, as I know my mother can be vindictive at times. Nonetheless, I remain mindful that this story has three perspectives: my father's side, my mother's side, and the crucial truth that lies somewhere in between. But to deprive a child of her father's love after all these years was truly fucked up. Even if there was doubt about whether he had been actively searching for me, I wanted to believe it so desperately because it was the first time I felt a sense of belonging to someone.

We had several conversations and discovered how remarkably similar we were. From enjoying eating cereal straight out of the box to sharing nicknames that incorporated the word "pretty," it became evident that we shared many quirks and traits. At times, he would affectionately refer to me by my middle name, Tiara, the name he had always imagined for me. He would also comment on my looks, suggesting that I was TV pretty, attractive enough to be on television. Now I understand how this nigga had so many women lol. I won't deny that a part of me felt a flicker of excitement at the prospect of establishing a relationship with at least one of my parents, and if given the choice, it would undoubtedly be him. As our conversations progressed, I gradually let my guard down and even entertained the thought of meeting him, as it would technically be our first-ever encounter. But as always, just as I opened myself up to embrace the potential and endless possibilities, the familiar specter of disappointment swooped in, shattering my hopes.

Over time, our phone calls became increasingly infrequent until they eventually came to a complete halt. I reached out to my aunt and his ex-girlfriend, but no one had heard from him. I came to a bitter realization that I had been naive to expect a different outcome, understanding that I could only truly rely on myself in this world. However, several months later, I received a letter that took me by surprise. It was from an inmate in jail, leaving me bewildered as to who the hell would be reaching out to me from behind bars. To my disbelief, it turned out to be my father.

He genuinely expressed remorse for any missteps in our emerging relationship and acknowledged that, despite my disapproval of his lifestyle, it was the only life he knew. While I couldn't pinpoint the exact reasons that led him back to jail, I understood that drugs played a significant role. It took me some time to grasp that addiction is a disease that can profoundly impact a person's life, even to the extent of choosing it over their own child. Growing up in the hood taught me a harsh reality: trying to get that monkey off one’s back is a difficult feat. Unable to handle the overwhelming emotions, I chose not to write back. Eventually, he was released from jail, but I made the decision not to raise my hopes again, knowing all too well that they could be shattered once more. I did what I knew best—I kept it moving. 

In my mid-twenties, I lacked a deep understanding of the concept of grace and how it manifests when extending it to others. It wasn't until several years later, following the loss of my Na-Na and engaging in therapy, that I began to recognize both of my parents as individuals who existed before becoming parents themselves. Although it remains a difficult truth to accept, I have come to a point where I can offer them grace for doing the best they could with what they had. As I reflected upon the letters my Old Man wrote, it became increasingly apparent that he, much like me, harbored a genuine desire for the father-daughter relationship he had yearned for thirty six years of his life, despite acknowledging the slim to non-existent chances of its realization. It struck me deeply that this shared trait of persistently striving to prove ourselves wrong, only to ultimately confirm our innermost truths, was yet another powerful bond we shared.

Years passed, and our interactions remained sporadic, without delving into anything particularly substantial. Then, amidst the ongoing pandemic, I was overwhelmed by an intense masculine energy that unsettled me to my core. It made me so uncomfortable that I felt compelled to reach out to all the men in my life, ensuring their well-being. After ending a phone call with a friend, I implored God to reveal what exactly He wanted me to see, as the discomfort persisted and scared me. Within minutes, I discovered a message request on Facebook from a woman (I swear if it’s one thing he got, it’s a woman chile) who claimed to have knowledge about my father and wished to share something important with me. My mind raced, contemplating the worst imaginable scenarios until she provided a link to a viral YouTube video featuring him. While watching the video, a recurring thought echoed in my mind: You can't make this shit up. 

TO BE CONTINUED

Love,

Eboné

11

Dear Lover, 

Allow me to shed some light on the significance of the number 11 in my life, in case you are not familiar with its meaning to me. By now, it must be clear to you that each love letter I share is released on the 11th day of every month. A friend once questioned my choice of the 11th, referencing my connection with 11:11, and I jokingly responded that you know bitches love a sign chile. However, after the passing of my dear Na-Na, I felt that this was our initial means of communication, expressed through 11:11, which coincided with the start of my spiritual journey. Additionally, the number 11 holds great importance because it represents a turning point in my life. If I had made different decisions eleven years ago, my life would have taken an entirely different course.

I always advise anyone who will listen to never shit where they eat at, as it typically leads to a shitshow. Well, at least that's been my personal experience. When I first encountered Pretty Eyes (seriously, this nigga had the most captivating grayish-blue eyes I’ve ever seen), my panties were wet. Deep down, I knew he wasn't exactly on par with me, but back then, I was merely seeking a temporary fling until Mr. Right made his appearance. Our initial connection occurred in the workplace, and initially, it was just casual hanging out. However, things quickly escalated, and our relationship turned sexual. Pretty Eyes, who resembled a fusion of Michael Ealy and Chris Brown, was tatted up and had a flawless smile. And boy, was he Brooklyn through and through! Even though my usual discernment was sharp, Pretty Eyes was the exception—he was just so damn fine. Our intimate encounters were so intense that I eventually became dickmatized. What made it even more annoying was that he knew I was too. 

Pretty Eyes was undeniably one of the best lovers I ever had, but he wasn't exactly the ideal candidate for a long-term relationship. He was a few years younger than me, already a father of two, and seemed uncertain about his future plans. Plus, there was no apparent urgency on his part to figure things out anytime soon. Yet, what did I decide to do? Yep, you guessed it. I started investing my energy into showcasing him all the potential that life had to offer him. Because if there's one thing a bitch gon’ do, she will make a project out of a nigga. Over time, my dick appointments with him started losing its spark as I came to the realization that I wasn't the only one dickmatized by Pretty Eyes. So, despite my disappointment in parting ways with Pretty Eyes and his “best asset”, I made the decision to start dating someone else who eventually became my boyfriend. The joy of having a committed partner overwhelmed me, and I was determined to be the best girlfriend I could possibly be.

Whenever I'm a passenger in someone else's car, I tend to suffer from severe motion sickness. However, interestingly enough, I never experience any motion sickness when I'm the one behind the wheel. One day while driving across the Brooklyn Bridge on my way to work, the motion sickness hit me so hard that I couldn't hold it in, and I ended up vomiting. Initially, I didn't think much of it, as motion sickness has always been a familiar foe, and I simply assumed it had gotten the best of me on that particular day. Right lol. 

After a long day of work, my homegirls and I decided that a night out was much needed. We ended up at this well known taco joint renowned for its mouthwatering margaritas and delicious tacos. Unfortunately, like countless other New York establishments, this beloved restaurant didn't survive the ravages of the pandemic. As we eagerly awaited our drinks, I reached for mine, ready to take a sip. However, to my bewilderment, it felt as if an invisible barrier prevented me from raising the glass to my lips. I struggled to drink it, perplexed by this odd sensation. I thought to myself, "Could the alcohol be expired? Something doesn't feel right." Naively, I failed to realize what was actually happening, oblivious to the fact that everyone else around me was sipping away without any issues.

Embedded deeply in my memory is a night that pushed me to the edge of my sanity. My beloved Na-Na, who was wrestling with the relentless grasp of Alzheimer's, had unintentionally left something unattended on the stove. The outcome was an overwhelming odor of burnt popcorn that seeped into every nook and cranny of the house. During this immensely challenging phase of my life, I found myself juggling a demanding full-time job, pursuing an MBA, and shouldering the responsibility of being her primary caregiver, all while receiving no support from my family. However, during this tumultuous period, my then-boyfriend rose to the occasion and became an invaluable pillar of support in caring for my Na-Na. Shout out to a real one for holding it down. 

As my boyfriend finally arrived a few minutes later, I found myself engulfed in the overpowering scent, and an immense wave of panic crashed over me. I had reached my breaking point, unable to endure it any longer. Frustration surged within me, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I succumbed to the grip of a panic attack. Sensing my distress, my boyfriend suggested that I take a walk. You know it's real when a nigga suggests that you take a walk lol. He stayed behind to clean up the kitchen and try to eliminate the odor, while I walked around East New York looking crazy as hell. 

I can't explain what prompted me to do it, perhaps catalyzed by the incident with my Na-Na and the forgotten stove mishap, but something in my spirit urged me to take a pregnancy test. Being someone who had never been pregnant before, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I didn't feel like myself. While my boyfriend and I were using condoms at the time, well... let's just say things were a bit more spicy with Pretty Eyes lol. Back in college, I had a scare with my first love, but it turned out to be a false alarm—just my period playing tricks on me. However, this time, as the test results appeared before me, it confirmed what I least expected. Yep, you guessed it again. I was pregnant.

From a young age, I never had the desire to have children. This conviction stayed with me for a long time because deep down, I always believed that my path would lead to success as a businesswoman, but not as a mother. However, if I'm truly honest with myself, the root of my reluctance to have kids stems from the absence of a nurturing relationship with my own mother. A significant part of me feared that I would perpetuate the same treatment I received, and no child deserves to experience that. My experiences with trauma were so profound that I thought this shit was hereditary. I was fully aware that Pretty Eyes was the father, and I had to consider what the best decision would be. With two children already from different women, I didn't want to become the third. Moreover, at that moment, I couldn't escape the haunting image of my own mother, who had multiple children with different men. Despite my efforts to distance myself from her choices, I found myself slowly heading down a similar path. I made a difficult choice that I believed was the best option for me at that time: I decided to have an abortion.

I reached out to my homegirl and asked her for help in finding a place to undergo the procedure. She shared that she had her own procedure done at Planned Parenthood. While I had heard of Planned Parenthood before and their reputation for providing essential support to women in need, I never imagined that I would find myself in a situation where I needed their help. I scheduled an appointment and my friend kindly agreed to accompany me, because hey, that’s what friends are for. As we waited for my name to be called, fate had it that my friend spotted a few familiar faces from her neighborhood. Talk about being mixxy smh. They curiously asked her why she were there, and she casually replied, "Nah, I'm just here with my homegirl because she got pregnant by a nigga she's no longer with, so here we are at the 'chop shop.’ " Bitch what? I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

After checking in, I underwent another test, and when the results came in, I discovered that I was nearly four months pregnant. I understand if you're wondering how I didn't realize it earlier, but believe me, I hadn't gained any weight, no morning sickness, and my appearance hadn't changed at all. Hell, even the nurse was shocked. She discussed my options with me, but I was resolute in my decision to proceed with the pregnancy termination. In the days leading up to my procedure, I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I was pregnant. I couldn't stop staring at myself in the mirror, gently touching my stomach in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it. 

I know your nosey ass is probably wondering if I told my boyfriend about my pregnancy, and you guessed wrong: I did share the news with him. I contemplated whether to include this part in his story or reveal it here, and I've decided to share it now. I was incredibly apprehensive about telling him because, deep down, I knew the baby wasn't his, despite initially believing he was "the one." I remember him coming over, and my mind raced, trying to figure out how to break the news. Tears welled up in my eyes almost instantly (FYI: I’m an odee cry baby), and I have a feeling I startled him with my emotional state. Eventually, I mustered the courage to tell him, and let me tell you, he genuinely thought the child was his lmao. Initially, I entertained the idea of going along with it, but I couldn't shake off my concerns. I mean, seriously, if I told this nigga that I was already four months pregnant and we had only been together for less than two months, make it make sense chile. 

On the day of the procedure, fear consumed me. I had heard terrifying stories of girls facing complications or even losing their lives, so I prayed to God, begging for everything to turn out alright. I promised God that I would never put myself in this situation again. Chile I know God is tired of my begging ass lol. Given the advanced stage of my pregnancy, the doctors advised me to take a pill that would facilitate the procedure. As I sat in the waiting area, I observed numerous girls who resembled me. I pondered the different scenarios that led them here—whether it was through sexual assault, an ill-timed pregnancy, or simply a personal choice to not have children. Lost in my thoughts, my name was called, jolting me back to reality. I entered a room where the medical staff explained the procedure to me. As I lay down and they administered anesthesia to put me to sleep, a song began playing in the room, and I found myself singing along. The next thing I knew, I drifted into a deep sleep.

When I woke up, I gently touched my stomach and realized that the procedure was complete. As I exited out of the room, I was met with the sounds of women crying and screaming, and it overwhelmed me. Without hesitation, I hurriedly made my way out of there. I spotted my friend, and she assisted me with gathering my belongings before driving us home. I stayed at her house for the night, deep in contemplation over the weight of my recent decision. Even though I knew, without a doubt, that I had made the right choice, I couldn't help but wonder about the path not taken. What would my life look like now if I had chosen differently? A lingering thought remains: Will I ever have children, especially considering my age?

Since deciding to share this love letter, I've been having dreams of a baby crawling towards me, wearing a smile. I often wonder if that was the child I could have had or the child I hope to have someday. Life is filled with countless "what ifs," but dwelling on them serves no purpose as we cannot change the past. Some people perceive me as a hustler, a relentless go-getter. However, deep down, my drive stems not only from the pursuit of a better life, but fueled by the awareness that I might have relinquished the opportunity to forge the kind of relationship I never had with my own mother, with the child I never had, who would have been eleven years old today.

Love,

Eboné

Intro

Dear Lover, 

I initially had reservations about creating this project, concerned about exposing my deepest vulnerabilities. I’m always cautious about divulging too much personal information because niggas and bitches are nosey but at this big age, who gives a fuck!? I have gained valuable insights and experienced significant life lessons, while cultivating a stronger sense of self-trust. Some of this shit I endured would have broken many people and I thank God every day for keeping me because baybee what a ride!  While my intuitive nature has always been present, I now understand that knowledge alone is insufficient; it is the application of that knowledge that truly matters. Like our beloved elder once said: “When you know better, you do better.”

For a considerable period of time (it’s been three or four years but at this point a bitch lost count), I have willingly chosen to embrace celibacy. This period of abstinence has served as an invaluable teacher in my life. How did I get to this point? There were many factors that led me here, which I will share throughout this project, but it all started when I was renting a room in a Spanish lady's house, feeling frustrated, exhausted and utterly angry with my existing lifestyle. I yearned for more—a better life, not just in my romantic life but in every aspect. I found myself questioning how I had reached such a low point in my life. It was a hot ass mess. 

One night, as I was laying in my bed,  I couldn’t hold back anymore. I began to break down, tears streaming down my face in an emotionally raw state (the kind accompanied by ugly crying and snot chile) and I began to engage in a heartfelt conversation with God. I poured my heart out, expressing a desperate need for a change, as I felt like I was barely holding on, grasping at the thinnest of threads. I made a vow to God that if he orchestrated positive changes in my life and in a timely manner (not me giving God an ultimatum, haha), I would give up something I enjoy even more than Kit Kats: Sex.

Now, let me clarify—I am not just giving away my intimacy to anyone and everyone. I value the sacredness of love and physical connection but I am a lover girl. Before embracing celibacy, I had a healthy dating life and was really enjoying myself. I adore the feeling of love and allowing my femininity to radiate effortlessly while in the presence of masculinity because being big dawg all the time can be exhausting. 

However I began questioning the purpose of my relationships with these men. Why was I sharing my mind, body, and spirit with individuals who never made me feel safe? That part. I remember an incident when an ex of mine came home one night and recounted a fight he had been involved in. According to him, another guy punched him, causing his glasses to fly off. Naturally, I asked him what he did in response, and to my surprise, he said he started looking for his glasses. Now, don't get me wrong, I was relieved that he wasn't seriously hurt, but what nigga?!? Is it too much to ask for safeness in all areas of my life? And I could never fully submit to any of my lovers because submission is earned and I didn’t trust any of them to lead. Like most adults, I enjoy pleasure, but what’s the point of being with a nigga who brings temporary satisfaction without any substantial substance? The math was not mathing. 

Now, the million dollar question—when will I find a suitable partner? Trust me, I wonder about that too hell. However, in my promise to God, I made it clear that when the right man enters my life, both God and I will unequivocally know. In the meantime, I refuse to settle. I have been with men who loved the essence of who I am but failed to appreciate the entirety of my being. There are so many different sides to me and unfortunately, only a select few have had the privilege of witnessing all aspects of my being. I have realized that not everyone appreciates authenticity for what it truly is.  

As I observe the choices many women make in their relationships, I often question whether they are truly content and fulfilled. Society has instilled this notion that women are incomplete without a man and some kids by their side, but let me tell you, I have big aspirations beyond just finding a partner. Sure, I look forward to the day when I can proudly proclaim, "My man, my man, my man!",  but being a boss bitch and finding a suitable partner can be challenging (and unfortunately men are embarrassing lol and I’m so deadass). Let's be real, most people feel intimidated by strong, successful Professional Homegirls (cue shameless plug for my brand) because being with a true boss, regardless of gender, requires commitment and sacrifice. I've witnessed many incredible women, including myself, being in relationships with lackluster men, and I’m like, seriously girl? And I know the dick can do some magical things but no matter how much we try, we can’t change who people are because they are who they were before they got here. 

I recall a moment from ten years ago when I sat in my friend's living room, laughing and joking with her and her boyfriend. Their relationship was undeniably toxic, yet there was still an underlying love present.  After he left, I couldn't resist asking her a question that had been lingering in my mind. I wanted to understand how she knew he was "The One," despite his numerous flaws. I mean, she created a home for him, cooked him meals every night, and even went above and beyond by establishing a business for him when he couldn't find employment due to his background. If that wasn't a demonstration of love, I didn't know what was. 

In that moment, as she took a drag from her blunt, she met my gaze with a serious expression and replied, "They're all 'The One' until they're not." We both shared a laugh, but her words struck a chord within me. It made me realize that I, too, had fallen into the trap of believing that every man I encountered was "The One," only to later discover that they weren't. It seemed like a recurring pattern in my life. However, as I reflect on her words, I realize that this illusion of permanence extends beyond romantic relationships. I have also experienced this false sense of forever in my connections with family and friends. And when those bonds inevitably fracture and break, the pain cuts deep.

You're probably wondering what this, "They All The One," is all about. This project will take the form of a collection of short stories that delve into the multifaceted realm of love. Each story will explore different aspects of love, relationships, and personal growth, while highlighting the valuable lessons I've learned along the way. Through these stories, I aim to provide insights into the complexities of romantic connections, the challenges faced in navigating modern relationships, and the importance of self-love and personal fulfillment. As bell hooks so wisely stated, "One of the best guides to how to be self-loving is to give ourselves the love we are often dreaming about receiving from others." I will share moments of vulnerability, humor, and self-reflection, offering a glimpse into my own experiences and the universal truths that lie within them. Because if I’m being honest, I played a part in all of this too. 

While the stories may touch upon the quest for finding "the one," I can now laugh at all the craziness that unfolded. Because, let's face it, some things are just hilariously absurd. But through the pain and humor intertwined in my experiences, I hope that others can learn from my journey and learn that the most important love that one can have is self love. There is a part of me that still holds on to the hope of finding that magical connection, a love story that transcends the ordinary and sweeps me off my feet. It's the kind of love that makes you believe in destiny, in soulmates, and in the power of true connection.

While this project has its own goals and objectives, I must admit that a significant part of it is fueled by the desire to manifest my own fairy tale. The stories I share, the lessons I learn, and the insights I gain along the way are all stepping stones leading me closer to that fulfilling and enchanting love story. However, I also recognize that fairy tales are not solely dependent on external circumstances or finding "the one." They are about personal growth, self-discovery, and embracing the magic within ourselves. So, regardless of whether or not my own fairy tale unfolds exactly as I imagine, I believe that this project will have fulfilled its purpose by inspiring others to embrace their own journeys, find love within themselves, and create their own unique versions of happily ever after.

Make sure you sign up for my love letters! Until then, let’s enjoy the ride bitches!

Love, 

Eboné