I will never forget my first, big college heartbreak. I went through a thing! I mean this guy had taken me through the wringer. I remember being so sad and hurt that I put Mariah Carey’s “All Alone in Love” in my CD player and pressed repeat. I fell asleep listening to this heartbreaking song while my heart was literally breaking with every note. By the time I awoke the next morning, it sounded like Mariah was sitting at the edge of my bed wailing like a distressed puppy. The CD repeated that song so many times that it was tired. Seriously, the notes actually dragged and seemed to be even sadder than I was before falling asleep the night before.

My family and I were group texting, and one of us accidentally sent a message to an old chat. Someone who obviously has an old number belonging to one of my family members chimed in asking who we were. My sister sent a picture of herself, thinking one of us was joking and said, “Me!” We gagged because we had not yet caught on that this was not a family member. Once we realized this was an old phone number, they (the outsider) laughed, we laughed, then one of us apologized for our mistake. No biggie, right?

While driving home the other day, I was listening to one of my favorite shows on satellite radio. Not only is it hosted by a Bad Sister, but the topics are great too. They are funny and relevant, and I absolutely love the spin she and her cohost put on the topic of the day. On this particular show, they were talking about being okay with not getting invited. I immediately perked up because there are lots of emotions from a whole lot of people around this topic. During the show, the cohost said something that really resonated with me.

Some years ago, I went shoe shopping with one of my sisters. I have always had a great love for shoes, so this was one of my favorite things to do. I went through a phase where I would leave with three to four pairs each time. I usually had a hard time choosing just one pair, so I would convince myself to just take them all. This particular day I could not choose between a pair of shoes that came in two different colors. I didn’t necessarily want two pairs of the same shoe, not even in a different color. That was then. Now, if I like them and they’re in my size, I’m getting all colors. As I was trying to decide, I noticed two young ladies talking and having a good time. I immediately got the idea to ask them since they were the only other black girls in the store…

A couple of days ago, I had to make a visit to the emergency room. Like most, I definitely hate sitting there for what always seems like a waste of time. You get charged for a gazillion exams before being told, “We don’t see anything. Just make an appointment with your primary care physician.” Like, my three-year old gives me better care when she’s pretending to be my doctor. Nevertheless, there I was. When the ER physician finally came to see me, he was totally dismissive. There was no urgency in his movements. His energy was just bad. Maybe it was Mercury retrograde or something. I really don’t know. He sat back in his chair listening to me speak of my pain with a look of disdain. He was so totally disinterested. I attempted to lighten things up by making a light joke.

“Your fear of looking stupid is holding you back.” I came across this quote while doing my usual scrolling, trolling or whatever you want to call it. I felt like I had been stung by a bee. Was this written for and directed at me? I was taking this way too personally. I had to read it about ten times before I could settle down and figure out why it came across my timeline at this moment. What can I say? This really hit home.

While reading through Facebook posts earlier this summer, I came across a post from a guy from my old neighborhood. It was a beautifully written copy and paste post that described what it was like growing up in the 80s. He creatively changed a few words to make it fit his specific block and some of his personal experiences. I absolutely loved it. It took me back to a time when we were able to freely enjoy our neighborhoods and hang outside with little fear. A few of us read it, hit the like button and made nostalgic comments of our own.

I was talking to my sister on the phone the other day. We were gossiping and laughing about a host of things. He said, she said so on and so forth, all between giggles. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation I started rambling about a recent incident that thoroughly agitated me. She listened with an “un huh, un huh” here and there for about ten minutes. Just as I was getting deeper into my escapade, I received another call. After clicking over for about thirty seconds, I came back to her and asked, “Now what was I saying?” Silence. Dead silence! Now my feelings could have been hurt, but I howled with laughter because she couldn’t tell me what the hell I was ranting about. I was okay with that because I had been on the other end.

“If the shoe fits, wear it.” If I had a dollar for every time someone shouted those words, well you know the rest. Sometimes it fits perfectly. Other times, not so much. I was reading an article someone posted on Facebook. It was very interesting since it hit on a very current, popular and sensitive matter. After reading, I “liked” the post. As soon as I hit the like button, a million things rushed through my head. My immediate thought upon finishing the read was how it confirmed something personal for me. I had been struggling with a decision that I couldn’t quite settle within myself. For me, the article was a helpful arrival at an answer. So, of course, I embraced it. The next thought was the question, “Are they going to think I’m being judgmental because I “liked” the posted article?” Although the answer I found worked for me, it uncovered a truth that many others did not want to face. I guess I was thinking that by liking the article, it would appear as though I was saying, “See! I told you not to do it girl. Now look at you.”

When I was younger, not yet a teenager, I wrote a note to a guy in the neighborhood. I had a huge crush on him. No one was aware of this because he had a girlfriend who also lived in the neighborhood. Although I knew her, we were not close friends. She was above my “play grade.” She had an air about herself that said she was too mature to hang out with a girl like me who just wanted to dance and play in the streets. I understood why he wanted her as a girlfriend. Even still, I decided I needed to put my feelings for him on paper. Yes, this was my thought process at the very young age of eight or nine. So, I went for it. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I imagine it was something about what I thought of him, how I thought he was cute, how I loved his smile and so on…

I was cleaning and getting rid of some things in preparation for a transition. In the process, I was carefully going through my things, trying to figure out what to toss. There were clothes, bags, jewelry, shoes, photos, books and much, much more. Everything you can imagine was somewhere tucked away in my chest of treasures. Well, buried away in my dresser drawers, my closets, my storage space and under my bed. I practically had things hiding everywhere. The goal was to get rid of old stuff while only keeping a few goodies that were very special. This was nearly impossible because every single thing I picked up meant more to me than the last. Half-way through the process I became drained. Everything meant so much to me. Everything was something I would need one day. Besides a few bags of clothes I finally accepted would never, ever be worn again, everything was necessary. Everything could be used for something special in the future. Every item brought with it a memory of something, some place or someone at some time in my life. How could I ever part with any of it? Giving up my things would be giving up my past and essentially, giving up me. In my mind, I would be giving up on or erasing my past. Why do we find such difficulty in parting with places and things? Why is it sometimes so much more difficult to part with things than with people?

While watching television one night, I heard someone say, “Shame prevents us from getting the help we need.” I felt like I was dropped into a 1960s episode of Batman. BING, POW, KABLAM, BOOM!!! The resonation was strong. Punched me smack in the face with a dose of reality. Then a current situation reminded me that I didn’t need to time travel to feel the effects of those ultra, dramatic blows. I had just engaged in a short conversation with someone who was having trouble completing a task. I suggested that this person ask someone whom had been successful at the very thing with which they were experiencing difficulty. Silly me! I went from vintage Batman to that foolish little rabbit who never quite seemed to get that “Tricks are for kids.” Surely, I was being very foolish for making that suggestion. Why is it so difficult to ask others for help? Why does reaching out when in need cause us to feel shame?