Can marrying the wrong person ruin your life? The Masked Crusader, the Super Sistah discusses her new blog post, Death by Ex. While reflecting on the death of Whitney Houston she asks her readers whether loving the wrong man can be a woman’s downfall? Post a response here. R.I.P Whitney, we’ll miss you.

the Super Sistah on Whitney Houston

Watch this video on YouTube.

Whitney we'll miss you.

Can the wrong man ruin your life? Yeah, he can! Recently Pop Diva Whitney Houston went home to meet her Lord. The lyrics, “I get so emotional, baby, every time I think of you” was set on replay when I heard.  I don’t pretend to know what goes on in the personal lives of celebrities, but as far as downward spirals go, I think Whitney’s began shortly after her husband put his diamond on her left. 

Happy Valentine's Day

Back in the day if a man loved a woman he gave her father a horse, a cow and two mules. In them days, the price of your “PRECIOUS” to quote Gollum, cost a damn sight more than some chocolates and a Hallmark card.  Men understood that for the benefit of a lady’s time he had to put in some work. He earned her affection through the persistent pursuit of her heart. Fast forward a century and now some men have forgotten what love is about. On Valentine’s, which is the most romantic day of the year, stats show that most couple’s end up succumbing to what I call a Total Eclipse of the Heart. To translate Bonnie Tyler’s song into layman terms, it means that love fades to black. When women should be shaking the sheets on the 14^th, instead, most are showing their men the curb. I don’t have a Ph.D. in Sexual Healing but there is a reason for the fallout.

I’m attempting to get my self-help/dating book published.  It’s curious then that when I sprinted out of work on Friday I wasn’t running to catch a hot man for a hot date but to catch the library. My dating life in New York City might seem obscene to some and downright dismal to others. How much you commiserate depends on whether you go home to a man in your bed or to a vibrator with 4 batteries. Despite the glamour of the dating scene portrayed on reruns of Sex in the City, I’m no Carrie.  For most single girls in the city, there is no line of eligible bachelors waiting to wine and dine us and then pick up the check.  If we want to date regularly we can, but we’ve seen enough news reports where they find the desperate girl’s body in the trash to know that its best to choose quality over creepy.

When I explained my dating challenges to a friend he accused me of being picky. This is the label women usually get if they refuse to date the bucktooth guy from IT, the stalker neighbor from across the hall or their second cousin twice removed (shit, date him girl; it’s not like he’s close family).  The label is unfair but there is a good portion of the population that thinks that women should date anyone who asks.  For this reason, when I recently stopped dating a perfectly eligible man some of my single friends thought I might be crazy.  What you say now?  He has a job, all his teeth and he has a history of eating coochie? You don’t want him? Where he at? I’ll give him something dark and fiery. I’m assuming they meant loving and not a STD.  But I digress.  The dude and I didn’t get to the loving stage because there was no evidence that he felt passionate about me.  I’m not saying he should have tattooed my name across his pubic bone or sent me I love you cards signed with his tears, but similar to the tune En Vogue once sang, I wanted him to Give Me Something that I Could Feel.  Was that too much to ask? Raise your hand if you vote no. You can’t see me, but I’m raising both hands.  I liked homeboy and had amor loco for him (that means mad love) but unfortunately for us it was still a wrap.  Maybe I’ve read too many romance novels but I have no intention of being anyone’s 2^nd best.  What’s worse than being alone? Being a punnani placeholder for another chick.  Am I right or am I right? Holla if you hear me.

Are you a punnani placeholder? Should we date, mate and procreate with men who consider us 2^nd best?

don’t be #2

It could all be so simple. But you’d rather make it hard. Loving you is like a battle and we both end up with scars. Ex-Factor, Lauryn Hill

I love that song but Lauryn is a prime example of how a man can drive you crazy and ruin your life.  As women we have to understand and accept that some men aren’t supposed to be kept. They are supposed to be dumped, dropped, kicked to the curb and forgotten the minute they try and cause us emotional harm. I’ve had my share of ex-boyfriends. Most I’ve kept way past their expiration dates. They weren’t the ones. I’m sure because the only time I thought about them was when I was mentally back handing myself for not dumping them before they broke my heart. Ex-boyfriends are ex’s for a reason. They’re gone from our lives because they were wrong for us even though we were convinced that they were Mr. Right. I bring up ex-boyfriends because I had a blast from the past.

My ex-boyfriend called me recently. In the history of ex-boyfriends he was the worst. It’s no coincidence that he was also the most beautiful. I don’t use the word beautiful loosely; he had a face that put all other mortals to shame. Translation? I put up with extra shit from him for the privilege of loving him as much as he loved himself.  I listened to the deep baritone of his voice as he spoke and I remembered how much I used to love to hear my name on his lips. I indulged him as he walked us down memory lane editing out our big break up scene where he watched me walk out of his apartment and his life at night in the worst neighborhood in New York.  He photo-shopped and repainted the picture of our time together and made it look way better than it was. Wait up, screech. Fantasy destroyed.  Was he reading from a script that I’d never seen? In my version he was always creeping, complaining and looking out for the next best thing. The next best thing was never me. Was he looking at our life through eyes clouded by a half a bottle of Jack Daniels with a side of Gin? Because in my version my days were spent crying and wishing that he could love me as I was. Those wishes the Genie never granted. I was over it. He was too many years too late and we’d both moved on. He had a new family now. Was he having buyer’s remorse? Was domestication making him stir crazy for what might have been? Better him than me. I’d grown, matured and become a woman that had no time for yesterday’s news or trash. Out with the old and in with the new. Forget about yesterday’s boyfriend. I have.

Have you let yesterday’s love leave you with battle scars from the past?

My ex-boyfriend is a pain in the ass, a pain in the neck, just a pain.  No matter what I do I can’t get rid of him. If I was a dragon, the mere mention of his name would be enough for me to breathe fire and burn his aggravating ass to a crisp.  I don’t hate him. If I see him I wouldn’t hit him with my car, just a light tap on the shins with the front bumper; nothing that would do any permanent harm.  All I want is to be left alone and in peace. We’ve both moved on but he’s determined to keep our lives intertwined which makes me want to scream and show him my fist minus the four fingers; yeah, I want him to f*%# off.  The fact that he can still make me angry makes me wonder if the relationship didn’t leave me with irreparable scars. Am I damaged? Does my life read like an old Danity Kane song?

Unlike the song lyrics I’m well aware that no man can fix me. I’m a product of my past. The lessons I’ve learned about myself from old relationships live on. If I want to be happy and whole I must forgive myself for yesterday’s mistakes. I think I have….sometimes.  The problem is that if my ex still has the power to make me angry doesn’t that mean that I’m damaged? If I was an electronic devise I would be refurbished. Meaning I look good as new but previously I’ve had some difficulty. It would mean that to all but the discerning eye, I would seem fresh with all my original packaging. I look sellable but my warranty is a lie.

The reason people are reluctant to buy used cars or electronics is that although the exterior looks good, the inside, the heart of the machine has a past. The product has suffered from previous wear and tear. People are no different. When we have experienced something traumatic we are tempted to pretty ourselves up, slap on a new paint job and put ourselves back on the shelf.  But the tag of refurbished or previously owned was made for a reason.  Manufacturers must include this disclaimer because it warns the new owner to buy at their own risk. All is not what it seems. It warns that the product may suffer from some inconsistencies and problems because of the previous owner’s neglect.  I’m fixing myself, dusting off the past and going in for regular soul servicing.  I’m not new but I’m worthy of a test drive. If you don’t believe me I have my carFAX.

Did a previous owner leave you damaged but you’re passing yourself off as brand new?

Are you damaged?

I read this quote from #FreakyFact on Twitter – No need for revenge. Just sit back and wait. Those who hurt you will eventually screw up and if you’re lucky, God will let you watch.

Oh Lord, please grant me a front row seat. I had an ex that was so wicked after our breakup that I thought he and Lucifer must have been college roommates. I didn’t do anything to the dude. He cheated and I let him leave. I didn’t argue or fight.  I just released him into the atmosphere and prayed that I would never have to see his ass again. It seemed my Buddha Bless attitude riled him and got him mad. I should have cried more. I should have wept. I should have been so sad that I could have drowned myself in a sea of my own tears.  It wasn’t enough that every morning right before full consciousness coaxed me from sleep that the hole in my chest convinced me that I might have died. Nope. I should have lost fifty pounds or gained. I should have quit my job and lay face down across some tracks. I should have done a Superman off a high-rise. It wasn’t enough that heartache was killing me. He wanted to see the death for real.  In his mind, if the breakup didn’t destroy me then the love didn’t exist. He would have been convinced if I’d:

• Slept with 10 guys I couldn’t stand so they could help me forget
• Gone to bed with a picture of my him tucked under my pillow at night
• Committed myself to a daily 10 minute sobbing session in the bathroom stall
• Drove myself insane by having ‘our good times’ CD soundtrack on constant replay
• Grabbed the Haagen Dazs so I  could eat myself into a coma to stifle the pain
• Called his phone every hour ‘just to hear his voice’

Oh no, motherf*cker, you better bounce with that bullsh*t. I wasn’t going to let him win. The more he did to wound me the more I wanted him gone–Soprano style. I didn’t want to sit back and wait for God to do his thing. I wanted revenge now. The quote, ‘revenge is mine said the Lord’ seemed so wack. The Lord was taking his time. The dude was trying to hurt me. I wanted to defend myself black girl style. A baseball bat to the knee, a slashed tire or a clandestine call to my cousins to deliver a family beat down Brooklyn style. All these plots and plans filtered through my head but didn’t take root. Here’s why. I’d already won. He’d lost me. He’d already failed, he just couldn’t see as clearly as me. I’d already recovered. I thought of him less and less. He saved me from my biggest regret which was to love him long term. I owed him a hug of thanks and an Obama fist pump and dap. I believed in myself so was convinced that no matter how far I fell that with God at my back I would always rise.  His cruel intentions meant he had no such guarantee.  Don’t get me wrong, I still have his profile in my cross hairs but I plan to sit back and wait. He’ll get his one day. I’ve already gotten mine.

Is it better to wait for retribution or to seek revenge?

Don't move. I got your revenge right here.

A backhand across the mouth is the best way to silence a woman. A punch to the left tit is one way to get her to close her trap. Is she being a little lippy? Threaten to knock her teeth out and see if she utters another damn word. A little beat down never hurt anybody. Say what now? The world is full of bullies. I don’t want to single out a young, high yellow brother with an album ready to drop but if the title fits then let’s point some fingers and throw some chairs.

Some people think violence is the only way to shut some women up. If you’re acquainted with such people I say prepare them for an ass kicking, a beat down and a sucker punch to the left testicle. I can hear cheers from my End-Domestic-Violence advocates; another weak ass man hits the tarmac and its lights out.  I know many women who think that a little slap, shake or shove is forgivable. He didn’t mean it. He was just angry. I shouldn’t have made him mad. These are the excuses that these women throw around to defend unforgivable behavior. If you’re one of those sisters, I’m tempted to slap you myself so you can see sense. I‘ll refrain because you’ve been hit enough already.  The violence and physical abuse against you ends now. It ends with me telling you that you’re enough. That you won’t die if the man you’re with is no longer a part of your life. It ends with me telling you that you’re not alone. I want you to know that although the man you think you love has trapped you in a web of silence, fear and hurt that there is still a way out. The door to freedom begins by refusing to become a Bitch Slap Bride and knowing your value and your worth.

A man is not worthy of your time or affection if he:

• Communicates with punches and backhands
• If name calling, belittling and humiliation is a part of your daily routine
• If feeling less, inadequate or unlovable is standard when he’s in the vicinity
• If memories of the last time you were happy are vague
• If the physical pain inflicted is just the surface of your wounds
• If you tell more lies to yourself than anybody else

Remember that the more we let people destroy our spirits, steal our dreams and rewrite our histories the more we are abandoning pieces of ourselves to heartbreak.  Don’t let any man use your face for a punching bag. Summon the strength within for which all women are renowned and get out! Love shouldn’t hurt.

Can you love someone who shows affection with a five finger fist?

My man left me. Quit me.  He slapped a so long sucker on my forehead and kept it moving. He was out so fast that the flame of his departure burned a Roadrunner trail on my behind.  Even if I was Usain doing the 100 meter dash I still couldn’t catch him. He was goooooooooone. I heard the echo of my voice as it bounced off the walls of my abandonment.  I felt like sh*t on a pair of expensive shoes.  He stepped on me and kept on steppin.  Why me? Why Now? Why Lord? The questions in my mind were endless.  Where was a goddamn cliff in New York City when you needed one? There are bridges a plenty (Manhattan, Brooklyn, Triborough) but who the hell has time to climb that high? Not me.  I’m black dammit. I can’t do a swan dive into dirty water.  My hair would get wet.  My black girl’s compromise was to take to my bed with the decision to never ever get up. What was the point? My man cut me and I was bleeding to death.

Then one day I pictured my ex Sitting on Top of the World like Brandy and Mase.  He would be riding high and living large. The idea made me mad. Real mad. I didn’t grab a glock or roll up on him at night and spray his ass with lead–Compton style. Instead I grabbed my best weapon: my pen.   I put all my hurt and disappointment on paper and wrote myself back to life.  I started doing all the things I wanted to do and systematically starting overcoming all my fears. I had already lost everything so I had nothing left to dread. In the transition from the old me to the new I learned that when your life gets turned upside down it’s God’s way of answering prayers.

Nothing happens by accident. My man left me. Thank you Lord.  If he hadn’t I wouldn’t have met myself. I wouldn’t have realized that I’m powerful and that no matter what happens I will endure. I wouldn’t have known that no matter how many pieces of my soul shatter that I ultimately won’t break.  Terry McMillan says that writing is like praying on paper. If true, my blog, my upcoming book (see writing projects) and all my works in progress are the result of little stories floating up to heaven.  Donnie McClurkin sings We Fall Down, But We Get Up. So get up girl and get back in the game!

Are you singing your own swan song by letting the past get you down?

Black Swan Song