Valentine’s Day Has Never Meant More to Me and Here’s Why

I turned thirty exactly eleven days ago and save for that time in sixth grade when my best friend and I had boyfriends, I don’t think Valentine’s Day has ever meant more to me. Here’s why:

1.  I just broke up with my boyfriend

Didn’t see that coming, did ya? Well, it’s the truth. I broke up with my (secret) boyfriend exactly a week ago (for good this time!) and though I have never celebrated Valentine’s Day, I kind of felt like this would have been a meaningful one at the very least, had we survived. I never expected chocolate or roses or anything remotely heart-shaped, but the thought of actually not being single for one freaking Valentine’s Day (especially the one after my MONUMENTAL thirtieth birthday) was actually very present in my subconscious before we split. Suffice it to say, the day has been a complete drag, being bombarded on all fronts by everything red, white, pink, kissy, and loveable that the world has to offer. It is disgusting. Disgustingly painful and in some ways a mockery of my recent heartbreak. Should I have waited the extra seven days just to have the pleasure of feeling internally pleased with myself for finally not being one of those single people Valentine’s Day? I don’t think the turmoil would have been worth it, really. But maybe?

2. Self-love is real and so important

I have always loved myself. I can guarantee that no-one, nay, a single soul, who has ever met me thinks I am more awesome than I think I am awesome. However, tapping into this awesomeness has been a feat since 2020 started (particularly the last seven days) and I’ve had to consciously make the effort to love myself. It has been one of the most diminishing things for me, having someone I have loved for a long time make me feel like I’m not enough. It’s made me wonder if I was ever even good enough to begin with; and if I was, then at what point did I become less than what I was?  Worse even, not being the one who committed the offence, for a while, it really felt like it was all my fault. If I were more of this or less of that, then maybe I’d still be with you, scoffing at all the anti-Valentine’s day memes as you pretend to watch a rerun of Catfish and we have Ramen for supper. Alas, it’s just me tonight. But thankfully, I’m not that sad. I’m writing this hilarious blog post instead. My efforts at self-love have helped me to realize that I am, was, and always will be, enough. Whoever thinks otherwise simply has no room in my life and it is never my duty to prove anything to them. It’s the cliche of the century, but god is it true! Also, Ramen and Catfish reruns is probably my new love language! (100% joking here)

3. The brainwashing is real

Here we are, on literally just another day in the year, getting up in arms about whether or not another human being finds us desirable, and how much our desirability index is affected by our choices – and lack thereof – in our coupling or non-coupling. Or is it just me? Honestly, this point was meant to be way more profound, but the fact that my current neighbours are blaring Vybz Kartel’s most lovingly explicit hits (which appears to also be a love language) as I write this, is making it extremely difficult to articulate in the coherent and intelligible way I had hoped. That being said, I will mention Netflix’s latest reality love trope (on which I am absurdly and absolutely hooked) Love is Blind, because it just shows how crazy humans are as it relates to “love” and I secretly love/hate it. Seriously though, I am aware of how on brand this is for a recent dumpee: “Barf on Valentine’s Day and Try to Ruin it for Others”. But I assure you, I do not take that stance. I just think that we, single or double folk, shouldn’t allow a single day out of the 365/6 to let us  question our worth, or make us feel less than all the “lovers” who capitalize on this capitalist consumerist scheme and are deliberately being extra sickeningly cute around us for a whole 24 hours.

I will conclude with a question, that I’m obviously asking for a friend: who’s supposed to make the first move when you match with someone on Bumble?

 

Enjoy the night, lovers!

 

Three Things my Four Year Journal Has Revealed About Me….To Me

I’ve been writing in my journal, albeit sporadically, for the past four years. Now that I am able to look back at my slightly depressed and terrifying late twenties, I’ve realized a few things:

1. I’ve always known what I wanted

It’s scary and relieving all at once to go back, year by year, through the past four years and see my current sentiments being echoed. Or, are these current sentiments actually the echoes of the initial ones? Hmm. Sentimentception. It’s scary because quite frequently, I find myself in bouts of self-doubt about what I want. I constantly ask myself: Is that dream realistic? Can I actually do it? Will it work out??? Thankfully, the relief comes when I am reminded that younger and much less wise me, had a vision and some vague sense of a plan to achieve these dreams, and that I have actually been working towards them over the years. My journal has served as a very detailed yet slightly obscure and long-winded vision board of sorts. Go me!

2. Life can be a painful cycle when we stick to our comfort zones

Over the past four years I’ve experienced quite possibly every emotion known to man. And woman. I’ve also learned to be extremely hyperbolic, for dramatic effect. That being said, I noticed that most of the negative experiences I’ve had came as a result of making the same choices in reoccurring situations. I also noticed that the situations would only reoccur when I’d make the same (or very similar) decisions. It’s been like every Groundhog Day-esque film where I couldn’t wouldn’t make a different choice because I was either too dumb to realize that I’m hurting myself or too scared to find out what else is there besides the pain. My comfort zone was literally the most painful place I knew, and because I created it, I chose to stay there. My journal is basically a different version of Get Out.

3. I haven’t been wholly being my authentic self

This might sound weird, but I don’t think my Mother has any idea who I am. Yes, she gave birth to me and raised me, but she doesn’t really know me. I don’t blame her, because I’ve always been a sweet and secretive soul. I tend to keep my thoughts and my actual self mostly to myself, giving little hints of  Actual Me when, where, and to whom I deem necessary. I give the corporate world Corporate Me and I give the social world Social Me. But if you asked the five or so persons who kind of know Actual Me, they would never use the words corporate or social to describe me. I’m not saying that I’ve been living a lie, but I certainly haven’t been living as who I really am. Yes, I’m coming out. Here. On my blog. Not as L, G, B, T, or Q, but as a wild, untamed spirit that has been conforming for so long. This is not about being a heathen (already came out in this blog post) or a person of the world (whatever the fuck that means these days haha). This is about being a free-thinker, sayer, and doer; someone who dares to challenge the norms of a wackadoodle society; someone who dares to stick it to the man; someone who dares to say it loud and proud : PINEAPPLE BELONGS ON PIZZA!!!!!

Seriously though. We’re living in a society that encourages us to think about what others think of us. Read that again.

But as Kanye said in a recent interview with David Letterman (see it on Netflix), “I didn’t take all this time to become me to listen to you”.

My journal has allowed me to listen to myself, while the rest of the world is busy screaming at and comparing each other. And in listening, I am being.

Troubles

It’s funny how

what I don’t have now

I wanted to not want,

until I believed my mind

that I quenched the fire;

but who can derail desire?

 

 

 

Questions

Why does lightning feel more beautiful when looking away?

The night, more appealing until the last breath of day?

Are our feelings only real because we remember?

Is it love or defeat each time we surrender?

Savior

Not the jagged cliffs

Nor the crashing waves

Or even the depth of the blue.

Not the living

Neither the death

Can stop me from jumping,

Only you.

getting Over

If we must

sever ties

to limit the lies

we tell ourselves,

and kill all hope

or burn in hell,

we must.

Moving on

No

I don’t like it when my heart constricts

And my breathing shallows

As shards of glass form in my throat.

But I must know

If you are happy

Or if your death

too

is slow.

condemned

an excerpt

We were a destined tragedy

Like man’s fall to sin.

Such a beautiful serpent

Who wouldn’t give in?

Struck

Have you ever met yourself in someone’s eyes

Seen your joy in all their smiles?

Then felt the warmth as it left your soul

Because it will never be your hands they hold.

That is a thunderstorm of the heart.

From Eden to Heathen

Hi. My name is Shari and I’m a heathen.

After approximately 25 years “in the church” I threw in the towel.

Called it quits.

Shouted “hasta la vista, baby!” while making the devil horn sign as I walked down the pews mid-sermon on a Sabbath morning.

Ok, the last part isn’t true, but maybe I should’ve done it for the heck of it. Because my quiet departure has yielded more or less the same response.

Ok, maybe that’s not altogether true either.

See, I’m a liar: heathen to the core.

Honestly though, my departure hasn’t really been met with any extreme or adverse reactions from my former congregants. And I think this is simply because they just don’t know that I’m gone. Like, gone gone. To the dark side. They know that I’ve moved across the island and probably that I’m separated from my husband. But, I don’t think they really know.

A few of my close friends are aware, my mother (who is hiding her devastation remarkably well), and maybe the odd church friend who noticed my tattoos when I visited church a while back. Yeah, tattoos are explicit heathen marks. I think my closest friends, who are happy in their walk with The Lord, probably took it the hardest. I guess it’s hard to understand how after 25 years in the faith and all that God has brought me through, I could just turn my back on him and leave. Well, let me tell you how/why I did it.

I don’t know when it started, (it being the decline of my faith) but it definitely was during a period of depression, when I began to question everything in my life. I felt like a stranger to myself and I just wasn’t happy. Nothing had meaning or purpose and church was high on the list of pointlessly rote functions. White Jesus just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. He wasn’t making me happy; he wasn’t bringing me the fulfillment I longed for; he wasn’t saving my marriage; he wasn’t making me a multimillionaire by sitting on the couch every day.

So, unintentionally, the quitting of my marriage coincided with my quitting of the church. And I have NEVER felt happier in my life!!! I don’t ask anyone to keep me through the night or wake me up in the mornings, and unbelievably I’ve made it through the last two years. I haven’t asked anyone to bless my meal before eating it and I can’t say I’ve experienced any supernatural food poisoning thus far. I must admit though that I’ve had to beseech somebody on occasion (God, I guess) when taking public transportation. But it’s Jamaica. Supernatural powers are needed on the roads.

I go to work on Saturdays and I don’t feel guilty about “breaking the Sabbath”. I eat the dreaded PORK, much to my mother’s dismay. I have tattoos and piercings to come. I haven’t intentionally been to church or “fellowshipped with the brethren” in two years. I have fully embraced the hedonistic life. Heck, I even accept that LGBTQ persons are actual persons who deserve respect and love!**  But most importantly, at the end of each day, I am happy. I don’t feel the need to believe in anything or anyone, or try to make it to some distant land in the clouds. I believe that my choices, and not my faith, are responsible for the outcome of my life. I am certain of this life and will live it to the fullest. YOLO.

So, do I still believe in God? Religion?

No, and no. This is Westworld and none of us are real.

Really though. My view on God and Religion is simple: if it makes you happy, by all means go ahead with it. Just don’t be killing folks. That’s not cool. I could, but I’d rather not get into the whole diatribe against organized Religion and Christianity and what it meant for my slave ancestors, and all the evils that were done in it’s name. That’s for another time and another post.

I will admit though, sometimes I can’t help but believe in a Creator when I look into the eyes of a beautiful innocent child, or see the majesty of a sunset from above the clouds. Or eat pizza. Because some higher power obviously created man with the capacity to create pizza and that Great Being deserves recognition!

All the other times, I simply don’t care.

I don’t know if we are here on this Earth for a purpose or just as an experiment.

I do know that we (humans) are downright terrible but equally as great, Religion or nah.

And I am OK with that.

 

 

** This is not to say that Christians in general don’t share this view, but I know A LOT of them who don’t!**