Excerpts from a Mad Woman’s Diary – Fallen Soldier

Recently I have been reviewing my old journals just to see how far I’ve come. Surprise, surprise I have grown but at the same time, I see the areas that continue to be a challenge at each new stage of growth, here are a few of the things that were on my mind in 2004 when all hell was breaking loose.

March 20, 2004

Why is my voice angry? Anger should not be the only language I speak. You’ve got to be able to take my words seriously without me having to shove them down your throat. Anger, unexpressed makes me sick but dwelling in the anger destroys my soul. It steals my joy and makes the world a dark dismal place.

Like the dark I see as I wait for my wayward husband to come home. The Friday night lime has turned once again into the Saturday morning sunrise. The smell of alcohol seeping from his pours says his pockets are empty and I am in for a short session of his feelings of woe and loss and critical ramblings about the meaning of life, love, God and the universe. His snores nearly smother the cries of my infant son, sleeping with his sisters in the next room.

He doesn’t notice my absence as I slip from his drunken embrace. The smell of sex emanating from him reminds me that he longer even cares to hide the knowledge of his slave bitch from me. My hero has fallen and no longer wants to get up and I feel trapped. Trapped by a vow, trapped by a promise my mouth made but my heart didn’t sanction. It had been sanctioned by my fear. Fear that if I didn’t grab this man who told me I was beautiful and he loved me I would never hear those words again. But words are just words, if the heart lies if the actions don’t correspond. I hate myself for fearing. For fearing the loss of something I never had.

For he too is trapped. Trapped in his own life. His lost childhood, his missing father and a whoring mother doing what she could to feed her children to make a way for them to survive. He knows no honor for woman for he does not honor himself. His misguided ideas of manhood are draped with ignorance, anger, dominance, and pain. But he does not know how to not be the man his grandfather taught him to be.

He is a complex mixture of hard work, and selfish lover; renegade hero and reluctant manhood. He is flawed and I don’t like that. He is not the man I perceived him to be in my minds eye. He is a hurting black man, seeking salvation, seeking healing. How can I save him when I cannot save myself?

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