Signed Shonda

  /  Uncategorized   /  Dear, Gatekeeper (Inspired by Jessie Reyez)

Dear, Gatekeeper (Inspired by Jessie Reyez)

Hey you,

Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been? Don’t worry, I’m asking because I genuinely give a fuck. After all, we were best friends at one point, right? Yeah, you were like a brother to me. Not one of those brothers that I wanted to fuck or anything, but a true brother to me. We were truly friends, and I think that’s why what you did hurt me the most. You actually knew me, and cared for me. Truth be told, I want you to know that I’m not mad at you, and I’m writing this to let you know – as well as myself know – that I’m good now, but we need to talk.

Remember that time I called you over the summer and I was bawling my eyes out to you about my breakup with my then-boyfriend? My God, I was distraught and I thought it was the end of life as I knew it, but you were there for me. You sent me funny memes in the middle of the day to make sure I was still smiling. You always called me just to make sure I wasn’t crying. Then, one day you actually called me crying about your relationship, and I thought to myself, ‘He’s having relationship problems? That can’t be because he’s Mr. Perfect”. I mean, like seriously, you knew how much juice you had back in college – all the ladies loved you, you were a pageant king, and you were easy on the eyes, too. You told me that night that your then-girlfriend had accused you of raping her, which made me cock my head to the side and squint my eyes like that Black chick with the oxtail of a ponytail. I didn’t think you were serious because you’re such a nice guy; you don’t cheat, you don’t lie (see that shameless Jessie Reyez plug I just threw in there?). I thought that you couldn’t do any harm to another woman strictly because of the way that I knew you were with me – protective, harmless, selfless and brotherly. I’m sorry that things between you and her ended up working out though – sorry for her, at least; not you. You don’t deserve her. I don’t even know her and I know you don’t deserve her. Enough about her though, let’s get to why I’m really here.

That summer was such a pivotal moment for our friendship because we grew so close over heartbreak and wanting to be there for one another. We were always there to learn on each other to talk about relationships, sex, starting to date again and just being open and honest with someone of the opposite sex who just actually understood and got it without wanting anything from it. We had planned to have a brother-sister night at your new place because you were so excited to move off-campus and I was excited to have a friend that stayed off-campus so I could have an excuse to be away from it all more than I already was. When the weekend before the first day of classes came around, you picked me up, we went to Wally World so we could get some groceries for the food we never got around to cooking, and we even went to that dingy ass liquor store with the bars on the windows that smelled like straight Hennessy.

Fun fact, did you know that you were my first real drinking experience? I mean, of course, you knew because I told you I didn’t drink, but I just have to reiterate it because it’s crazy how this one experience really made me go off the deep end. I mean, let me tell you, I partied every single weekend to numb the pain with Everclear, Hennessy, Que Oil, you name it. When you and I started drinking, it was just a sip here and there while I tried to finish up the reading that I didn’t do over the summer, but then I realized I couldn’t focus. Amsterdam and pineapple juice is dangerous, son. It’s the type of mix that sneaks up on you periodically if you mix it just right, but I’m sure you knew that when you gave a 120 lb 19-year-old college junior that drink. You suggested a game of “Truth or Dare,” and I’ve played it before, just not with alcohol. Except you didn’t only use it as a consequence, you used it as a tool to spread my legs open.

“Now why would I do a cartwheel if I’m drinking on an empty stomach? I’d rather drink.”

“Of course I’m not telling you my body count. That’s my business, I’m drinking.”

“Beg my ex-boyfriend to take me back? Three shots over here.”

The more I denied, the more compliant I became – if you catch my drift. My eyes began to shut, but I wasn’t tired. The room was spinning, but I was laying down – still, stiff as a board. Laying down? Why was I laying down, and that awful rug burn on my back. Why was I able to feel that if my clothes were on? Right, they weren’t. They weren’t because I remember you sitting me on your lap, but I was naked by then and so were you, but when did any of that even happen because I didn’t take my own clothes off? Hell, I couldn’t even stand up straight let alone take off any article of clothing. You were kissing me and touching me, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t say no. So, maybe I did, right? That means I asked for it, right? When you stuck your fingers inside of me and asked me if I liked it, you knew I couldn’t speak, so you took that as I nod when I couldn’t even speak let alone bite my lips, say your name or moan for that matter. So, even if I did like it, I didn’t want it. Not like that. I watched you pull him out of you and slip him inside of her, and I watched it happen, but I was frozen. It was liquor, it was fear, it was sadness – it’s like I was standing above myself watching it all happen and my outer body wanted me to get up and run, but she didn’t have the strength to pull the flesh from under your body. You were too strong, and you were too powerful. I remember waking up the next day smelling like pineapple juice and New Amsterdam, and smelling like you. That’s a smell I’ll never forget.

I do thank you for the ride back to campus though the next morning. That headache was killer and I could not walk back to campus with a headache like this. Before you go, I want you to turn your attention to my featured image. This woman is powerful, strong, successful and an amazing Black woman in spite of the bullshit that you put me through that night that changed me forever. I am not a victim, I am a survivor and for quite some time, I blamed you for taking my laugh, my smile, my pride, my sanity and everything that made me who I was. But, then I realized that I have control over my life, nigga, not you. Fuck a ‘fuck you’; I want to say thank you for allowing me to start from ground zero and learn how to love myself and allow others to love me. For being a friend when you were and for allowing me to know who you are now. I wish you nothing and Godspeed.

Signed, Shonda