He would try to control the situation by taking my son.

It was summer 2009. I was in college working too.

We were fighting. I slept on the couch, with an machete.

Orlando was dead.  He kicked me out because I wasn’t doing what he wanted.

I moved to my mothers house. Hated asking for a ride because they acted like it was a burden helping me get to work and school. So I walked to the bus stop as much as I could.

He took Rushaud to New York. I cried.  Then I moved to New York. We lived upstate for a while. On a main street across from the park. We were doing well individually and I started going back to school again.

Back then I wished he loved me. I loved him.

It hurt, still hurts.

I watched TV too much he broke the TV.

The bed.

Riped my book.

My Hair.

Scaling the flood to look through my phone.

I was tired. I wanted it to stop.

One day I cocked the gun and I put it back in the closet. Holding my breath for the next confrontation.  The time came I pulled out the gun, but I didn’t pull the trigger. He took it and put it to his head in his mouth. It just got worse. We had our happy moments but it was still short lived. 10 years out of my 28 years of pain.

He was taking his pain out on me.

He was looking for what society said that a black women should be.

A concubine.

I’ve learned now that you can’t fix anyone. You can’t make them love you. You can’t make them happy. You can only be the example of the moral character you want to attract in your life.