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The Dalema

Finding The Woman I'm Meant To Be

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My Novel

Blank Canvas 

I think you saw their true colors but painted over them. I think you thought maybe, if you mixed your colors with theirs, the painting would be a real work of art. We do that when we love someone.

Unfortunately, I wasted a lot of time repainting. I wasted a lot of time in denial; always blaming the poor lighting or the colors I was mixing with. Then I realized something, all those times I thought I was choosing the wrong colors, but I didn’t even like my own colors. You can’t paint a beautiful picture if you hate the colors you’re working with.

So I changed my colors. I spent a lot of time staring at a lonely, blank canvas. And I threw away a lot of paintings.

I know my colors now. I know the colors that mix well with mine; anything less just won’t do. I don’t want to look down the road years from now and want to throw away the life I’ve worked so hard with my partner to paint.

Don’t be the only one painting. Love your colors. Make sure they love their own colors, too. If they don’t, if you don’t, the painting will never be more than a recycled canvas – an artless piece of trash – no matter how talented the painter is.

  • The Dalema. August, 2016
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Prelude 

The following is the prelude to my novel. I began writing this when I was 19 years old. Please feel free to comment and like. With enough feedback, I’ll continue sharing excerpts.

(June, 2006)

I have a history of bad relationships. I’m nineteen. Nineteen days, twenty-three hours and forty minutes, nineteen. I grew up watching Disney® movies, dieting, trying to fit in and – most of all – looking for true love. Why? I wish I knew.

I have friends in happy relationships – ‘true love’ type relationships. I have an older brother who, I’m pretty sure, is dating the girl he’s going to marry directly after college. I know family members and members of the community who are also involved in ‘true love’ marriages and relationships. Why is this of any importance? Because not one of them looked for true love – in fact I’m sure they didn’t even wish for it. They didn’t hope for it, didn’t wait for it – I wonder if they even thought about it. Yet here I am – nineteen days, twenty-three hours and forty minutes – nineteen, and I’ve based my life on one thing; finding (as in looking for) true love. Not just any love – not puppy love, lust, love at first sight, lost love or love that’s there for a portion of your life and just wasn’t meant to be. I‘m talking about one-of-a-kind love, the real thing – TRUE love.

Actually, I might be lying about my friends, my brother and the people in my family and community; I don’t really know whether or not it just came to them. I do know one thing – true love has not come to me. In fact, I think it’s avoiding me. It might be because I look, hope, dream, wish and wait so hard for it. Either way, it’s not here. Like I’ve already said, repeatedly, I’m – nineteen days and now about twenty three hours and fifty one minutes – nineteen. True love shouldn’t be the most important, only-focused-on aspect of a 19-year-old college girl’s life. But it is – always has been, always will be – and I wish it weren’t anymore.

You’re obviously wondering about my past because what sort of life have I lived to have cultivated such an obsession with the idea of true love – ‘TRUE love’? Well to give you a quick summary of the last nineteen years, twenty days and four minutes – my life hasn’t exactly been typical, normal, hard or extravagant. I’m actually really unsure of what one word I would use to describe my life besides, well, mine. I don’t have many childhood memories. I’m not sure why. It might be because I was molested as a child. I tell myself it’s because God doesn’t want me to remember all the bad times, but I wish he would let me remember the good.

My biological father and my mother divorced when I was three. I guess they just weren’t in ‘true love’. He wasn’t a part of my life much longer after the divorce. Now that I think about things, I’ve seen a lot of failed marriages and relationships. Seeing those failures should have kept me from believing in love, not obsessing over it. Yet here I am.

Anyways, back to the quick summary that’s not so quick. My mom and the biological father divorced when I was three. My mom became a struggling single mother who worked her ass off to give her kids the basics all while going to college for her Associates Degree. I remember when she used to date. One day, when I was around five years old, a bald man knocked on the door (I say I ‘remember’ this because it’s become a bit of a family joke that I’ve heard numerous times). At the ripe age of five-ish, after answering the door, I asked my mom what this man was doing at our house. She said they were going on a date, to which I dramatically exclaimed, “My moms going out with a bald guy?!” – and it’s been apparent ever since: I’d never have a filter.

My mother and the bald man proceeded to date. He became my dad, and I love him. He is better than any father I could have ever hoped for. He is my real dad – regardless of what any documents, medical records or last names claim. My mom and my dad love each other. It’s ‘true love’. It’s what I’m looking for.

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To The Someone I Used To Know

I want to say something
and I probably shouldn’t –
but I’m gonna

One day I woke up
I found myself wanting –
to be someone’s

I wanted to try something
because they told me –
‘you never know’

So I tried my best
I gave my all –
I held hope

I didn’t expect to feel
so much, so soon –
anything for anyone

Yet there I was hoping
he would heal me –
mend my broken

I thought it was something
or should I say –
I was someone’s

He made me trust him
think we were different –
like we belonged

Somehow he made it stop
my fear of heartbreak –
fear of loss

Somehow I found the strength
to be only myself –
because of ‘us’

I’ve wanted to say more
and I probably shouldn’t –
so I don’t

But I found myself praying
I woke up wishing –
there was hope

Although he decided to leave
and I’m still hurting –
I’m not afraid

I found myself missing him
and he should know –
it is ok

I need to say something
I’ve kept a secret –
but I’ll share

I once woke up smiling
thinking he might stop –
thinking of her

I may have some regrets
and I won’t mention –
he should’ve stayed

Of course I’d be lying
if I denied wishing –
somewhere, somehow, someday

I will tell you something
and I probably shouldn’t –
but I’m gonna

Today I woke up thinking
I found myself wanting –
to be someone’s

Someone who could love me
somewhere safe and warm –
sometime very soon

But the somehow was missing
the somewhere was missing –
He. Someone. You.

  • The Dalema. October 31, 2016.
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A Spoonful Of Missing You

Five words. You said them once and you’ve never meant them more.
It was a Monday night turning into Tuesday.
Tuesday – the last day I’d ever see you.
They meant so much to me. I didn’t know they could mean so much more.
I didn’t know until now.

You said the words, “I really do miss you”.
I knew you meant it.
I was missing you too, of course. Like always.
I was always the one to miss you – you could be in the other room and I’d crave your touch.
I’d crave your kisses. I’d miss your presence.

But for the first time, you said those five words.
I felt missed by you. Wanted by you.
I finally earned a place in your thoughts.
I took up a small corner of your mind.
A corner she no longer kept.

The next day was the best day I’d ever have with you.
So simple. So normal. For me, it was perfect.
Nothing extravagant. Grocery shopping.
We cooked together.
Fooled around in the kitchen.
We enjoyed each other’s company and then fell asleep in each other’s arms.
I’ll never forget what you said when we woke up, “You’re so addicting.”

I’ve held on to those words.
Those last moments – our last cuddles.
Had I known that was our last kiss, I would have held it longer.
Had I known that was our last embrace, I would have left a trail of kisses on your jawline.
An extra squeeze around your waste.
An extra gaze into your eyes.

I can’t hold on to your kiss.
Time won’t let me hold the corner of your mind – the one I know she’s reclaimed.
Your memory might not remember the way our hands and lips fit or the way I cooked for you.
Your amusement when I kept the produce bag next to the cutting board as a garbage –
the same thing you did.
You’ve moved on from the addiction of our embrace – the perfect spoon.
How my head fit on your chest.
The deep sleep we fell into together.

So here I am, on a Monday night turning into Tuesday.
I didn’t know it then, but I know now.
There are five words you said that will always mean the most to me.
I realize I’ll never hear you say them to me again.

You said, “I really do miss you”.

  • The Dalema. October 24, 2016. 
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