The Dalema

Finding The Woman I'm Meant To Be



Standardized Common Sense

There’s a reason they’re called an X
Because you’re left wondering Y
And they generally text
Just to say goodnight

When you’re moving on
They come around
Late at night, when you’re asleep
And there’s no other love found

You hold onto hope
Thinking they’ll change
But like the alphabet
Letters can’t be rearranged

So they sing the ABC’s
The lies they tell
Trying to get to you
Trying to lay their spell

But you know their games
And they don’t give an F
So they sing their lies
All the way to the X

But there’s a reason they’re called an X
Because you’re left wondering Y
And the z is for the zen I’ll feel
When you’re no longer in my life.

  • The Dalema. June 12, 2017.

A Note To The Wounded Part II

I know it’s hard. You feel empty and broken in the deepest and most sacred parts of your soul right now. You feel lost and confused – completely unwanted.

But . . .

You are loved. You will be loved in such a way by someone new, it will make you wonder why you ever thought you truly loved this person. It’s all going to get better. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day at a time.

Those deep, sacred parts of your soul you feel you’ll never get back will double in capacity. They aren’t even close to being absorbent enough to encompass all the love you’re going to receive from the person God truly wants in your life. The forever kind of love.

The path you’re on does lead to a happy place. The emptiness will subside and you will eventually feel complete again. And the right person will never, ever, ever in a million years make you feel the kind of rejection you feel right now. Give your sadness to God.

Allow yourself to feel the pain – it’s part of the healing. Just don’t drop your anchor and stay there long. Because the captain of your heart is still out at sea, fighting hell – wind and storms – to get through to find you.

  • The Dalema. October, 2016


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.

A Note To The Wounded

You and I are the same my love. Your heartbreak is severe – but I can honestly say I’ve been there.

No love is ever the same and, if it’s real love, it leaves a scar. The wound remains but the heart, over time, creates a scab. And we pick at it; we itch and wish we’d been more careful – more cautious. But ultimately the wound leaves a mark. And no matter how much anti-scar lotion we use or skin healing cream, the scar will always be there. Reminding us of something that used to cause us pain; a reminder of the love we once had.

  • The Dalema. September 14, 2016

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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