The past couple of nights have been laced with insomnia. I have been tired, but unable to hush my thoughts. This is the part that I hate, the PTSD-esk phase - when the events and words that were said, keep replaying themselves over and over in my mind. Every time I'd close my eyes they were forced back open by my feelings about what was said and what went down, and by his reaction to me in my entirety and in my vulnerability. I think I'm still in shock. Its not like we haven't been here before, but this time was different. This time set the tone for there not to be a next time. I wasn't ready for that. It was unexpected and unwanted.

And you know what else I hate? Not knowing what to do with left over love. This love hasn't reached its expiration date yet, and now I have to place it back on the shelf, although it has already been assigned, and pretend that it doesn't exist, even though it stares back at me longingly. Pretty pathetic huh?

Before today, I fantasized about spending the entire day pampering myself in preparation for a romantic evening. And then I fantasized about a lunch date, where my little girl would stuff her face full of cheese and olive pizza, and another little girl would be sitting across the table from me, on her daddy's lap, getting help with her slices, and my little girl and his little girl would then join hands and run off to play in the kiddie area of the pizza parlor.

Instead, I pulled myself outta bed, cleaned and packed up some more things before getting myself and Miss J dressed, then surprised her with a little gift.

She pulled out the contents of the bag, then went back for the card.


She read the card and then burst into laughter.


And contemplated which side of her Princess and the Frog nightgown she would wear tonight.


And while I put on my makeup, she read all about how Marley the dog kept getting into all kinds of trouble. We had a table for two at McDonald's, where she ran into a little guy from school that she plays football with everyday.

Yes, instead of being sad about a lack of romance, I decided to make today all about my daughter's happiness. I'm blessed enough to know exactly what she likes, so her smiles are always abundant. Today was no exception. The perfect gift, the perfect meal... all for the perfect little person who appreciates me the most.

What began as a year of happiness and hope, is dwindling into one of despair, ugliness and loss.

We all knew that sadly, Patrick's days were numbered, but it doesn't make losing him any less painful. Its the way in which he was lost that is so painful. Cancer is like a superbug. It strikes and destroys, without any prejudice. It is resistant and unforgiving.

I can't even say anymore about it at this point because its a subject that cuts far to deeply...

First of all, if you aren't a House fan, there is something terribly wrong with you. I LOVE this show! I can't recall when I was first won over, but House's sarcasm, brilliance, and the way that he interacts with his team is all priceless. Here's a man whose main concern is which ever questionable illness case file happens to end up on his desk and whose primary focus is to solve puzzles. He has no affection for anyone other than his boss Lisa Cuddy, and bestfriend James Wilson, and even then, its a dysfunctional "House" kind of affection that leaves both Cuddy and Wilson hating that they love him so much. To most of his patients and his co-workers, Dr. Gregory House is a straight asshole, but deep down, he's just a man who spends his days working toward not letting his pain overtake his passion. I know one thing, if I had a mystery diagnosis, I'd want the Vicodin popping, antisocial, self centered doctor on call.

My love for and understanding of how Hugh Laurie's character operates brought about an epiphany concerning my Ex. As time moves forward the term "Ex" may grow to be an inappropriate way of describing him, so I'm gonna refer to him as my Kipenzi (lover/darling) instead. My favorite word in Swahili is "kupenda" which means to love; I love him, so it fits.

Back to the ephiphany...

My Kipenzi and I met back in 2004, and since our first date, our relation to each other has been interesting. We had intelligent and meaningful conversation, many things in common and a genuine attraction to each other that transcended the sexual. He had goals and aspirations, as did I, and he was working toward making his dreams a reality, as was I. We could have made a great team, and I wanted us to, but each time we grew closer he'd pull away for reasons unknown to me.

Things continued this way for years. A triangle of togetherness-love-time apart. We'd come together time after time and for whatever reason just never seem to work out. We spent a lot of time together, but never truly knew each other, not the way that we should have. All due to inaccurate communication and old fashion fear on both our parts of getting too close. Just that simple.

How does House fit into all of this? Well, during our quest to make things work, I was in my own world and he was in his. Our birthdays are 6 days apart, so there are times when we are one in the same, which, as you can imagine, is a problem. I often felt that he was very self-centered and inconsiderate when it came to my feelings. I was emotional and he couldn't relate because he didn't handle his feelings/issues/whatever in the same ways that I did. I felt that I was playing the fool. That deep down, he was just like Miss J's dad in his thinking and interactions with me. Ironically, he felt the same way about me. That I didn't take his feelings into consideration, didn't really respect him and his unique personality. Turns out, that just like Dr. House, we were both fighting day to day to not let our pain overtake us.

He was a gunshot victim at age 15, and as a result, he lives in constant physical pain with a bummed leg, just like the cynical Dr. House. As my Kipenzi and I came back together recently to work on "us", his improved self was a bit of a shock to me. I wanted to know what was really up with this newly sensitive and highly compassionate Kipenzi. According to him, this side of him has always lived within. Really? I have to say, I liked it. As we started to court each other and get to know each other as we should have years ago, the epiphany hit. What if, like Dr. House, my Kipenzi was just a man who'd been shaped by his physical pain? Like House, my Kipenzi has been shot, relies on pain killers to dull his pain, walks with a distinctive limp, and despite how he comes off to people with his attitude and guarded nature, he really is a great guy. I can admit that I have been shaped by my mental pain. I'm still in the beginning stages of this epiphany, so for now, my Kipenzi and I are taking things slow. We know what the fast paced leads to. Perhaps things will evolve differently between us this time around.

May 31, 1992. The day I lost my mother. My, how time does fly. How could it have been 17 years ago when it still feels like it happened yesterday? I will never forget sitting in a chair in the living room of my mother's apartment watching the paramedics carry her from her bedroom into the living room to be placed on a stretcher. I will never forget my family sneaking me into my mother's hospital room and sometimes having to argue with the nurses "this is her daughter, she needs to be with her mother". Rules are rules, no children allowed on certain floors, but I always got in. I will never forget the pain on my grandmother's face and the tears in her eyes as she came out to the waiting room and simply said, "she's gone". As I sat on my aunt's lap, I didn't know what that meant. I was only 8 years old. I didn't know the pain and tears that my grandmother had that day were the expression of a mother's loss of her first born, and I didn't know that I too, would feel similar pain, that would be shown in expressions of my own.

I will never forget the small funeral home that held my mother's body. The little place that sat right on the outskirts of my hood. I will always remember walking from my house to that little place and sitting with my mother as she lay in her casket. I will never forget the chill of her hand as I stroked a scar that lay there. What I do not remember is the warmth of her breath, the sound of her voice or the happiness of her laughter. I can't even remember the smell of her fragrance. Perhaps 8 years old was too young for me to know that I should tuck these things away deep in my memory. Perhaps I did tuck them deeply away and pain does not allow me to retrieve them. I don't really know, I just know that I do not have access to them anymore and I wish that I still did.

Unless you have lost a parent as a young child you could never understand that experience. Its not the same experience as growing up with an absent parent. With an absent parent, there is always the possibility of that parent's return. No, the death of a parent is truly a life changing experience, on so many different levels, and it is one of those events in life that shape your very existence. Or at least, it has truly shaped mine. As a child, I questioned God daily about why my mother wasn't allowed to exist. About why "I" had to be drastically different than every other 8 year old that I knew. I can't say that I got an answer to that question, but I did gain more understanding over the years about the time that my mother did exist.

Although I have been missing and grieving my mother for 17 whole years, in a way she is still with me. After her death her energy was still with me for a while. Her cigarette smoke would surround me, my touch-lamp would flicker. But then those things stopped and I felt that she had left me indefinitely. Indefinitely, until her cigarette smoke surrounded me again during a lecture at Cal, and nine months later I gave birth to a little girl, on the same date that my mother was buried.

Time flies, wounds remain fresh...