possessive guys, because in some sick, twisted way, I think
that means they care. I’m like, “Look at all the energy he’s
putting into finding out what I’m doing.”
ͳe reality is, in my life, no man’s ever really cared. As a
kid, I didn’t have any man that cared about me.
My dad didn’t care. Stepdad didn’t care. Uncles didn’t
care. Nobody cared.
I think that I interpret possessiveness from men as love.
Also, my grandma said to me as a child:
“Every man is going to think of you as property. ͳat’s
why they want to put they last name on your name. ͳen
you’re their property. So you want to make sure whoever
you end up with knows how to maintain their property. See
yourself as a house. You have to view yourself as the house
on the highest part of the hill. You can’t let everybody come
into your house. ͳey can’t catch no bus to your house.
ͳey can’t ride no bike to your house. ͳey got to have a
nice car with four-wheel drive to get up to your house.”
Ain’t that some fucked up shit to say to a little girl?
Especially a poor girl, who was in and out of foster care?
ͳe reality is, for all of my twenties, I thought of myself
as an apartment in the projects. Right in front of the bus
stop. “Who wants some? Who wants to come in the
apartment, hey! Let’s have a party. Who wants to be in
here?”
I just wanted anyone in. I would let anyone in who
wanted to guard this property. To protect me. If you
understand that about me, you understand why I was with
the wrong men so long.
ann
(Ann)
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