11
Dear Lover,
Allow me to shed some light on the significance of the number 11 in my life, in case you are not familiar with its meaning to me. By now, it must be clear to you that each love letter I share is released on the 11th day of every month. A friend once questioned my choice of the 11th, referencing my connection with 11:11, and I jokingly responded that you know bitches love a sign chile. However, after the passing of my dear Na-Na, I felt that this was our initial means of communication, expressed through 11:11, which coincided with the start of my spiritual journey. Additionally, the number 11 holds great importance because it represents a turning point in my life. If I had made different decisions eleven years ago, my life would have taken an entirely different course.
I always advise anyone who will listen to never shit where they eat at, as it typically leads to a shitshow. Well, at least that's been my personal experience. When I first encountered Pretty Eyes (seriously, this nigga had the most captivating grayish-blue eyes I’ve ever seen), my panties were wet. Deep down, I knew he wasn't exactly on par with me, but back then, I was merely seeking a temporary fling until Mr. Right made his appearance. Our initial connection occurred in the workplace, and initially, it was just casual hanging out. However, things quickly escalated, and our relationship turned sexual. Pretty Eyes, who resembled a fusion of Michael Ealy and Chris Brown, was tatted up and had a flawless smile. And boy, was he Brooklyn through and through! Even though my usual discernment was sharp, Pretty Eyes was the exception—he was just so damn fine. Our intimate encounters were so intense that I eventually became dickmatized. What made it even more annoying was that he knew I was too.
Pretty Eyes was undeniably one of the best lovers I ever had, but he wasn't exactly the ideal candidate for a long-term relationship. He was a few years younger than me, already a father of two, and seemed uncertain about his future plans. Plus, there was no apparent urgency on his part to figure things out anytime soon. Yet, what did I decide to do? Yep, you guessed it. I started investing my energy into showcasing him all the potential that life had to offer him. Because if there's one thing a bitch gon’ do, she will make a project out of a nigga. Over time, my dick appointments with him started losing its spark as I came to the realization that I wasn't the only one dickmatized by Pretty Eyes. So, despite my disappointment in parting ways with Pretty Eyes and his “best asset”, I made the decision to start dating someone else who eventually became my boyfriend. The joy of having a committed partner overwhelmed me, and I was determined to be the best girlfriend I could possibly be.
Whenever I'm a passenger in someone else's car, I tend to suffer from severe motion sickness. However, interestingly enough, I never experience any motion sickness when I'm the one behind the wheel. One day while driving across the Brooklyn Bridge on my way to work, the motion sickness hit me so hard that I couldn't hold it in, and I ended up vomiting. Initially, I didn't think much of it, as motion sickness has always been a familiar foe, and I simply assumed it had gotten the best of me on that particular day. Right lol.
After a long day of work, my homegirls and I decided that a night out was much needed. We ended up at this well known taco joint renowned for its mouthwatering margaritas and delicious tacos. Unfortunately, like countless other New York establishments, this beloved restaurant didn't survive the ravages of the pandemic. As we eagerly awaited our drinks, I reached for mine, ready to take a sip. However, to my bewilderment, it felt as if an invisible barrier prevented me from raising the glass to my lips. I struggled to drink it, perplexed by this odd sensation. I thought to myself, "Could the alcohol be expired? Something doesn't feel right." Naively, I failed to realize what was actually happening, oblivious to the fact that everyone else around me was sipping away without any issues.
Embedded deeply in my memory is a night that pushed me to the edge of my sanity. My beloved Na-Na, who was wrestling with the relentless grasp of Alzheimer's, had unintentionally left something unattended on the stove. The outcome was an overwhelming odor of burnt popcorn that seeped into every nook and cranny of the house. During this immensely challenging phase of my life, I found myself juggling a demanding full-time job, pursuing an MBA, and shouldering the responsibility of being her primary caregiver, all while receiving no support from my family. However, during this tumultuous period, my then-boyfriend rose to the occasion and became an invaluable pillar of support in caring for my Na-Na. Shout out to a real one for holding it down.
As my boyfriend finally arrived a few minutes later, I found myself engulfed in the overpowering scent, and an immense wave of panic crashed over me. I had reached my breaking point, unable to endure it any longer. Frustration surged within me, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I succumbed to the grip of a panic attack. Sensing my distress, my boyfriend suggested that I take a walk. You know it's real when a nigga suggests that you take a walk lol. He stayed behind to clean up the kitchen and try to eliminate the odor, while I walked around East New York looking crazy as hell.
I can't explain what prompted me to do it, perhaps catalyzed by the incident with my Na-Na and the forgotten stove mishap, but something in my spirit urged me to take a pregnancy test. Being someone who had never been pregnant before, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I didn't feel like myself. While my boyfriend and I were using condoms at the time, well... let's just say things were a bit more spicy with Pretty Eyes lol. Back in college, I had a scare with my first love, but it turned out to be a false alarm—just my period playing tricks on me. However, this time, as the test results appeared before me, it confirmed what I least expected. Yep, you guessed it again. I was pregnant.
From a young age, I never had the desire to have children. This conviction stayed with me for a long time because deep down, I always believed that my path would lead to success as a businesswoman, but not as a mother. However, if I'm truly honest with myself, the root of my reluctance to have kids stems from the absence of a nurturing relationship with my own mother. A significant part of me feared that I would perpetuate the same treatment I received, and no child deserves to experience that. My experiences with trauma were so profound that I thought this shit was hereditary. I was fully aware that Pretty Eyes was the father, and I had to consider what the best decision would be. With two children already from different women, I didn't want to become the third. Moreover, at that moment, I couldn't escape the haunting image of my own mother, who had multiple children with different men. Despite my efforts to distance myself from her choices, I found myself slowly heading down a similar path. I made a difficult choice that I believed was the best option for me at that time: I decided to have an abortion.
I reached out to my homegirl and asked her for help in finding a place to undergo the procedure. She shared that she had her own procedure done at Planned Parenthood. While I had heard of Planned Parenthood before and their reputation for providing essential support to women in need, I never imagined that I would find myself in a situation where I needed their help. I scheduled an appointment and my friend kindly agreed to accompany me, because hey, that’s what friends are for. As we waited for my name to be called, fate had it that my friend spotted a few familiar faces from her neighborhood. Talk about being mixxy smh. They curiously asked her why she were there, and she casually replied, "Nah, I'm just here with my homegirl because she got pregnant by a nigga she's no longer with, so here we are at the 'chop shop.’ " Bitch what? I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
After checking in, I underwent another test, and when the results came in, I discovered that I was nearly four months pregnant. I understand if you're wondering how I didn't realize it earlier, but believe me, I hadn't gained any weight, no morning sickness, and my appearance hadn't changed at all. Hell, even the nurse was shocked. She discussed my options with me, but I was resolute in my decision to proceed with the pregnancy termination. In the days leading up to my procedure, I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I was pregnant. I couldn't stop staring at myself in the mirror, gently touching my stomach in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it.
I know your nosey ass is probably wondering if I told my boyfriend about my pregnancy, and you guessed wrong: I did share the news with him. I contemplated whether to include this part in his story or reveal it here, and I've decided to share it now. I was incredibly apprehensive about telling him because, deep down, I knew the baby wasn't his, despite initially believing he was "the one." I remember him coming over, and my mind raced, trying to figure out how to break the news. Tears welled up in my eyes almost instantly (FYI: I’m an odee cry baby), and I have a feeling I startled him with my emotional state. Eventually, I mustered the courage to tell him, and let me tell you, he genuinely thought the child was his lmao. Initially, I entertained the idea of going along with it, but I couldn't shake off my concerns. I mean, seriously, if I told this nigga that I was already four months pregnant and we had only been together for less than two months, make it make sense chile.
On the day of the procedure, fear consumed me. I had heard terrifying stories of girls facing complications or even losing their lives, so I prayed to God, begging for everything to turn out alright. I promised God that I would never put myself in this situation again. Chile I know God is tired of my begging ass lol. Given the advanced stage of my pregnancy, the doctors advised me to take a pill that would facilitate the procedure. As I sat in the waiting area, I observed numerous girls who resembled me. I pondered the different scenarios that led them here—whether it was through sexual assault, an ill-timed pregnancy, or simply a personal choice to not have children. Lost in my thoughts, my name was called, jolting me back to reality. I entered a room where the medical staff explained the procedure to me. As I lay down and they administered anesthesia to put me to sleep, a song began playing in the room, and I found myself singing along. The next thing I knew, I drifted into a deep sleep.
When I woke up, I gently touched my stomach and realized that the procedure was complete. As I exited out of the room, I was met with the sounds of women crying and screaming, and it overwhelmed me. Without hesitation, I hurriedly made my way out of there. I spotted my friend, and she assisted me with gathering my belongings before driving us home. I stayed at her house for the night, deep in contemplation over the weight of my recent decision. Even though I knew, without a doubt, that I had made the right choice, I couldn't help but wonder about the path not taken. What would my life look like now if I had chosen differently? A lingering thought remains: Will I ever have children, especially considering my age?
Since deciding to share this love letter, I've been having dreams of a baby crawling towards me, wearing a smile. I often wonder if that was the child I could have had or the child I hope to have someday. Life is filled with countless "what ifs," but dwelling on them serves no purpose as we cannot change the past. Some people perceive me as a hustler, a relentless go-getter. However, deep down, my drive stems not only from the pursuit of a better life, but fueled by the awareness that I might have relinquished the opportunity to forge the kind of relationship I never had with my own mother, with the child I never had, who would have been eleven years old today.
Love,
Eboné
