Sweeter Than Honey (28 page)

Yes, I am worthy, meaning I am of more than sufficient value to be a woman who, like my mother, and like Mary B. Morrison, makes a mark, makes a difference, pays it forward, and liberates those who might ask, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?” spreading the word that the answer is, “Who are you not to be?”

©2007 Marissa Monteilh is the national best-selling author of
Dr. Feelgood, Chocolate Ship, Hot Boyz, Make Me Hot,
and
May December Souls.
Visit Marissa online at: www.MarissaMonteilh.com.

Mary B. Morrison

I am worthy because my Creator has deemed it so.

No hesitations, reservations, conservations, limitations, justifications, imitations, deliberations, indeterminations, procrastinations, or dicktations…well, now, hold up, wait a minute, I do love the dick. But I won’t allow anyone with or without a set of balls to control my destiny.

I learned at a very young age that most people are extremely judgmental. I thank God for my great-aunt, Ella Beatrice Turner, and her husband, Willie Frinkle. Considering they were only a few generations from slavery, I can only presume they did the best they knew how to rear me. And when my aunt placed a noose around my neck in the backyard, choking me while threatening to hang me from a tree, all I could do was cry as the neighbors watched but wouldn’t help me.

For a plethora of reasons, I couldn’t wait to leave New Orleans, Louisiana, and the hand-me-down southern slavery mentality among many blacks and whites was definitely reason number one. As a child, I was never hungry for food, yet I was never fed unconditional love.

I had to attend St. Paul’s AME Church every Sunday with my great-aunt who held a position with the Eastern Stars, Isaac and Rebecca, and who was a missionary and on the stewardess board, etc. She was a woman who smiled in the faces of many and talked behind the backs of many more. But she talked about me to my face.

“You’re not going to amount to anything. You’re not going to be half the woman your mother was. You’re going to be pregnant before the age of sixteen. You’re trifling. You’re ungrateful.”

In part, she was right. I was the quiet and shy girl at McDonogh #35 High School in New Orleans, Louisiana, who became pregnant with my first child at the age of fourteen and miscarried shortly thereafter. No one at school ever knew. I wanted so badly to be loved by someone that the first boy who cared about me—who later became my husband and is also my son’s father—that I was willing to open my heart and my legs. I was only a child but at the time I didn’t feel worthy of being loved by him or anyone else.

I cried waterless tears for many years, harboring the kind of sadness that drowns the spirit of a child who suffers in silence. Giving birth to my son when I was twenty-one changed my perspective on life. God gave me somebody to love. Before the umbilical cord was cut, I felt a love that I didn’t have for my mother, my father, my great-aunt and uncle, nor my, at that time, husband.

I made a promise to myself never to treat my son the way I was treated. My connection to my son was so deep that out of all the babies crying in the hospital, I could tell when it was my son and I would comfort him. Today I’m still his proud Supermom. Some say I give him too much. I say I can never give my son enough—love, that is. The material things I give him are just that, things. At the end of the day, all most people want is to be loved.

Individuals, especially the loved one closest to us, can sometimes be mean and cruel for no apparent reason. My father chronically abused my mother. I’m told my mother slept with a butcher knife under her pillow and my mother’s mother had threatened to kill my father if he ever came near my mom again. Eventually my mother committed suicide. So when my ex-husband beat me once, I divorced his ass immediately. I’ve been raped and also molested.

So how does a woman overcome an exorbitant amount of abuse and learn to love herself unconditionally? For me, I was able to separate my emotions from reality, believing God would protect me. People who hurt us don’t love us. To me, it’s just that simple.

I didn’t have to relive my mother’s pain and suffering in order to know that I’m worthy of being loved. I’m worthy of success. I deserve financial blessings. I embrace sexual liberation, and I am truly happy. And I don’t need a man to define me. This is my life. This is my body. This is my brain. My heart. My soul.

I’ve learned that happiness is an acquired emotion. Now because I’m so laid-back, like most folk from N’awlins, those of you who know me can’t always tell when I’m excited and that’s okay. I’ve learned how to love me for me. I don’t put myself down, nor do I give permission to anyone else to do so. I honestly believe there is nothing, and I mean nothing, that I cannot do, if I want to.

Soul Mates Dissipate
is becoming a movie and I will walk the red carpet. And my next home, The HoneyB Playhouse, will be the female version of Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion. Everything in each room will be designed with sex in mind. Those are my next dreams.

I’ve lost a few so-called friends along my journey to happiness and you will too, but know that it’s part of your growth process and it’s okay. We must purge our lives of people who try to hold us back. You can’t move forward if you allow others to steal your joy and that includes your spouses, family, and friends.

Once upon a time I had a friend. I bought her lunch almost every day for years when she couldn’t afford to eat, gave her son money when he went to college, when he came home for Christmas, and even paid for her son to fly home from college, praise God, in time to see her mother, his grandmother, before his grandmother took her last breath. I feel good about the unselfish things I’ve done for others and I have zero regrets.

Along my journey to success this person said unto me, “You probably didn’t notice I gave you fifty feet.” Of course I’d noticed. But what I realized was her reason for distancing herself from me was her problem, not mine. After her mother passed, she gave me another fifty feet because I told her the truth. I didn’t know how to be there for her and meet my publisher’s deadline.

Writing for me requires tons of mental energy. After I finished my book, I called her and said, “I apologize. I’m done with my book. I want to know how you are. I want to hold you. Hug you. Call me.” She didn’t so I called her a few weeks later. She answered the phone and said, “I’m on the phone with my son. Let me call you back.” To this day she has not dialed my number.

My point is, we can’t be everything to everybody all the time. And sometimes no matter how much we do for some people, in their opinion it’s never enough. She was my friend for a season, not a lifetime. If people cannot accept us for who we are, then we must learn to let go, not look back, and move forward.

Who decides what I’m worthy of? I do.

Who determines what you are worthy of? You do.

Life is all about choices. Claim your self-worth right now. Give thanks for what you have and freely ask the Creator, God, Buddha, or whatever higher power you believe in to provide your needs and fulfill your desires.

God wants us to be happy and we should be. So many folks walk around overlooking their blessings, complaining about what they don’t have, trying to figure out how they can get what someone else has so they miss out on their blessings and God simply gives what coulda been theirs to those of us who are diligent, dedicated, and desirous.

I want you to start creating your success today. Be a positive thinker. Speak positive words. Selflessly help others achieve their goals. And more important, once you claim your worthiness do not question who your blessings will come from.

As an adult, I’ve never doubted my worthiness. But as a child who went to church every Sunday, I’d lie in my bed sometimes hugging the gray stuffed lanky monkey with big red lips wishing I was dead. Some of you may feel that way right now. But God had a different plan for me. And no matter how difficult your life may seem, He has a better plan for you.

“Live another day, Lil’ Bea, I’ll take care you,” He promised and He did. And God has an even bigger plan for me, but I’m just not clear about what it is yet. This is why the more I get, the more I give. In my heart, I want you to be happy. There are so many of you that I don’t know who contribute to my success each time you speak kind words about me, or buy one or all of my books, or e-mail my Web site to a friend. And I thank you.

The Honey Diaries are intended to entertain and at the same time help women who are suffering from low self-esteem and abuse. Now, I’m not suggesting you do like Lace and shoot a man or stick a gun up his ass, but it’s time for women to stop tolerating violence. I’m serious. Lace St. Thomas is my modern day Foxy Brown for those of you blessed enough to remember. Foxy didn’t take no shit off nobody, especially men. I’m not saying you have to be hard, but please, don’t let anyone use your brain or your body for a punching bag.

If you are being battered, if you’re unsure of your self-worth, then every morning and throughout the day I want you to say, “I am worthy of greatness.” At first you may not believe it, but the more you say, “I am worthy of greatness,” the more you will believe and realize that you are. The other thing I want you to say is, “I am loving myself first,” and do it.

Stop pretending that you love God, that you love your man, that you love your kids when you haven’t learned how to love yourself. Forget those snotty-nose, crumb-snatching dependents and the draining lovers who only share your bed and not your bills and kick ’em all to the curb.

Okay, although I’m allergic to kids under the age of eighteen, I’m kidding about the kicking-the-children-to-the-curb part. Hug your babies and tell them you love them, especially when you’re upset. I have sixteen wonderful nieces and nephews and a beautiful son who’s on his way to the NBA. I love kids. So much so that I’ve sponsored an anthology by thirty-three students entitled
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders.

You’ve got to learn to live, love, and laugh. But first and foremost take care of number one. We are worthy of all we desire because our Creator has deemed it so.

And so it is.

Presented by Mary B. Morrison

Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders

(An anthology of fiction by Lou Richie’s sixth grade class)

My SHIFT (Supporting Healthy Inner Freedom for Teens) Program is the proud sponsor of
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders.
I know without a doubt the students in Lou Richie’s class have made a SHIFT to greater self-esteem by becoming published authors. There are several future
New York Times
best-selling authors in the anthology. Writing allows students to explore and reveal how they view life based upon their frames of references.

There is no common theme in
Diverse Stories: From the Imaginations of Sixth Graders
because the students were allowed to write about whatever they wanted. How refreshing! The stories are equally as unique as the individual writers: some melancholy, some funny, some breathtaking, all fantastic.

The proceeds go to the Lou Richie Foundation to fund scholarships for students desiring to pursue a Catholic high school education when their parents cannot afford the tuition.

If your organization is interested in receiving information on the SHIFT Program, log on to www.MaryMorrison.com or call us toll free at (866) 469-6279.

Catch up with the daring and sexy Honey Thomas in

WHO’S LOVING YOU

Available now wherever books are sold!

L
ove sucks!
I swore on my sister’s grave, I wished I’d never met him. His voice had lingered in my mind with crisp clarity every damn day, like he was standing behind me, leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

“Baby,” he used to say to me, and I would answer, barely above a whisper, “Yes?” Seductively, he’d say it again, “Baby,” in a tone that quieted me. “Yes?” I’d say softly. We’d go back and forth: then his long fingers and strong hands would gently caress the side of my face and massage my ears.

I’d quiver whenever he’d moan, “Ummmm, you’re fucking incredible. You know that? And I’m not talking about your bedroom skills. Baby, you are an amazing woman.”

His eargasms would make cool waterfall secretions flow from my pussy, wetting my lips, before he’d ease his hand between my thighs, pressing his middle finger against my clit. He was left-handed. I’d heard Dr. Oz say on
Oprah
that left-handed people were smarter, more balanced, and better capable of processing information than those of us who were right-handed. His index and ring fingers would straddle my shaft, nestling in the crevices of my lips, as he strummed my black pearl with his middle finger. That was my favorite finger.

Gasping at the sound of his voice in my head, I knew…I was incredible. But no other man had told me that. No other man had said to me, “I love you.” Grant was my first. I let the tears fall, then closed my eyes, visualizing our moments together, lifting my lids to see only me, surrounded by olive painted walls, bright lime cabinets, dark forest granite countertops, and a kitchen floor covered with new hundred-dollar bills that had been permanently laminated into clear ceramic tiles.

Green was my favorite color. I loved walking on men and money. I’d admit I was a little extravagant. A grand total of one million dollars—in hundred-dollar bills—was embedded in every floor of my home, including the bathrooms. Some preferred to walk on sunshine. Money was my visual reminder of where I’d come from. I wasn’t proud of how I’d stepped on and over a countless number of people to get where I was.
Live and Let Die
was my favorite James Bond movie and my motto. Standing in front of the kitchen counter, I slid an already sharp knife along the steel sharpener.

Grant had been my joy. We’d loved sharing Cherry Garcia ice cream while watching
The Boondocks
DVD series, and making love. In between orgasms, we’d laugh at Huey, Riley, and their granddad. One time we stayed in bed all day, eating, sleeping, and fucking until we wobbled like ducks when we made our way to the bathroom for a much-needed piss.

“Quack, quack,” I’d teased him.

“Quack, quack, quack,” he’d tease me back.

Then, suddenly, our relationship had faded to dark. He was out of my life, as if I had frantically awakened from the best dream of my life. Shutting my eyes, I fought to go back to him, to go back to sleep and pick up where we had left off, before he left me. I tossed and wrestled with my empty bed. I opened my legs, easing the memory foam pillow between my thighs, then pulled my red satin sheet around my erect nipples, trying to forget he was no longer mine. Opening my eyes, I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring at a blue crystal bowl filled with red potatoes.

How could my past ruin my future? I had tried my damnedest to give that man my best, and he had slammed the door to his heart in my face, as though I was a Jehovah’s Witness trying to save his spiritual behind so he would become the one-hundred forty-four thousandth person to make it…Where? To Heaven? Wherever that was. Who’d been there? What did they do to get in? Mistreat others?

From hot to cold, within seconds he had swatted me away like I was a fly landing on his food, regurgitating shit. I’d meant nothing to him. It was as though he’d truly awakened to a stranger.

Words were powerful beyond measure, but his silence hurt me more. He’d made me make myself go crazy. Wow. Love or the lack thereof could do that. Make one go crazy.

“Answer your damn phone. You wrong for this shit, Grant! Dead wrong!” I yelled. I grunted loud enough to release my frustrations, but not so loud that someone in the house would come running to my aid with a straight jacket. My house had thirteen bedrooms. Twelve upstairs. Mine was the only one downstairs.

“I should kill him. Goddammit, son of a bitch!” I screamed. Sucking the stream of blood oozing from my finger, I threw the knife, the potatoes, and the crystal bowl in the damn trash can. “Fuck this shit!”

Love hadn’t hurt me. I was clear that I’d hurt the one I loved. Now I was the one suffering. Every time I got angry, so angry that I could harm Grant, something bad happened to my ass. Unzipping the first-aid kit, I pulled out a bandage.

“He probably has some other bitch in his bed, sucking his dick right now, while I’m over here trippin’ on unresolved issues that I can’t control.”
Not by myself.

As I wrapped the Band-Aid tightly around my middle finger, thoughts of the way we had constantly been together replayed in my mind, reminding me of the irreplaceable love I’d lost. Where was I going to find another six-foot-five, 235-pound, twenty-eight-year-old, successful black man with a body sexier than any Chippendales dancer I’d ever seen? Grant was my man, and I’d be damned if I was gonna let him leave me. I just knew some ex-chick or someone hoping to be the next chick had been waiting for me to fuck up so she could move in on him, with him.

“Not on my watch, bitch! Get your own man!” I grunted.

Each morning I reached out my hand to touch him; rolled over, expecting to kiss him; opened my eyes, longing to see him. I called out his name, but he wasn’t there to answer, “Yes, Honey?” as he had so affectionately done. Had he been sincere when he’d said, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me”? I wanted another chance. Hell, I deserved the opportunity to explain why I’d lied. Not everything I’d told him was a lie. Actually, most of what I’d shared about my past was the truth.

“Grant, listen to me,” I said. “Are you seriously going to take someone else’s word over mine? So what if Benito is your brother! Hell, your own mama don’t like his ass. I can’t believe you’re upset with me about something that happened before we met. You’re not making any sense. Okay. Answer this one question. ‘Do you still love me? Yes or no?’”

I wasn’t getting the answer I wanted; he wasn’t here to respond. All of this vacillating in the kitchen, talking to myself, had to stop. One minute I loved him; the same minute I hated his ass to death. I stood topless and barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, text messaging him:
Baby, it’s not what you think. Please call me.
I was trying to give him the impression I was being patient with him, but my patience had run out a long fucking time ago.