Why Rihanna is My Hero
The universe would like me to heal some things. That’s the funny thing about healing; you don’t usually get to choose the time and place. You just sort of move along in life, clearing energy and space, finding your way. And then one day your ancestors stop you in your tracks and say “we’re going to address this now.”
Allie called me a couple days ago to say that she felt we’d moved away from the intent of the blog. “This should be a conversation. But we’re not writing on the same things.” I immediately felt the tears well up. The week had already been too much, and here was this. But she was right, like she usually is. And the tears were just my ancestors telling me to stop avoiding the topic I’d been thinking about writing on: intimate partner violence.
It started with the news that Megan Thee Stallion had named her partner as her assailant, which she hadn’t done when the police were initially called. The headline wasn’t blaming her for a change. It wasn’t asking how she got herself in the situation in the first place. And so I thought about writing a post called “Megan Thee Stallion & Me” because we are two of many strong, successful women of color who had abusers enter our inner circle.
Then I got a text. After leaving my abuser six years ago, and moving across the country two years ago, I was told he had moved to the area I now live in. His family is from here; he has every right to be in this area. But there it was, in my face again, asking me to look it in the eye.
I’m not scared this time. When he reached out to me this past November, I panicked. I made a safety plan. I invested in safety features for my house. I emailed my boss, executive director, and HR director on a Saturday night, and went through the embarrassment of having to talk about it to my boss in supervision. I cut off the person who had told him I moved here. I called a friend for advice. I was out of sorts, out of control, and terrified. And at the same time, I was realizing how much I had been holding in my bones. When I left Seattle, one of the largest impacts was no longer looking over my shoulder.
But that’s the part of the story I’m tired of telling. It feels rehearsed. It’s the evidence I need to prove he was terrible. Because as a woman I have to prove I have experienced violence. Which is why, today, I think more about the people who took his side. The white women I worked with (at an organization designed for women) who called me the abuser, and stayed friends with him after we broke up and I still worked there. Women who also exhibited white savior complexes, and couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t voluntarily financially support my black partner when that was what they did, ignoring that financial manipulation is another facet of abuse and control.
My therapist (the MVP of 2020) recently told me that depression often comes from two places: unmet needs and unresolved grief. It made me cry; no one had ever told me there is something to uncover and heal. But my ancestors know I’m stubborn, they know they need to throw things in my face until I learn.
The day I found out he had moved back, I decided to set boundaries with two men in my life. With one, I realized our relationship was still a tie to my abuser, and I needed to keep myself safe. This isn’t the sort of thing you can stay the middle man on, and not making a choice has the same consequences as making one. With the other, I realized how much love and care I needed to be giving myself, and that I didn’t have any extra for someone who couldn’t reciprocate.
It wasn’t planned, but didn’t feel sporadic. It was just...time. I love them both dearly. And while I always feel the need to support loved ones, I’m learning how my number one obligation is to myself. It’s why Rihanna is my hero. She left her assailant in the past, and always seems to be living her best life. I’m just trying to be like that.
I’m not really sure what’s next, friends. I know the grief swelling in my body is surfacing to finally move on. And my therapist has me out here learning how to meet my needs for myself.
Song of the week: B**** Better Have My Money - Rihanna
New! Song of the week, chosen by the author. Black Sister, White Sister has no affiliation with the artist, we just like good music.