I was suppossed to write this post sometime last year. But I've been forgetful - no that's a lie, busy - true but not 100% accurate, ambivalent - ahhh, now that's the word I was trying to avoid putting here.

At 16, I always spoke my dreams and aspirations into existence. "I want to be a psychologist when I grow up," I would say.

Since kindergarten, when I dressed up like Superwoman for several years in a row, I made up my mind that one day I would save the world.

And now that I'm a little more grown up, I realize that some key charachteristics necessary to fulfill this lofty yet attainable dream, were compromised somewhere on the path to womanhood.More Here...

I hate angry black women, and you know what? Angry black women tend to hate me more.

It's rather interesting since I'm a black woman, an Afro-centric, fist-pumping, love my fro' type of black woman. But that doesn't change that I've always had issues with my fellow brown beauties-on-the-outside, and they have always had an issue with me.

I had this realization this morning, as I tossed and turned in my bed, forcing myself to stay snuggled under the covers past 10 a.m. Staying in bed that late on a Saturday is simply unacceptable to me, so you know I was avoiding something.

Thankfully, but painfully, I realize that the God I serve is not a Man of Surface Issues. I had a lot to think about this morning, and then the epiphany happened somewhere between suicidal ideation, and the violins playing as I sang, "oh poor me!", and visions of packing up and moving to rural Vermont where I can work at some bed & breakfast off the beaten path.

I started a new venture recently, that puts me at the mercy of a cliqued out tight-knit, no new-comers allowed, social circle of black women...trigger-central for a cognitive-behavioral therapy drop out like me. [At least my ex-therapist will be glad that I recognize my trigger, stay in my logic, and hopefully change this pattern all together. But no promises to her.]More Here...