Part I

The first day I met him, I should have believed him.

It was our first date.  We started the day by meeting for breakfast at a small restaurant in a quiet Chicago neighborhood.  It was summer, late June or early July, and very hot.

We talked and laughed across the table, coyly getting to know each other.

"How do you like Chicago?", "What do you like to do?" and a myriad of other obligatory questions were thrown back and forth across plates of eggs, bacon and pancakes.

He was tall, dark and extremely handsome with a beautiful smile and a French accent.

As he relayed his life to me, I became increasingly intrigued.

He had traveled around the world and spoke four languages: English, French, Japanese and an African dialect from his father's native Mali.  Global politics and economics were high on his list of interests and, like myself, he was an adventurer.  He had no problem moving from city to city on a whim. He had already lived in Pennsylvania and one other U.S. city since coming to the States several years ago.

"Life has much to offer," he told me.

"Yes.  It does," I agreed.

I then thought to myself, "Could he be?"

See, when you are young and single, you can never really know who is being sent your way and for what purpose.  It's difficult to know God's plan.  So you go along for the ride.  Hoping that today is the day your prayers might be answered.

That day was not my day.

Part II

We'd been at the restaurant for several hours.  Much more than necessary to consume a simple breakfast meal.  But we weren't quite ready to part ways.

"Erykah Badu is giving a free concert in the park.  Want to go?," I asked.

"Sure," was his response.

He followed me home so I could drop off my car and I rode with him downtown towards the busy Taste of Chicago crowd.

I've always been one to expect the best in people.  So I didn't think twice when he told me, "I only live a couple blocks away.  I'll drop you off here, then run home to get lawn chairs.  I'll be right back."

Maybe it was the drug-deficient high I was on.  It could have been the sweltering heat.  But either way I never thought he would not return.

I waited, with 95 degree, humid air engulfing me, for an hour before I started to get worried.

I called him.  He did not answer, but I got his voicemail.

"Just wanted to let you know that I moved up by the fountain into the shade.  See you in a bit."

I waited.

After about another thirty minutes without a response, I called again.

"Hey, where are you?  It's hot out here."

I began to slowly replay the morning back in my head, looking for clues to explain his absence.

"Did I say something wrong at breakfast?  He said he liked me.  Our rapport was great. Did I do something? Why isn't he answering his phone? Maybe he got hurt."

I spent another hour looking for an answer to why someone would do this.  Why would someone say they were coming back when they knew they had no intentions?

It was so hot.  I didn't want to cry.  But I couldn't hold back the tears as I began the walk home.

I was too angry, hurt and ashamed to stay for Badu.

Part III

Two days later he called.

I had fallen into my typical state of depression.  Wondering what I had done wrong for someone to be so cruel. Praying and asking for forgiveness from God for something I may have done in the past to warrant this punishment.

But when he called I pretended to be uncaring about his actions.  I couldn't let him know how much he had hurt me with his disappearing act.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Okay," I answered in the most noncommittal, unemotional voice I could find.

I don't remember what excuse he gave me for leaving me alone in the heat that day. However, it was the first in a long line of excuses that I would receive from him over the next six years.

I should have believed him when he told me exactly who he was the first day in the park as I waited for him to return.

"If someone tells you who they are, believe them."

I've spent the first hours of today catching up on Fahamu Pecou's blog posts. It was not an easy task. Each story shared by Pecou evoked tears I have learned to hide out of fear of seeming "un-normal" to those I know and those I've yet to meet.

Reading Pecou's candid tales of hurt, realization, healing and forgiveness have once again forced me to toy with the idea of writing a memoir. For the past year, I have gone back and forth about whether I should undertake the intimate endeavor of putting my life stories on paper.

Although, like many who make the autobiographical journey, I am sure someone, somewhere may be influenced by the events of my being.  However, more than helping others, I believe being forced to record memories I have worked hard to forget, could be a valuable first step to healing my emotional ailments.

Making the decision to expose your demons for all the world to see is a complicated resolution.

After reading the narratives of my history, will people think they know me? Will they try to put me in a box? Will they run the other way when they see me coming? Will I hurt my family by being so forthright about the ups and downs of our lives?

These questions and others run rampart through my head as I start, then stop again with each potential entry into my book of life.

I have many unfinished projects. All of them therapeutic attempts at a healthier future.  Each one sitting idle while I deal with the fear of facing the incubus that has continued to plague my personal and professional relationships.

I still haven't quite committed to starting this project, but I am getting closer to quenching an insatiable need to not only be happy, but be healthy.  The desire to thrive will surely come out the victor, no?