Anxiously Ivy was born from a continuous cycle of bad situationships that I have encountered during my early 20s that I felt have shaped me. Essentially, I was in situations with people who “almost ran off with all my stuff.” Who had tried to convince me that I was the issue. Not saying that I was perfect, but everything was my fault and I could do nothing right within their eyes. I was the “anxious” one who didn’t know how to relax her nerves but how could I possibly relax around someone I knew was empty? Someone who didn’t really love me. I was in this situation growing feelings for someone who told me whatever rolled off their tongue so that he could get these vines (feelings) to grow within me with no intentions on watering them as they bloomed by next season. These vines had a rocky foundation of hurt, lies, and manipulation. After they attempted to kill my vines that bloomed for them … I decided to instead embrace my reliance; being “Anxiously Ivy“.
“You fell in love with my flowers and not my roots. So when autumn came around, you didn’t know what to do..”
“God is within her, she will not fall.” — Psalm 46:5
Most of friends KNOW hands down my favorite movie is For Colored Girls. Now before you mention how depressing it is or sad; look past that and think about the context. This movie covers daily struggles that Colored Girls go through from men; rape, abortion, physical/emotional abuse, cheating, and lies. This movie is about the secret language of resilience black women share among each other. Sisterhood of strong personalities that may have been passed down from our grandmothers and their grandmothers. Survivors. Still sometimes the rainbow is Enuf; even for the strongest.
Juanita: Somebody almost walked off with all of my stuff and didn’t care enough to send a note home saying “I was late for my solo conversation” or “two sizes too small for my own tacky skirts”. What can anybody do with something of no value on an open market? Did you get a dime for my things? Hey, man! Where are you going with all of my stuff? This is a woman’s trip and I need my stuff to “Ooh” and “Ah” about. Honest to God, somebody almost ran off with all of my stuff and I didn’t bring anything but the kick and sway of it. The perfect ass for my man and none of it is theirs. This is mine, Juanita’s own things. That’s my name. Now give me my stuff. I see you hiding my laugh and how I sit with my legs open sometimes to give my crotch some sunlight. This is some delicate leg and whimsical kiss. I gotta have to give to my choice. So you can’t have me unless I give me away. And I was doing all that till you ran off on a good thing. And who is this you left me with? Some simple bitch with a bad attitude? I want my things. I want my arm with the hot iron scar. I want my leg with the flea bite. Yeah, I want my things. I want my calloused feet and quick language back in my mouth. I want my own things. How I loved them. Somebody almost ran off with all of my stuff and I was standing there looking at myself the whole time. It wasn’t a spirit that ran off with my stuff. It was a man whose ego walked ’round like Rodan’s shadow. It was a man faster than my innocence. It was a lover I made too much room for. Almost ran off with all my stuff and the one running with it don’t know he got it. I’m shouting, “This is mine!” and he don’t even know he got it. My stuff is the anonymous ripped-off treasure of the year. Did you know somebody almost got away with me? Me, in a plastic bag under his arm. Me, Juanita Sims. Somebody almost walked off with all my stuff.
…. I brought you what joy I found. And I found joy. And then there’s that woman who hurt you. And who you left three or four times. And then you went back after you put my heart in the bottom of your shoe. You just walked back to where you hurt and I didn’t have nothing. So I went to where somebody had something for me, but none of them were you. I got a real dead loving here for you now, ’cause I don’t know anymore how to avoid my own face wet with my tears because I had convinced myself that colored girls have no right to sorrow. I lived for you. I know I did it for myself, but I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand being sorry and colored at the same time. It’s so redundant in the modern world.
You Tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3yd9eJRecAk
From an old essay
“I’ve been in limbo a little after being hurt by love. I wasn’t really sure how to channel that negative energy I was feeling until passing an art store near campus a few days ago. I decided maybe my way of coping and expressing myself should be through art.So I started a “For Colored Girls” series of paintings which are inspired by Ntozake Shange’s monologues that focused on African American women journey through love, struggle, loss and eventually empowerment. This is just my way expressing my feelings when words won’t do it justice. This is dedicated to “vulnerability”.”
“My Love Is Too Delicate To Have Thrown Back In My Face”.