Morning had routinely begun to seem so far away, yet ever coming all too early. There’s supposed to be joy when she shows up, right? Then why was she so selective with her visiting habits, and how is it that I never made it on to her list? Funny, I had always thought myself to be one of “the beautiful people” who never had to wait in lines wrapped around the club. Surely, I’d just prance to the front clad in sequins and stilettos, and really,the bouncer needed not even consult the guest list. One look at me and he’d know. I was definitely among the “in crowd,” with a standing invite to Joy’s party, but nope. Like a false-flagging Crip, not only was I turned away, but beaten vehemently for even having the audacity to think that I belonged.

So, I could only assume that she and I were now enemies, though I was not quite sure of the offense that put us here. I thought I represented her well, always letting only the kindest words escape from my lips. Wearing the peace that she gave me, I’d give my last to those who had less and think nothing of what I’d do without it; I delivered comfort to those who clearly hadn’t born witness to sincere smiles in what seemed like lifetimes. So why such enmity between us? And why wouldn’t she at least face me to clear the air? Instead, she sent her goons to attack me daily and because I spent so much time trying to embody the attributes she gave me, I came up a little short on the street smarts. Though there was vigorous flailing of hands accompanied by the rhetoric of the tough, really I was standing there helplessly, while being beaten by her accomplices: rage, despair, fear, hopelessness, and in case I forgot to mention, RAGE.

My countenance would no longer bear any trace of her lessons, and the thought of being in attendance at her next soirée offered no relief, as she was careful to send constant reminders of our disassociation. She played me like a deleted face book friend. Someone once told me that the highest level of human consciousness was belonging. I wasn’t sure I bought it, but maybe there was some truth to it; because the more Joy eeked me out of her circle, the more I found myself gravitating to the one who accepted me with open arms, rage.

He and I developed a love affair of sorts. More than a friend, I found him to be a protector, an avenger. I found him to be loyal and ever-present. There was never a midnight phone call that went unanswered, and in my mind, that made him the truth. Like a big brother, he would step in front of my timid frame, and say all of the things I wished I had the courage to say, while my assailants likened me unto a speed bump. I never worried when he was with me because he was not afraid to use any means necessary to make sure I went untouched.

How could the admiration not grow stronger each day for the one who cared for and shielded my physical and emotional well-being so intensely? Becoming lovers was inevitable. He gave me unequivocally and without fail, the thing that every woman truly desires: security. He had my back in every situation, and like my very own personal mad dog, I needed only say, “sick ‘em,” and he’d clear the room.

Anyone who’s lived in excess of a day though knows that nothing in life is free. That security came at a very steep price. For with every brick laid in the fortress he erected for me, I died daily in degrees. Though I had an awesome body guard, I gradually learned that there’s an appreciable difference between security and peace. Who would have thought that my assumption that they were one in the same, or at least FRATERNAL twins, was born from a place of foolishness. Rage and his security, as loyal as I had found them to be, were merely weapons, but Joy and her peace, though a little sensitive, and experts at fleeing when they thought themselves unwanted, were gifts.

Perhaps that’s why I found rage so easy to befriend. He required nothing of me. He didn’t care if I let my inner-animal hang out. He never gave me the dreaded look of disappointment when I threw caution, good manners, and self-restraint to the wind. In fact, in my acts of greatest buffoonery, he’d be the first to stand to his feet in ovation, shouting, “Bravo, bravo! Some of your best work yet!”

But Joy, well, she was high-maintenance. She seemed to always ask that which was totally unreasonable. She wanted me to look in the face of the storm, and focus instead on the rainbow that had yet to surface, but would surely soon follow. She expected me to remain stoic in the face of blatant disrespect and ignorance, and count simply on her presence as my tool for doing so. She wanted me to believe in terribly cliché concepts like lights at the end of tunnels, silver linings in clouds, and dumb sayings like “no pain, no gain,” and if I didn’t, well then, she’d simply pack her things and go!

“Well who needed a fair-weather friend like that anyway?” I thought. But however resistant my resignation, I was forced to admit, I did. I did need her, though she seemed to abandon me when I needed her the most with very little explanation, often appeared to be the weakest of all of my friends, cowering down to bullies who sought to rob her of her essence, and required what seemed to me WAY too much coercing to return once she made her departure. She was a true diva in the worst possible sense, but life seemed hardly worth living without her.

With her, I could laugh out loud, see a winning lotto ticket in my little girl’s smile, smell rain coming, stand still, and wait for it to drench me, just because. She made me feel like the queen of the culinary kingdom when I thought I had mastered the classic Crisco crust from scratch, even when it came out tasting like the sole of a shoe, still be on cloud nine, because at least it looked good and I tried. With her, I was a tigress, mastering and inventing acrobatic acts of intimacy, (although to my lover, they probably weren’t eyebrow raisers; in my mind, I was extraordinary!) because with her, I was invincible; with him, I was only safe. With her, I could experience, with him, I could only feel.

Why was my favorite companion so high-maintenance? Was it because like any other good woman, she knew her worth? Or was she really even asking that much at all? As I reflected on that question, I was reminded of the familiar Cherokee tale that involves an exchange between a grandfather and his grandson. He explains to his grandson the battle that exists within us all. He likens it to a fight between two wolves. One represents evil and encompasses jealousy, rage, laziness, unforgiveness, and vain pride, the other, love, kindness, humility, and self-control. In reply to the grandson’s question, “Who will win?” The grandfather simply replied, “Whichever one you feed son.”

Just then, it dawned on me that maybe my friend Joy wasn’t so high maintenance after all. Could she have just been hungry? Perhaps she sat dejectedly by, as she watched me spoon feed her meal to rage, and like anyone would, only fled the place where she felt unwanted. A wise man once said, “He who desires friends, must first show himself friendly.” In that spirit, I had the bright idea to prepare for her not just a meal, but a seat at my table, fit for a welcomed guest with an open invitation, who didn’t have to feel that her place in my life was tenuous at best; and with that understanding, we supped together as friends. A break in the conversation led her to put down her fork, and looking me square in the eye, she leaned over and whispered, “I only needed to be fed.” “Feed you?” I said. “Feed you. If only I had known it was that simple,” I thought. I’d have gladly and long ago paid such a small price, in exchange for a life lived out loud.