The Death of Tiny Terror (originally published in 2019)

Disclaimer: When I first launched this site about three years ago, I had every intention in posting weekly about what I thought would be my scandalous life in NYC. However, it wasn’t long before I started to feel convicted and felt a shift in who I was. I never expected this to happen, but I ended up becoming a Christian. And with this transition, I really started to pay attention to what I was being referred to as and decided that it was no longer in alignment with who I am. Nothing that I will be sharing from this point will be an attempt in trying to force people to share my beliefs. But this is just me being completely transparent about how I got to this point. I still hope to be inspiring in some way and to continue to make people laugh. I also ask that regardless of how you may feel, you remain respectful.

I protest by your rejoicing which I have in Christ Jesus our Lord, I die daily

1 Cor. 15:31 KJV

Tiny Terror was a name I came up for myself when I was 17 years old. It reminded me of a sexy WWE Diva and it became my alter ego. The “tiny” part was in relation to my actual size (I’m five feet tall...kinda...wink wink). The “terror” part was who I wanted to embody. Someone who was fearless and didn’t care about what people thought of her or consequences for her actions. Someone who did whatever she wanted without any reservations. Someone who simply did not care. And for a very long time, I kept up with this character I had created. I thought I was being strong, but I was really hiding.

I grew up extremely insecure. I didn’t have nice long hair or a “womanly” shape. I wore braces during most of my teen years. I wasn’t someone guys were attracted to or the seemingly cool girls wanted to be friends with. I was just there. 

As I got older and grew into my looks (and I mean really grew), I had placed the majority of my self-worth into my body and the attention I would get for it. In my junior year of high school, I had my first boyfriend and from that point, I sought validation from men. Not long after we started “dating”, I experienced the most awkward four minutes of my life by losing my virginity to him. I didn’t want to do it. I had always pictured myself waiting until I was at least in my twenties. But this was the first time I felt like someone actually wanted me around and having sex would be the only way I could guarantee he would stay.

Lies.

Like most high school relationships, it didn’t last. But since my entire self-esteem was wrapped up in being with someone, I was hellbent on never being alone, whether they respected me or not. The number of times I’d actively chase someone who was very clear about not wanting anything serious with me was endless. It became so frequent that I’d avoid anyone who pursued me properly. I had once dated a guy who was very intentional with me and treated me like a princess. I remember complaining to him one night on Skype about how one of my wisdom teeth bothering me. My mother woke me up the next morning saying someone left a teddy bear and a new tube of Orajel on the front porch for me. I was APPALLED. He was always going above and beyond for me and I had convinced myself he was too nice and must have some type of issue. The respect he gave me came to easily. I only wanted what I couldn’t have. I didn’t know how to deal with someone who told me he loved me. I enjoyed having to guess.

Again, during this time I was also getting used to now dealing with the new body I had prayed for. In fact, I had become so obsessed with wanting to be a “baddie” that after watching Supersize Me in the ninth grade and seeing how fat the guy got, I decided to go on a 30-day all-McDonald’s diet in an attempt to get THICC. My plan ended with me taking a bite out of a double cheeseburger around day 19 and then quickly holding my chest as I felt my heart racing and what seemed like death approaching. I had told my dad what was going on, he called me a jackass, and I couldn’t eat McDonald's again for months. 

Don’t blame me. Blame society and the King Magazines my father had in the house.

Anyways…

As time went on, my priorities changed. 

I started going to parties and clubs even though I’d rather be home watching Adult Swim. I only sought out validation from the men I was involved with or the friends that I had no business taking life advice from. I felt trapped in this facade and didn’t know how to escape from it. Did I like the names I was called and how people viewed me? No. But I didn’t feel like there was a way to turn back either. 

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God’s existence was never up for debate for me. Throughout my entire life, I knew He was real and I would pray to Him. But I had also spent the majority of life just riding the wave of life without any direction. I just made decisions based on what I saw fit. I knew God was there, but He seemed so far from me and my life. It wasn’t until a little over a year ago where I truly (and I say this with the utmost confidence) heard from God. 

I had been living in New York for 3 months staying with my biological mother and unable to secure a job. When I moved, I had assumed I’d find a job right away because of my education and internship experience. I was also supposed to be living with 2 of my friends and that plan fell through. On top of that, me and my ex-boyfriend had still been in contact despite having been broken up for a year and I had started to convince myself that maybe the reason he was still around was because he was The One. Nothing was going according to my plan. I was supposed to be becoming this hot PR executive with major clients with a flourishing sex-life. I was supposed to be the black Samantha Jones!

You thought. You’re a Charlotte though…    

I had no idea what I was doing with my life. I had concocted this fantasy in my head about what I thought my life should be and every door leading to that fantasy was being shut in my face. But why? None of it made sense.

I was still moving things back and forth from Boston, so I decided to visit one weekend and grab more things. The night before I went, I ended up breaking down in the shower. And I mean breaking down. I had prayed before but this time, I found myself rolled into a ball and started crying and begging God to do something. I had no idea why I was even in New York in the first place. Who moves to a new state without even having a job lined up? This decision I made started to seem dumber the more I thought about it and so I cried in the tub. For the first time, I was completely transparent with God and told Him I hated where I was at in my life and I needed an out. I told Him if He wanted me to stay in New York, He would have to give me a sign because at that point, I was ready to take the bus to Boston and never return.

When I was finished, I got dressed like nothing ever happened and then headed to Boston the next day. 

While on the bus, I thought about how ridiculous and lightskin my actions were the night prior. Like I really cried in the shower like my life was an R&B video and I was Toni Braxton.

(me except I would never get in the shower without a shower cap and drench my weave like this)

I felt like such an idiot and told myself not to do anything like that again. Suddenly, I felt my phone vibrate. 

It was from my mother. She told me my grandfather got me a job at the hotel he worked at and I started in 3 days.

Come again? I have a stream of income? From a job I didn’t even apply to or interview for?

You would think I would immediately recognize this was God answering my cries from the night before. But I still wasn’t convinced. 

Ok, great. You have a job. But it’s at a hotel so you know you won’t be getting paid much.

I agreed to take the job but told myself if they were tryna pay me pennies, I was taking myself back to Boston for good. I returned to New York after the weekend and prepared for my first day at this job that came out of nowhere. 

When I first got introduced to the manager, he asked me what pay rate I thought I would be fair for the position. Knowing this was a fairly easy job, I didn’t bother giving him the rate I truly wanted. I figured a job like this wouldn’t pay more than slightly over minimum wage. So you can imagine my surprise when he instead offered me a rate that was not only $10 more an hour than I asked for, but it was the most I had ever been hourly, period.

Ok Lord. So you DO want me to stay here. But why?