My glass of lemonade was made from lemons of insecurity and feelings of worthlessness,

portrayed in rushed relationships and heartbreak. I was never enough for any of them, but I gave all that I had and some of what I didn't to get there. To be more. To appear to have it all. I acted better; whole. I was a fraud, yelling to them what I deserved but not really meaning it. Wanting them to justify it. Seeing if they actually bought the crap that came from my mouth. Their response to it all would show me whether or not I did deserve it. Whether or not I was worth the love I so desperately wanted to receive. I felt worthless. But as long as they seen something more than what I saw, I was okay. I was solidified. I was validated.

It's sweetened with the sugar of sexual immorality.

Sounds of 'Jupiter Love' filled the room, as lust disguised my insecurities for the moment. The grips of your hand made me feel wanted. Loved. Desired. I didn't think enough of myself. Enough of my story. I had to lay down with you to get it. For you to see all I offered. I had to give myself to you to get a return. I wanted to show you, so you could feel what I wanted you to believe: that I could be everything. And that if that was the only piece of me you wanted, I'd give it to you just to show you I had it. To show me you'd want it. To show me you'd want me. It was never the number, it was the purpose. It was the excuses I made to justify the behavior. It was controlling the game and still misusing it. Still, somehow reducing myself to a pawn.

It's stirred with frustration and upsets.

The ugly realization that with all I gave away, I still didn't have the sense of self-worth I longed for. Disappointment overcame me, years later, when I realized none of that ever mattered. When I recognized that my body wasn't a true portal for love or expressions of it. For worth or the recognition of it. That you could never make me feel how I deserved to. That even after all that, I felt just as alone and worthless as I felt before. Only this time, with less of myself.

It's watered down with the ice of broken hearts and shattered pieces.

Pieces I no longer wanted part of me. Pieces that I needed part of me. Pieces that I desperately gathered and put together for the next man. The next man I needed to justify my existence. The next man who would take my breath away with their kiss, and peel my skin back to its core the same way he did my clothes. I wanted my soul exposed. Instead, it was just my bare breasts, again. 

Pieces as rugged as my attitude. That shattered at the resurfacing images of ex-girlfriends and the moment you stormed out of my best friend's house for the first and last time. I remember our last text exchange. I remember the last time we kissed. I remember the last time I felt loved. I had to pick up the pieces then, too. A few are still out of place. 

My glass of lemonade was made of moments of not being enough, not having enough, and quite possibly not wanting enough.

You told me I was everything; he told me I was nothing; I've been in conflict ever since. I have you all whispering in my ear - some sweet nothings and some insults. I hadn't found a voice of my own. I had to find a voice of my own. I sought validation in the men I dated that couldn't even validate themselves. Men that weren't really men. Men that I gave the power to authenticate me or destroy me. Men that have destroyed me. Men that have created a mess of what was left of the heart pieces I glued back together. Men who, still to this day, don't know the power I gave them. Men that didn't deserve that power. 

My glass of lemonade is stirred with the spoon of salvation and redemption.

The forgiveness Christ died on the cross for. The salvation I needed to soul search. To find myself. To create myself. To become myself. Hitting the sides of the glass as loudly as God hit me in 2012. Reminiscent to the subtle introduction in 2008; our first encounter. The first time I realized He cared for me. Years later, He was still there for me. He wanted me, more than any of the men, without having given Him anything. He needed me. Not for Himself, but for me. I needed me. You needed me. 

I used two straws; one for Christ's love for me and one for the love I should have had for myself. I used them both to digest the true essence of who I was. To taste what those ingredients had made. To capture it all, and swallow it in a way only God's peace and love could make possible to stomach. My lemonade, so sweet yet so bitter. So fearful, yet now, so triumphant. 

My glass of lemonade was made of hot mess, disappointment, and victory.

Because we all have lemons. Some we've picked ourselves and some life has thrown at us. But we all haven't made lemonade. Some of us let those lemons sit on the ground and clutter our space. We let them rot in our foyers and bedrooms. We let them take up space in our homes and hearts. In our spirits. Some of us haven't yet learned the importance of taking what we've been given to create what we want. What we need. We haven't yet learned how to make sweetness from our situations.

My glass of lemonade is filled to the brim with insecurities, bad decisions, and city bus trips across town.  But it is my glass of lemonade to drink. Mine to devour. Mine to fall in love with. If not for the taste of its individual ingredients, then for its final product. 

Cheers. 

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This post is obviously inspired by Beyonce's recent album. Her vulnerability—whether about her marriage or her mother's—was captivating. Her creativity, genius. And her reminder that we all have the ability to make lemonade of our own lemons: life-changing. To every man I gave a piece of my body or my heart, thank you for contributing to this lemonade.