“When I was 8, my dad tried to kill me, my mom and sister. A month later, my dad would go on to commit suicide.”
Maybe this is how things get better.
What would I tell her, that little tow-headed kid in sixth, seventh, eighth grade? The one who took the walk down the hill from the school bus to cry so her mom wouldn’t see?
I need more for myself. I know that if I’m going to grow into the person I want to be, then I have to leave. There’s no way around it.
We still get mad when things don’t go our way, we still don’t like hearing the word ‘no’ or getting rejected, we still hate it when we want someone who does not want us back and we still hate feeling ignored or neglected. We still don’t know how to deal with abandonment.
I assumed that magically when I turned twenty my taste buds would radically change and all of a sudden salad and broccoli would start to taste like snickers.
Why are we so terrified of talking to our kids about sexual orientation? Are we scared to shatter their innocence?
When you are a child of divorce, you don’t believe in marriage or happy endings anymore. You believe that at some point, a relationship will end and that’s that.
I miss my innocence. I miss feeling invincible. There is a small part of me that will always be frozen in time at fifteen, praying that things will turn out differently. I am still learning to be okay with that.
“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”