So your mother was a depressed alcoholic, with hard fists that illustrated the concept of tough love… But when she beat you, it wasn’t bruises that she left behind, it was an appreciation for all of the wonderful moments… not spent broken and miserable. It wasn’t tears that seeped out of you, but beauty that you absorbed, because any moment not stained with blood, or fear — could be nothing less than heart-bursting beautiful.
So your father was a ghost whose kindness haunted you, the days when he flickered out of focus, and left you — to fend off the monsters under your bed, and the skeletons in your closet… But he taught you how to be alone, without being lonely. How to appreciate the quiet moments, that weren’t filled with venomous shouts, or objections that never quite made it past a frustrated silence.
So the man who took your virginity never asked your permission, he violated you in the most intimate of ways, with the most detached demeanor… But he proved that no matter how bad things get, you just don’t have it in you — to wither away until you simply disappear. Life continues; you endure. He took your innocence, but in its place, he exposed the untouchable depths of your ceaseless wonder; the unspoiled ability to find joy, even after the most horrible experiences.
So the first person you fell in love with was thin ice that you stumbled onto, and you slipped through the cracks, and got trapped under the surface — barely able to breath due to the shock of the chill… But you learned the difference between love and suffering, and how to keep yourself warm at night, tending the fire of your passion — without it letting it spread like wildfire, and burn you alive… for the most part.
There’s a million valid reasons to be angry, or to let your bitterness get the best of you… but you can’t forget the simple fact: You can’t really hate the people that made you; without hating yourself.
There’s just too much love in your heart, inspired by all of the lovely things that you have thought, felt, or experienced — despite the ugliness of the past — to hate yourself forever.
There’s just not enough room in your heart, with the constant influx of wonder, to hold on to self loathing — for too long, anyway.
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- moaningatmidnight said: Noelle this is once again intimate and strong. Amazing stuff.
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- hookersorcake said: BOOM! FUCK YES!
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