As I get older, I’ve realized the different stages of my sadness, or more so, what had made me sad in the first place. I was the type of child that took the burdens of the world and carried it on my shoulders. I felt the pain of my neighbor just as I would if what-ever it was had happened to me. I’d like to believe I’ve grown out of this, but that’s just wishful thinking.
I come from a broken home. Well, what the social workers used to call a ‘broken home.’ I always thought I was okay with it. I survived and for that I am closer to my mother for. Although, now that I am old enough to understand and put the pieces together I realize I’m broken for it. Which, of course, is the reason for all the dents and dings in any relationship I’ve attempted to have, with anyone. Not to mention the abandonment issues that plagued me. And in turn, ironically, became the reason people always left me in the end. I’d push them away, which inevitably brought me back to the idea that everyone leaves. Because honestly, who wants to fight for someone that doesn’t want to be fought for?
I run, from everything. Or so I’ve been told. I’m a fighter, a scrapper if you will, however the first sign of feelings towards anyone or possibly anything, I’m heading in the opposite direction, I promise.
I’ve come to the end of my rope a many times. And not that I’m not grateful to be able to look back on these moments and say “I’m still alive,” they’ve all added up. Piles and piles of past. And I drudge through these daily, like weeks of dirty laundry. And the only difference between now and childhood, is I’m old enough to see when I need to hold on for dear life to that rope and when I’m only hanging a foot off the ground.