In life I began to feel really sorry for myself.
Past experiences taught me that men bought only pain, frustration, suffering and a sense of time dragging.
My dad left.
My ex cheated.
All before the age of 21.
The type of pain I experienced due to this situation is the type of pain that would make you wish you’d die or at least be terminally ill so that you could focus on something else. On someone else.
But I lived and I had no choice but to move through it, and so I did.
And I did it fucking courageously.
I allowed myself to walk into my suffering. I allowed myself to cry deeply. I allowed myself to feel anger and sadness. And alas I allowed myself to forgive these people and hope for a love more evolutionary.
The amount of beauty and self worth I have learned from this heart breaking situation is something I have only just been able to bring myself to put into words.
I had to learn to find myself in the dark and know with full certainty that I am worthy of love, compassion, and joy, and that I have the power to give myself that blessing and that gift.
In hindsight, my broken heart was nothing more than the result of me placing myself in careless hands much too young, much too pure.
I was just a girl searching for safety inside the eyes of every soul I met, until I met him. He was worthy for me to lay down my sword for.
But boy, it wasn’t easy.
I can still remember the first time he told me he loved me. And he meant it.
He always means what he says.
He freed me of so many things on levels I didn’t know even existed.
Sometimes that’s all it takes, a single moment in time to change the course of your life.
“I love you”, he said, his brown eyes burning into my brown eyes. I genuinely felt the words sear into my skin.
Three seconds! Three seconds in time was all it took to lose something so integral no one ever should.
One moment I saw me. The next, there was only him.
That is how I knew.
How I knew he was the one.
And so I allowed myself to fall in love with him.
I gave myself wholly, no longer the 50 or the 80% we are constantly told to give men, who aren’t our husbands.
And I have no regrets – even if things do go pear shaped (God forbid).
I love him.
To think, all my life, I thought of love as some kind of voluntary enslavement.
What a freaking lie: freedom only exists when love is present!
He touched me in places, where I didn’t even know I was hurt.
He had bedroom eyes that made me want to lay down and do a million different things and not one of them was sleep.
Being in love with him made me feel like I was making love with him the whole time, even when we weren’t.
To have met someone who wept the the same tears I wept, who’s life once came undone the way mine had and who watched the blood escape their body from the same wounds I had, it was as if I had finally returned home.
I literally have no idea how to ‘un-love’ his presence.
And although he wasn’t my first, I was his. Something I really wish I could have changed but I can’t.
All I knew was his touch evoked a feeling within me I could not measure, draining every last drop of restraint I possessed from the hollow of my bones.
I wanted all my tomorrows with him.
I wanted to be intimate with him. Like really intimate.
And I know when people think of intimacy they usually think of tangled sheets, skin, nakedness.
Intimacy is indeed nakedness. But for me it was more than that.
It was me wanting to go to his country, the place he called home, and see how it fills the deep caverns within him that only a motherland can fill. I wanted to make love to every syllable of his name, every time it escaped my lungs.
To have found someone who had endured a similar hardship is to find an irreplaceable piece of God which no medicine can ever replace.
I do not think I have ever meant and felt this as deeply as I do now.
So I wanted to share.
In the end love does exist for me and for you too eventually.
If you have any love stories to share, don’t hesitate to share in the comments section below
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