The best part of me will always be you. Always you and only you. And if for the rest of my lifetime, I don’t do anything meaningful, I will not be upset. For the greatest thing I have accomplished was/is being your mom. You were put on this earth to be my daughter. And I your mother. You are what saved my life.
I never wanted to write about love until the day I found out you existed.
5/10/2018 -Dia de las Madres
My garden was not a garden until a little Rose bloomed in the middle of Winter. Life became Spring that day.
I thought it was lost. But love returned to me weighing 7lbs and 10oz. A day full of ice, and I felt the warmest I had ever felt.
-For my daughter, Emma Rose
I hurt myself.
A long time ago. & looking back, I realize it was all because the lack of my self loving. Did I know that back then? I think deep deep down I did, but I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to believe it. So you attempt to get “better” because how could there not be something wrong with you, right? You try to talk about it. When you say things like, it’s hard to love me, to love myself, those around you might hear that you’re saying you’re ugly or stupid or unsuccessful. When in reality, a lack of self love means fear, doubt, and believing you’re (for some reason) undeserving. So this thought, this thing in the back of your head, becomes a habit. An everyday habit that eventually turns to be your way of living. So what happens when you don’t love yourself? When you’ve starved yourself from it? You accept the smallest amount of love given to you in whatever shape or form it may come, in fear that this could not possibly happen again. Simply by ignorance. That’s when you unknowingly allow less than what you deserve. My lack of self love caused me to accept relationships and friendships that were not meant for me. I made terrible mistakes that still haunt me to this day but everyday I get a little better, I get a little further and most importantly I get to fall in love with who I am, which is the foundation to a better life.
is that my nightmares become reality.
That my karma makes it appearance.
That I live the life I deserve.
That I fall so deeply and irrevocably in love with you, and in return you break my heart.
I fear you.
I fear the power you unknowingly hold on me, the one I won’t dare talk to you about.
I fear your absense.
I fear that my guilt has rooted itself so deep that it will never allow me to move forward.
I fear the past. The future. The unknown.
I fear your confirmation to what I already know.
August 29, 1992.
Tomorrow I turn 25. I’m blessed that my Heavenly Father has allowed me to walk this earth for this long.
What is different about this birthday? Well for starters, I’m 26 weeks pregnant; this will be the last birthday I ever celebrate alone.
What will be of my next 25 years? Will I still lay next to the father of my unborn child as I do now?
My 25th birthday has caused me to feel nostalgic. My 25th birthday has made me feel indifferent.
My 25th birthday has made me question life.
I’m happy to be the first one to wish myself a Happy Birthday.
Happy Birthday Liz, may the next 25 years be sweeter to you than the last.
If there’s one thing I’ve come to accept about life or better said, learning to accept, it’s that life is never JUST black and white. No. It’s gray.
There’s doubt in truth.
There’s sad in happy. There’s if’s and but’s and why’s.
There are cloudy memories, faded laughter….unwanted thoughts.
There’s questions to be asked, questions that go unanswered.
There is no certainty in anything.
With love comes hate. With honesty comes lies.
No wrong or right, or left.
The older I get, the less I judge. The more I try to understand why things happen.
Why they happen the way they do.
Nope, I refuse to believe in that anymore.
Let things be. That’s being gray.
Trying my best to let things just BE.
If I weren’t so afraid of my own self, I’d probably write a lot more. And a lot more frequently. What is so scary? Why is it so hard to be honest with ourselves? To write our true feelings? To discuss the negative? To accept that we aren’t always love and smiles? What a shame, what a waste. The amount of times I backspace while I write is incredible. Tempted to write only what sounds sweet. Hiding the ugly thoughts, the crazy, because people couldn’t possibly handle it. There you go again; worried about others. What about you? Your sanity? The clarity you so desperately need. Why is it so hard then, to pour out? When you know you want to, when you NEED to. When every word, every sentence, every comma, every period, is cleansing. Why avoid what you love? Why refrain from this? Why do you starve yourself like this? So you ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away. But the thought is there. It’s always there.
And maybe it doesn’t make sense, looking from the outside in. But it never fails me. I’ll always come back to you.
How could I have not fallen in love with you? When your very presence brings me a sense of calm, of peace. When your lips taste of sugar. When your hands bring security. When your eyes hold the truth. Your hugs uphold me, each one piecing me back together. Slowly and surely. Almost makes me wonder if I were ever broken to begin with. I want you in every sense of the word. I want you early in the mornings and late at nights. Between every thought. What more can I do for you, my love? No doubt in this mind of mine. No other desire, no other wants. No questions to be asked.
You are home. You are mine.
And I’m forever yours.