It's amazing to me of the things that I have survived.
Looking back at everything, my childhood, my teenager years, and even what little of my adulthood that I've lived, it never ceases to amaze me of the fact that I SURVIVED.
Today I started thinking of the difficult times that I've had and was and still am, amazed that I haven't just quit. That even though I've been at my breaking point SO MANY times, I've pushed through and made it to be 23.
I'm 23 years old.
Damn.
I have been told by so many people that I would never make it, I would never be anything. And my favorite, I'd never be good for anything except laying on my back.
I've watched people I've grown up with, go back into the cycle that they swore they'd break.
I have been beaten down and broken so many times.
And you know what? I'm still here. I'm still fighting.
Would you ever guess just from a first glance at me, that I've tried to kill myself more times than I can even remember?
That a little more than a year ago I almost killed myself with pain pills?
I don't think you would.
I can remember the first time I cut myself, almost as if it's currently happening.
It was my birthday. They terminated my mom's rights that morning. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I cried until I couldn't breathe. And then I grabbed my shaving razor and took it apart. I wanted it to end. Right there on the bathroom floor. So I cut my leg. And for some crazy fucked up reason, I felt relieved. I felt like I was in control of one thing. And that made me feel better. So every time I felt like I just couldn't handle it anymore, like everything was out of control, I'd cut. A few times on my leg. And then I started on my wrist.
I wanted someone to see it. I wanted them to say something. I was drowning, screaming for help, but there was no hand out of it.
Eventually I learned to cope a little better. But I still sometimes get to that point. A year ago, after I tried to kill myself unsuccessfully, I cut. Three times on my wrist.
And then I met Bryce. And I had to explain to this man, how fucked up I was. This man who had only been on a few dates with me.
I still don't know why he didn't just run.
I would have.
But somehow, I got lucky.
This man has seen the worst sides of me. He has seen me so broken, and depressed. He has seen me after two surgeries. He has seen me angry, hangry, sad, stressed, emotional, irrational, tired, drunk, happy, and drugged up.
And for some crazy, illogical reason he still loves me.
He has held me while I cried, and watched me vomit until I couldn't breathe. He has driven all over a town somewhere in New Mexico looking for a place that had ice cream, because I was pms-ing and cried just because I wanted ice cream.
I'm not the skinniest girl in the world. And I'm definitely not the prettiest either. I weigh more now, than I did when I was 10 months pregnant. I have stretch marks, a c-section scar, and scars from my life. And you know what?
He calls me beautiful like it's my name.
There has never been a time in our relationship, where He made me feel ugly. He has never made me feel fat. He has never, ever, made me feel like I wasn't enough.
Let me paint a picture for you,
Me, drugged up after having my appendix removed, slurring my words and talking about how I am convinced that the big cut inside my mouth is because the doctor drugged me up and mouth fucked me. And then proceeding to ride a motorized scooter from the parking lot into walmart, to get my prescriptions. Still occasionally saying/slurring some pretty fucked up stuff.
Not a pretty picture, right?
He laughed.
He didn't get embarrassed, or tell me to wait in the car while he went in so he wouldn't be seen with me.
He proudly walked beside me, and laughed at my stupidity.
This man. Oh god, I wish I could describe the feeling I have for this man.
Most men are afraid to get into a relationship with a woman who has a kid. Now imagine getting into one with a woman who placed her kid for adoption.
Uncharted territory.
Not only has this man been so supportive of my decisions, he has met my daughter.
Let me repeat that for you.
THE MAN HAS MET MY DAUGHTER.
He was right there beside me when they came to visit. Do you realize what a feat that is? That not only have I found a man strong enough to handle my crazy ass, but also a man who is supportive of my decisions enough that he has met both sets of my new parents and my daughter.
Fuck, man.
This man can read my mind. And I mean that figuratively, you weirdo.
He knows what I am thinking, and can read me like a book. He knows when I want something, when something's bothering me, when I'm thinking too hard, or when I'm stressed.
Today as I was discussing with him, the way I feel about the things I've survived, we discussed the thought of children. Not really a deep discussion, where we talked about when we want to try or anything like that. Just a brief mention of kids.
And I started thinking.
What would our kids think of us? Would we be the parents that gross out our kids while kissing in the kitchen? Would we be the parents who NEVER miss a game/competition? Would we be the strict parents, or the laid back ones?
While I don't know what the future holds, I can say one thing, if we have kids they will know that their dad is in love with their mom.
