I KNOW THIS IS LONG BUT IT’S WORTH THE READ. I PROMISE.
I was eleven when I realized that the perfect family I thought we had was destroyed to pieces. My father was a drug addict and an abuser. He hit my mom often and my mom, a strong woman that she was, merely took it in silence, attempting to normalize our dysfunctional lives.
I was in sixth grade when a continuous cycle of abuse gripped my family further and further apart. My parents fight, my dad hits my mom, my mom leaves, taking all or some of us along with her. My grades plummeted, my social life disintegrated and I tried to put on a façade that I was happy just so my little siblings had someone to lean on. They were young and destroying their idyllic lives was something I didn’t want them to experience.
I grew up hating my own father. I never forgave him for hurting my mom, my beautiful, patient and kind-hearted mother. I thought all men were like him. I thought that every single man out there with teeming testosterones is not worthy of trust and out only to hurt and beat women into submission. I became a manhater. All throughout high school, the only men I loved were far-fetched characters from manga and anime.
When I was sixteen and a freshman in college, I met him. He was smart, funny, kind and sweet. He challenged me, acknowledged me, appreciated me and loved me. He was everything that was awesome and lovely about life. We became an item. Naturally.
But thoughts of my mom’s sufferings kept harboring on the edge of my mind. I began to think that if I hurt him first, he would never get the chance to hurt me. I began to think that, like other men, he will just hurt me and throw me aside.
I became verbally and physically abusive. I became the exact replica of what I hated most, my own father. I slap him, kick him and curse him until his soul degraded into minute pieces. I embarrass him in front of his friends and his classmates. It was easier for me to hurt him than actually explain myself. But guess what?
All he ever did was understand me. When I slap him, he holds my hands and tells me he loves me. When I kick him, he musters a hurt smile and tells me he loves me. When I curse him and mock him, he hugs me and reminds me that he will always be there no matter how far my attempts take me to push him back.
I can remember that one time when he cut his friendship with one of his friends just so he can protect me from character assassination. I can remember when he risked his life just so he’s sure I’m safe. I can remember when he saw me when I was a nobody, when I was invisible and when I had nothing to boast.
He was there. For everything I’ve been through, from sadness to happiness, from disappointments to fulfilled hopes, from failures to success. He held my hand, understood me and loved me.
Slowly, little by little, I realized that he’d rather die than hurt me. Gradually, as if covered by the sands of time, I realized that love is powerful enough to change one’s heart, to touch one’s life and actually create a miracle. He patiently took down all my walls and swerved through all my defenses.
We will celebrate our 46th monthsary on the 9th of September this year. And we fully intend to grow old together until our happily ever after ends.
To everyone out there, don’t lose hope in life. Don’t lose hope in humankind. Not everyone may be kind and nice, but trust me, someone out there will make the world seem like a beautiful place for you. I speak from experience :)
by anonymous