It would be many years
before the pieces began to gather
into something I could understand.
Back then,
I blamed myself for everything.
Self-hatred lived quietly inside me,
hidden behind a smile
I had learned to wear well.
No one saw it.
No one knew
how deeply I carried the belief
that something in me was broken.
So I did what I had always done—
I searched for safety
in someone else.
A few years later came husband number two.
He was gentle, kind,
soft in the way of wounded souls.
Almost puppy-like in his tenderness.
But responsibility slipped through his hands,
and substances often held him
more tightly than life itself.
He was not a cruel man.
Like me,
he was carrying wounds
he did not know how to heal.
And so we stayed together
in the uncertain rhythm
of leaving and returning,
two hurting people
trying to build shelter
from unfinished healing.
Then came husband number three—
the father of my children.
He was a good man.
A loving father.
Steady in ways
I had longed for.
And yet,
inside me lived a restless ache
that no marriage could quiet.
I kept searching for a man
who could finally make me feel safe,
not yet understanding
that what I was seeking
had never lived outside me.
The shelter I longed for
was waiting patiently within—
a home inside myself
I had not yet learned
how to enter.
No comments:
Post a Comment