Looking for Comfort

 Growing up in my home, there was something very important missing.

Comfort.

My mother didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body.

My father had anger issues. When his anger was triggered, he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want answers.

He released his rage.

My sister struggled with jealousy. There always seemed to be another lie, another betrayal, another attempt to get me in trouble or hurt me.

And that never really changed throughout our lives.

My brother was mostly gone from the house, out doing what boys did.

But I know now that he was deeply affected too. He struggled with serious drug and alcohol addiction for most of his life.

We were all carrying something.

But as a child, I didn’t understand any of that.

I only knew that I was looking for something I couldn’t find at home.

Comfort.

Someone to say, You’re safe.

Someone to hold me when I was afraid.

Someone to help me understand that I was okay.

Every child has the right to feel safe and loved.

I needed that.

And perhaps I’ve been searching for that comfort, in one form or another, all my life.

Now I wonder about the pain I carry in my body.

Could some part of this pain be connected to a little girl who spent so much of her life without the comfort she needed?

I don’t know.

But I’m willing to listen.