Love is there, and everywhere.

Simply put: a short nonfictional story of a pain I've known to be love, growing up with it and dealing with the pros and cons that come along with love.

Love is the cry of a newborn baby girl, weighing 10 pounds, 4 ounces, born kicking and screaming in the world, already fighting the demons that have awaited her glorious arrival.

Love is her father, a strong and honest man, coaching her softball team and cheering her from third base as she slides into home.

Love is her brother, born 3 and a half years ahead of her, teaching her how to glue back the marble plate she broke so their mother wouldn’t be angry with her.

Love is her mother, who became a stay at home mom, attended every school function, and taught her how to pray.

But love changed. She changed.

At 12, the love became pain. She felt its absence as if it were an obvious wound. Couldn’t anyone see she was hurt? She saw the way her parents looked at her. The worry and concern in their eyes as they opened her lunchbox from school and saw that she had not eaten her lunch for the third day in a row. Love turned into her mother standing outside of her bathroom door, making sure she wasn’t vomiting after dinner again. Love turned into hatred and lies, a constant battle with the ones who just wanted to help.

Love turned into a razor blade she had obtained from the tool box in her father’s garage. For a few moments, as her blood trickled down her ghostly white skin, she felt relief from the absence of love. She felt calm, secure, and okay. As the blood dried, she wept, because she knew she would have to do it again.

Love is a therapist named Summer who smiled too much and wrote in her notebook, as she sat on her therapist’s couch and said that she was okay. That she didn’t vomit, and that she didn’t cut. Love was going home every day, reassuring her parents that she was better, that she was healed, so that she didn’t have to see the disappointment and sadness in their eyes again. Love was never cutting again, and a promise to herself that she was worthy of a healthy life.

For a while, Love returned. At 18 she moved to college and attempted to improve. She ate her meals, she hadn’t cut in years, and she called her parent’s weekly. They were proud of her, and for the first time, she felt like an adult.

At 19, love changed into the form of Jason, a man who invested his time in her on a daily basis. He wore her down with his charm and blue eyes, and promises that he could make her a happy woman. His southern accent drew her in, captivated her in a way no other man had before. At 3 months, his love turned into need. He needed his medication, he needed rent money, and most of all, he needed me. Through it all, she stayed. She loved him, after all. She loved him even when he screamed, through her glass vase on the wall, and was too high to even walk to the car. She stayed even when he called her a w***e in the middle of Target, threw a tantrum at a bar and left her there to walk 3 miles home at 2 AM. She stayed, because she loved him, but he no longer loved her. He swore he did, swore on his life. But his love wasn’t love, it was obsession.

His love was control. His love was desperation. His love, was abuse. Her love for him turned into hatred and disgust. She grew annoyed of his threats, but somehow, still cared for his well-being. So she stayed. If she left, he would commit suicide, at least that’s what he said. She hated the way he touched her, grabbed her hips while she cried, how he assumed she was cheating when she was simply in class, how he tried to comfort her after he made her cry. She skipped school to work a second job to afford his medication and rent. Why was she doing this? Her family ignored her, they didn’t want her anymore, because of him. She wasn’t the girl who smiled and laughed anymore, she was the girl whose feet were swollen from working, and who’s fiancé was doped up on pain meds on the couch.

At 20, 6 days after her birthday, she gave up. She became numb, and no longer felt love. She cried not for her fiancé, but for her family, because only she knew what she was about to do. After 5 years, she touched the blade, and rain it across her wrists several times. She swallowed her pills, just to make sure. She sobbed as she wrote her letter goodbye, tears splashing onto the letter she wrote to her mother and father. She thought of her brother, who would be alone when she was gone. She thought of her mom, burying her only daughter, planting yellow roses on her casket one by one as her father comforted her. She thought of her friends, the ones she had left, and how they would react to her suicide.

She felt herself drifting away as she lied down in her bed. Her breathing slowed and for a moment, she felt peace. This was it, it would all be over soon. She wouldn’t have to see him again, she wouldn’t have to disappoint her parents any longer. Her brother would overcome her death and move on. She recalled when she made banana bread with her mom as a child, how her father taught her how to swing a baseball bat, and taking karate lessons with her brother. She recalled the love she had for them all.

Like a flash of lightening, there it was. Making her heart beat fast and her breathing increase, she sat upright in bed. Pulling on her sweater, she grabbed her car keys and ran out the door. After speeding down the highway for 15 minutes, she screeched into into the empty parking lot of her local hospital. She entered the double doors, and approached the nurses counter, simply saying “I’m suicidal and I want to die. I’m scared I’ve hurt myself too much this time.” She raised her sleeves to show the nurse her cuts, and immediately, she was wheeled into the ER. She was bandaged and medicated, and left to rest in a room with glass walls. She  was number 5 on the suicidal watch list in the hospital, and a nurse sat with her until her parents arrived.

At 20 years old, love returned, permanently.

Love is her mother, rushing with tears in her eyes to her daughter’s aid, promising never to leave her side.

Love is her father, with stained tears on his face, examining his baby girl’s wounds, and asking the nurses for any updates.

Love is her brother, who spent his time on leave driving up to see her in recovery, and presenting her with his Bible to read from whenever she needed a little extra encouragement.

Love is Nurse Becky, who detangled her hair at the rehabilitation center since she couldn’t reach it because of the pain from her cuts, and brought her clean underwear and a bra to wear at the facility so that she felt more comfortable in her treatment.  

Love is the psychologist who diagnosed her, treated her, and encouraged her.

Love is what sent her home, to her family, where she was safe.

At 22, love is still here. It’s there in the music she listens to on her way to class. It’s there when she laughs with her mom as they make a new recipe. It’s there as she calls her brother to check up on him and his life overseas. It’s there as she holds the strong hands of her new boyfriend, who has treated her with the up most respect and care as she learns to truly love a man again.

Love is there, and everywhere.

 

 

Author's Note

I'm not "the best" writer, nor am I trying to be, but writing has always been a tool for relaxation and is something I learned to do in my recovering to distract me from occasional depressive thoughts and feelings. I am always up for any suggestions :) but please, do not be disrespectful towards my story, as it has made me the best that I have ever been.