An open letter to an unconditional love

The following content is of fiction. What has been written is for pure entertainment and literacy purposes only.

“So you look for patterns because that’s what humans do to try and make sense of things. In hope of some divine order. And you look in movies and songs and the things that you read for symbols, points and swirls that match your own. But the only real pattern there is, is the one you make when you hold up a mirror. And reflect.”

Earth

I was entirely grounded.

Standing completely on my own, I was proud of who I had become.

I had a rough start to life, but I had made something of myself which people always said would never be a possibility.

I was given the choice to become obsolete and endure using recreational drugs and call it a 'hobby', or I was given the choice to refrain from blaming my past and avoid becoming an example of what the birth of abuse and misguidance looks like.

I wanted to define my life.

I wanted a purpose and a reason.

I knew mistakes and I had seen failure,

but it was my choice to believe that there was more to life than what I had been given.

I didn't have it 'tough'.

Sure, 

youthfully homeless and unconventionally mistreated from birth would be societies definition of a disruptive and scarring upbringing.

But I was aware that people like me could prove a rich man's opinion to be otherwise.

I made it my destiny to become what I thought was important.

I wanted health and prosperity,

I wanted wealth of love and money of need not want.

I wanted an average life,

which was extraordinary.

Because to me, 

I was born at the bottom and the top seemed to be an irrationally popular place.

I wanted more than what I was given

but I never wanted to lose who I became because of it. 

Air

Fighting for my own ground meant that the times where kids made friends and discovered reasons to laugh, were the times I spent trying to find a way out of a difficult situation.

Abuse can be hidden by acts of fabricated love.

I lost my voice at a very young age and it wasn't until I was 15 that I realised if I didn't speak out, I was never going to survive long enough to move out. 

When I tell my story everyone say's "why didn't you just leave"?

But everyone fails to imagine what it would be like to walk away from someone who is rightfully your own blood.

Although I was terribly unfortunate with the way I was raised,

it would also be unruly of me to blame that all on one person.

A compilation of wrong choices and unfortunate timings lead my parents into a hole in which they themselves, could not climb out of.

With experiences of their own which developed misconstrued feelings of the world around them, my parents lived a life entirely on their own accord.

It was unlucky, for them and eventually for me,

that our lives crossed paths and I was born to a family who didn't want me nor did they expect me.

An ominous surprise would be what I would've named my birth. 

An untimely predicament in the lives of those who were lost. 

But, again, looking at my glass half full.

An optimal experience for a girl whose words want to be heard.

I have come from nowhere, but I know sure as hell, that I am going somewhere.

I don't know where 'somewhere' is yet, but it will most definitely be far from where I started. 

Fire

There are never instructions for pain. 

There has never been a book of scientific facts written, explaining what it was exactly we felt in the pits of our stomach and why our ribcages burnt when our hearts were broken.

Nor is there an antidote for lost words or a method to produce dry tears. 

I gave up a little.

I gave up entirely on myself.

I gave up eventually on you.

Periodically, the pain has evolved over an extensive amount of time. 

It hasn't just consumed me all at once, but slowly and invisibly, it has eaten at me piece by piece. 

I would rather it have come in one wave. 

With adrenaline and power it would have killed me indefinitely, but as the lips of shore kissers wash upon my feet daily, I watch smaller destructions occur constantly.

The hardest part,

there is nothing I can do to prevent it.

It's knowing the potential obvious,

but choosing to live in the concealed.

I want to write about the aftermath,

the beautiful and inevitable mess that I once used to call home.

It was hard to distinguish whether it was love or just a compelled feeling to act the way other kids did with their mothers.

I was never shown how to love nor was given the chance to know what it felt like.

I would love to say that I knew that the way he looked at me resembled that of the way my father looked at my mother, 

but when his eyes bored down into mine, I felt the bruises which burnt my cheeks every Tuesday. 

I had overcome fear and taught myself life lessons which mothers genuinely teach down to their daughters.

I had worn my fathers strength but refused to learn from his anger.

I had become a mix of my backgrounds but developed my own spirit.

He loved me for the rejuvenated destruction that I was.

I loved him for not cursing at me and creating a shadow above my head whilst i sat in corners.

I was strong and I was somebody.

I had a name, a voice and a home to call my own.

But I guess it doesn't matter how far you run from your past,

it will always follow you.

I was completely dispatched from my past, except when it came down to loving him.

I tried, over and over again to remember what it was I taught myself under bridges.

I taught myself that love was possible. 

That what I was shown when I was young was wrong and that love can be found in places you least expect it. 

Unfortunately words are just letters that humbly resonate to a particular eye,

and my eyes could not grasp the concept of trust or love- or beauty within skin and bones.

If I learnt anything from the way we held hands,

it was that I only did it to protect myself from potential harm,

and what an awful misinterpreted meaning of love that was.

Water

I learnt to fight the urge, to let the pain of my past destroy any chance at I had leading a normal life. 

There were moments of doubt and insecurity, but he understood.

The night terrors and the screams of uncertainty.

Through scratched sheets and stained cheeks, he saw the good the lived within me.

He was why I stayed true.

He was the reason I rose from all of this.

Although there were times where I was reluctant to believe in a truth that was not shown to me,

he taught me what I could not teach myself.

He taught me that it didn't matter how many scars I wore,

or that I became tense around stronger men.

He taught me that love could heal those who did not know they were broken.

I never considered myself to resemble that with a shattered history.

I always envisioned myself as powerful, mature and strong.

He saw me as the little girl that hid in corners and slept beside railway lines.

He knew everything that I was and it was only when I met him that I realised although I taught myself how to live,

he taught me how to love.

It wasn't until he held my hand for the first time that I realised everything that I was, 

was based on books and I became a product from words that weren't my own.

He gave me a reason to look back into my past and discover my true reason for having a future.

He made me thankful and appreciative with the cards I was dealt.

He is the reason why I am writing to you,

without him,

I would have chosen to forget you altogether and he made me realise that even you,

my blood and bones,

deserves to be loved.

Because I know you were scared too.

I know that deep down you would have protected me if you could, but it was those pills you drowned in that prevented you from trying.

Because I'm sorry that the life you led never became of anything different,

and I'm sorry that nobody ever told you that it could have been otherwise.

That although you never showed love to me,

or gave me hope in a love that could last,

he told me that I should and will learn to love you unconditionally.

Because a love given,

without a love received,

is the real reason why love,

was found in the first place.