That's not love

Mommy dearest

My mother. The one that birthed me. She's supposed to keep me safe. Keep me loved. Why did you leave me? Why did you hurt me? These questions circle, repeating, suffocating my brain with their toxic thoughts. 

I see mothers on tv. Happy. Loving. Cooking. Smiling. I look at my own with her raised fist, ready to turn another part of my tender flesh blue. 

I know that's not how a mother is supposed to be. But she's all I have. All I know. 

At 15, I was in love. He whispered sweet nothings, while wiping my tears. Tears he caused. The tears mix with the blood which mix with the apologies. A common repitition. "But I love you". "You made me do this". "I do this because I love you". 

I love you. The same thing mommy would say while hitting me. The same thing he says while hitting me. The words hurt more than the hits. 

People ask why I can't get close. Why I push everyone away. It's because mommy made me. Because he made me. I learned at a young age that love hurts. Not from simple heartbreak, from literal pain. Slaps and punches. 

Then along comes Him. The one who saves me. He teaches me that hands are for caressing. Holding and stroking. Not hitting. He shows me how a man should act. He doesn't try to save me. He stands by. He helps me as I save myself. He doesn't catch me when I fall, but teaches me how to land on my feet. 

Momma told me I'll never be anything. He tells me I can do whatever I put my mind to. He teaches me how to be a woman, something my mother never was. He holds me. He loves me. He helps me learn to love myself. 

They teach me in school about a healthy relationship. It all sounds so alien to me, with my mom, and the past men. But now I can relate. I can compare my life to the examples. It's about respect. It's about compromise. It's about healthy boundaries and positive reinforcement. It's about love. Not using love as an excuse. Real love.