My life before meeting my husband was peppered with hate. That kind of hatred could only be managed with drinking, sex, inner screams and hidden wounds. Who’s to blame? At the top of the list was my mother’s boyfriend.
Granted, he didn’t make me bipolar. He made my symptoms far more pronounced by screwing with my head. He was a psychologist who liked breaking into bathrooms.
My mother’s relationship with him ended over 30 years ago. He’s been dead and gone for a while now. But something remains. He wasn’t just a pervert. He was father to five human beings.
Today I’m Facebook friends with three of them. His son looks just like him and carries his name. It isn’t hard to look or talk to him because my quasi-stepbrother is not his father. All of his children belong to themselves and that makes it easy for me to see them and not their father.
I have no hate in me. I choose to find pride in my great and minor victories. I have no cuts on my thighs. I have no booze or cigarettes in my life. My husband and I share guilt-free marital pleasures. Lastly, I can look at my pain without succumbing to it.
Like my quasi-siblings, I belong to myself. I refuse to relinquish myself to anyone. I trust that I will choose what is right for me. And if I fall, I’ll just quickly get up.