"Sometimes you've just got to give yourself what you wish you were getting
from someone else!"-Dr. Phil
~*~
For once in my life I am going to be perfectly honest about my feelings. No, I will not hide them underneath the rug. No, I will not sugarcoat them. No, I will not justify them. No, I will not allow him to control my life anymore. No, I will be strong.
Let me tell you a tale, as a bit of a preface. Let me tell you a tale of a girl, who loved a boy. The girl was lucky, as the boy loved her back. He was not amazing, by any standards, except the girl always mused that he was. She was never beautiful, except the boy mused that she was. Except one day, it was in the cold November, she figured out that she was making the wrong choice. That, no matter how hard she tried to love him the way she wanted to, she couldn't. That this relationship was really her desperate need to be loved. That this relationship was going nowhere fast. She loved him, but she was not 'in' love with him. It wasn't just that though, it was the fact that he had hit her. Hard. His fist made contact with her lip and blood flowed freely. And then she decided she needed out. Right now.
And then she waited some more.
And then she got bloody fed up with waiting.
And here we are, or rather I am.
When he hit me, I felt this sadness well up in my heart. It was hardly anger. Just this emptiness. As though you hadn't eaten in ages and your stomach felt hollow, as the bile filled up in it. As though you're stomach had shrunken. I felt so unworthy. So not valued. So hated. So not loved. And as he hit me, I saw this look in his eyes, this look of coldness, one of no pity.
And then I remembered when he and I sat down on the Hogwarts steps and we shared a chocolate-iced donut.
"You have chocolate on your chin," he grinned at me taking a napkin and swiping up the chocolate.
"You have stars in your eyes," I grinned back at him. He smirked.
I remembered the good times, and somehow in my mind I said. "He can hit me, as long as we share a donut on the steps tomorrow." And somehow I got lost in the meaning of what love really is. Somehow I forgot that kindness does not justify cruelness. That love does not justify hate. That kissing does not justify hitting.
I was distorting the pureness in love. I was distorting that desire. That passion that came with loving someone who truly loved you. In every way. In every sense. With every kiss, with every hug, with every donut, with every step. With every bone in his body. With every bone in mine.
It's hard; because when you love someone you tend to justify his actions with simple things. "He loves me," you say. No, that isn't love. That is not kindness, compassion and loyalty. That is not love.
As he made me a macaroni necklace from "Magical Arts" I let out a slow sigh. "It's lovely," I said.
"No," he replied smirking wildly, "you're lovely."
And yet, you have to get the point where he could tell you any bloody thing in the book and you wouldn't care. Because you deserve better. You deserve to be treated with the utmost respect. He could tell you that you were gorgeous. Did he think you were gorgeous when he was hitting you? Did he think you were gorgeous when he bragged to his friends about the blood coming out of your pink crackled lips? Did he think you were gorgeous when he watched you bleed, and he smiled? Did he think you were gorgeous when you cried and he watched? And then he laughed. No, he didn't.
I got hurt. My heart felt like it was breaking into little sharp pieces. It no longer even kept its form. I think you could see the veins in it. It had been beaten to a pulp. And it was alive, and it was still beating.
And you know what? I'm better now. I love myself too much now to let him ever treat me like that ever again. I love myself too much to put up with that. I love myself too much to let someone treat me like that, and watch it.
I love myself too much, I'm stronger now.
~*~
~*~
For once in my life I am going to be perfectly honest about my feelings. No, I will not hide them underneath the rug. No, I will not sugarcoat them. No, I will not justify them. No, I will not allow him to control my life anymore. No, I will be strong.
Let me tell you a tale, as a bit of a preface. Let me tell you a tale of a girl, who loved a boy. The girl was lucky, as the boy loved her back. He was not amazing, by any standards, except the girl always mused that he was. She was never beautiful, except the boy mused that she was. Except one day, it was in the cold November, she figured out that she was making the wrong choice. That, no matter how hard she tried to love him the way she wanted to, she couldn't. That this relationship was really her desperate need to be loved. That this relationship was going nowhere fast. She loved him, but she was not 'in' love with him. It wasn't just that though, it was the fact that he had hit her. Hard. His fist made contact with her lip and blood flowed freely. And then she decided she needed out. Right now.
And then she waited some more.
And then she got bloody fed up with waiting.
And here we are, or rather I am.
When he hit me, I felt this sadness well up in my heart. It was hardly anger. Just this emptiness. As though you hadn't eaten in ages and your stomach felt hollow, as the bile filled up in it. As though you're stomach had shrunken. I felt so unworthy. So not valued. So hated. So not loved. And as he hit me, I saw this look in his eyes, this look of coldness, one of no pity.
And then I remembered when he and I sat down on the Hogwarts steps and we shared a chocolate-iced donut.
"You have chocolate on your chin," he grinned at me taking a napkin and swiping up the chocolate.
"You have stars in your eyes," I grinned back at him. He smirked.
I remembered the good times, and somehow in my mind I said. "He can hit me, as long as we share a donut on the steps tomorrow." And somehow I got lost in the meaning of what love really is. Somehow I forgot that kindness does not justify cruelness. That love does not justify hate. That kissing does not justify hitting.
I was distorting the pureness in love. I was distorting that desire. That passion that came with loving someone who truly loved you. In every way. In every sense. With every kiss, with every hug, with every donut, with every step. With every bone in his body. With every bone in mine.
It's hard; because when you love someone you tend to justify his actions with simple things. "He loves me," you say. No, that isn't love. That is not kindness, compassion and loyalty. That is not love.
As he made me a macaroni necklace from "Magical Arts" I let out a slow sigh. "It's lovely," I said.
"No," he replied smirking wildly, "you're lovely."
And yet, you have to get the point where he could tell you any bloody thing in the book and you wouldn't care. Because you deserve better. You deserve to be treated with the utmost respect. He could tell you that you were gorgeous. Did he think you were gorgeous when he was hitting you? Did he think you were gorgeous when he bragged to his friends about the blood coming out of your pink crackled lips? Did he think you were gorgeous when he watched you bleed, and he smiled? Did he think you were gorgeous when you cried and he watched? And then he laughed. No, he didn't.
I got hurt. My heart felt like it was breaking into little sharp pieces. It no longer even kept its form. I think you could see the veins in it. It had been beaten to a pulp. And it was alive, and it was still beating.
And you know what? I'm better now. I love myself too much now to let him ever treat me like that ever again. I love myself too much to put up with that. I love myself too much to let someone treat me like that, and watch it.
I love myself too much, I'm stronger now.
~*~