I believe

One of the most difficult challenges I have had to overcome is my parents splitting up. I had to throw away all my childhood notions of love and all that I had learned about family being infinite. I had to watch my dad cry, hear myself scream, envy my sisters strength, and hate my mom. When something as strong as a daughter’s love for her mother twists into a terrible, sickening hatred, it takes so much to forgive. All my sources of strength were depleted – the vision of my future, my childhood (fragile on pillars of lies), my family – shattered.  All during a time where I needed so much strength…

She sat me on my bed one summer night. She said it. Said she was leaving my dad. I screamed. No. I don’t even remember leaving my house; I must have flew down the stairs. It was late and dark. I was running down the sidewalk, not even feeling it scrape my feet. Running faster than I’ve ever run in my life. And if you know me, you know that I am the opposite of athletic.  My dad was yelling my name, crying for me to come back. Suddenly I was. Back, I mean. Collapsed in the grass crying. My dad scooped me up and I could tell how hard it was, for I’m not a child anymore, and most of the time I forget that.

Pain striped me down, grounded me. But it also sent me reeling. Pain is something tangible. Pain is something real. Pain is undeniable. Only after I hit rock bottom, could I truly appreciate happiness again. Only after I collapsed, crumbled, cried, I could begin to feel again.

Time moved on, but it took me a while to move on myself. To let go. But one day, about three years after, I realized how truly hard it is to ever forget. I blended the edges, smoothing over the awkwardness at holidays, the quiet house, the scheduled dinners, the avoided questions, the prying neighbors. I moved on, I thought, but all it took was an old family album, with yellowing pages and priceless baby pictures to make me realize that strength is really just an illusion. I encountered one picture of my father and mother, in high-rise, faded denim, and out-of-date sunglasses, smiling at the camera, with their arms around each other to make it all come flooding back. A pile of bricks was on my chest; I couldn’t catch my breath, I went numb. I allowed myself to cry for one minute and closing the photo album and myself to all that I used to believe is love.
Now I believe in a different type of love. It evolves, it changes, it even switches persons. But it is always there.