Love and guilt are neighbours in me.

Is it bad that I cannot distinguish them? I grew up with them being interchangeable.
I think myself in love but really, I feel too guilty to leave them.
When other’s take pity on me, I take flight and shut them out.

My mother (who was more like a daughter to me) called God Love; she herself was the only prophet. I held her when she saw ghosts in our living room, when she sobbed herself to nightmares, when she locked herself into her study for days.
I prayed to Love to save her, and felt guilty when I wished for it all to end.
Love never answered, and it was up to me to break my mother’s heart.

I moved far away and thought a new love would save me.
I disavowed the God who had abandoned me.
I made friends with those who I would hate to have as enemies, and hoped they would protect me. I chose careers that would have filled my old self with pride, though my new self was hollowed. I spend so long making others comfortable, I only realised when I had given away my dignity.

I became fake, pretending to like when I was too scared not to. Guilty of being too lovely.
Terrified of being chosen last, I put myself there first. I thought my malady a life sentence.
Of course, it is only a disease as long as I allow this self-pity. As long as I think myself hopeless.
I was in love with feeling too guilty to care.

I was obsessed with thinking too little of me.
When others love me, they must be broken too.
It’s a game designed to keep me cut off, and I had started to cheat.
There were rules to finding love I discovered.
I learned to be patient and honest, most of all to myself.
Love was no longer punishment, and I no longer God.


If you liked this, you may want to read a short story about flashbacks and my musings about motherhood after childhood abuse.
Remember love is out there for us all to find. x

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