Robbed of a Time
“Dear, you’re hunching again.” He said walking over and massaging my back.
Every critique he negated with a compliment; my worth spiraled between a duel of self-doubt and empowerment that stemmed from him and only him. Kind words being muted by the perfectionistic ideals I held that only grew with every disgrace. I watched what I said, blended myself into what he sought as desirable, and kept the glowing parts of who I loved in myself quieted in the background, hating their every being as he watched them in shame. Naively, I told myself that I was growing into the person I wanted to become. In reality, I had never strayed further, growing into only who he told me he would love.
You always hear that in your late teens and early twenties, you begin uncovering the journey to your true self and beyond the confines of the hallow halls of high school, you have the opportunity to truly be you. I was a consenting adult in her right frame of mind who said yes and yes over and over again. There were no illegal actions, no misdemeanours or crime, but I felt robbed of a time that I will never have returned back to me. A part of myself that will never return or fully heal because of the weakness he brought to the surface with every look and word he spoke to me. There were no other options, in those four years, without him, I felt like I couldn’t survive. He broke me.