She loves love. She doesn't remember when it became so important to her, like an obsession. She does recall never hearing her parents speak those three words to her first. She remembers the hug, but it seems it was always her that spoke them. For that reason, she thinks that is why she lays it on thick with her kids, telling them everyday. Multiple times. But to her, it's never overkill. For the past few years, she's become preoccupied with death, so that may be part of the reason. It could all be over in twenty years, in two weeks, in the next five minutes.
Love is complicated, joyous, devastating, heartbreaking, everything. She believes in love at first sight, because it has happened to her. She believes that you can love someone so intensely, that time and circumstance cannot change the powerful attraction that will never go away. She still grapples with the concept of forever love. She's not sure that that's possible. Life won't allow it. People change. Even though her parents have been together for over half a century, it may be just mutual respect and the sharing of memories that binds them. She thinks people stay together longer than they need to be, neither one happy, but neither one knowing how to leave their comfort zone.

She was a late bloomer when it came to love. She didn't have her first boyfriend until her last year of high school.  But she dumped him because he started getting serious and it scared her. Her virginity was taken one drunken night when she was 19 by someone she didn't know, who forced himself on her. Additionally, with the near molestation at 12, she wonders if this is the reason she feels a need to be sometimes dominated. At other times, she needs to be the aggressor. She feels at times, she can never get close enough, like pulling them into her, will be the only way. She can love with such completeness, that when it ends, it's death to her, and she spins down into depression so dark, it takes years to overcome it. She still has feelings of failure, sadness. Love seems elusive to her. Too many attempts at it, having it go all to shit.

There are people in her life that she would easily die for. Men that have entered her life, loved her, moved on, but remain locked securely in a corner of her heart, where they will always remain. Others that she had to let go to literally survive. These men are forever banished. Her children bring her a love like no other, so profound that looking at them takes her breath away. There's nothing above maternal love, nothing more gratifying., nothing bigger.
She loves love.

She had never felt so alone. Or sad. She would sit in the dark, and pray to fall asleep and not have to wake up. Did this mean she was suicidal? She didn't think so, she just didn't want to go on. Not like this. Not with this feeling of despair so complete, she was certain she'd never be happy again.

Her marriage began to crumble six years before she demanded he leave. Six years of hell. Six years of his escalated drinking, turning him into someone she no longer recognized. Six years of being called worthless, useless, stupid, a bitch, a whore, a c**t. She would go to bed, pillow over her ears so she wouldn't have to hear his rants. Sleep was her only peace. Until he would come into the bedroom, slamming into furniture, slurring his words, drooling, smelling like dirt and stale alcohol. He woke her up just to start a fight. Sometimes, he would urinate on the floor near the bed, or vomit, only to go pass out, leaving her in tears, to clean up after him. The verbal abuse became physical one night when he ran at her from across the room and body slammed her to the floor. Waking up with him on top of her with a look of murderous hate in his eyes. She thought he was going to kill her that night.
Every drink he took, chipped away all love and respect she once had for him. It made her wonder if she ever really did. It was difficult for her to realize she was going through this again...her first marriage ended almost the same way. The result of days of excess, drugs, days of sleeplessness, going to work so high on meth, pupils blown. He would take advantage of her weakened, dillusional state by saying, "c'mon baby, do one more line with me." Four days into her last binge, she knew she was going to die if she didn't get out. He was slowly killing her. Two weeks after she walked out, she returned to their apartment and found that he had painted the entire interior black. Walls, floors, whatever furniture she had left. She turned around and walked out the door and never looked back. She was going to have to do it again if she was going to survive a second time.

She knew in her heart, that she didn't want to be a victim. But she was. So, her life became endless days of trying to get through. She became detached, unemotional, living each day wanting it to end so she could sleep and not have to face what her life had become. Only difference this time, is she had three babies. Functioning on auto pilot wasn't going to work.
Her life became more demanding than she imagined. Starting at two in the morning,
putting the kids in the back of the car, turning up the radio so they wouldn't hear her cry.
She did this seven days a week. When she finished her route, she would drive home, get the kids ready for school, and make the drive all the way out to East Sonoma, where she would work her second job. At six, she would make the hour drive home, fix dinner, give the kids a bath, help them with their homework, and put them to bed. Only to do it all over again the next day. There would be days when she would end up in Sonoma and not even remember driving there. Other days where she would pull off on the side of the road, cry hysterically and not even know why. This went on for 18 months. If it wasn't for her three babies, she didn't think that she would have the desire to be on this earth any longer. This life was too hard. But she knew she couldn't give up, she  had three lives that depended on her.
She also knew she wasn't any of those things that he accused her of being. Yes, she was a victim. But she was also a survivor.

Since I was nine years old, I have had a penchant for writing. There is no template for the way I write. I simply "see" what I want to convey. My mind never shuts down....I always thought my life would be so much easier if I only had one, conducive thought at a time. But then, I'd probably be dull.
My idea here is to use this as another platform to write...thoughts, feelings,  ideas, or I may just need to bitch about something.
Whatever it turns out to be, jump on and join me...