Not Simply Love

Yours Truly

Chapter 2

Being this most happiest fallen angel. Knowing I may fall asleep in his arms that very night, with no disruption or distraction, I walked down the aisle while looking at my future in the hazel eyes.

This was bliss. This was the moment I had been yearning for and this was all mine. I was assured, by the ring on my finger and our signatures next to each other’s on the paper. I was not going to loose this. For I had known loss and I had expected loss. But in this moment, It was all mine. Nothing was more perfect than seeing my buff protector for life, in a slick black suit, waiting for me at the end of the aisle. Gorgeously standing there, waiting to officially own me. Having his smile broaden the closer I got. My inner child jumping for joy and my legs trying to stay on the ground. That night was the most peaceful sleep I had ever had. Being in his arms, listening to his breathing all night was the safest haven I had ever imagined true happiness to be. His scent, his heavy manly hands pinning my body down against him as he slept peacefully was no other happy ending I had longed for. I was loved, needed, protected and I was enough.

The first year of my marriage was extreme fusion. Living with someone is an absolute blissful nightmare. You eat differently, sleep differently, you live differently. You realise that love and fresh air is not all that is needed. Small habits turn into big clashes and big decisions impact small reactions. You learn to coexist. This means learning to love and learning to fight. No two people could ever live without fighting. Responsibilities start kicking in. Now you learn that you need money to survive, there is no time for small victories in love. I spent most of my nights eating dinner alone so that he could enjoy time at the gym. He has always had a deep passion for fitness and it was almost as if this was non negotiable. And so, I would spend hours in the kitchen, making beautiful meals to eat all by myself. And then to wash a kitchen full of dishes.

Later when he would come home, he would demand the meal while he spoke about his eventful day. And I would sit closely, eyes wide, listening as though it was poetry of the best form. As he would end his eating, I would then proceed to do the same as all day, every day, wash his dirty dishes and then finally wait for him to come spend more time with me. This was our daily ritual. I found solace in knowing that I would watch him eat and sometimes talk. Before getting off the table, having a shower while I clean up and proceed to fall asleep deeply, knowing that I have not spoken a word all day long.

I studied psychology and so I applied many of my studies to my marriage. I tried using counseling techniques to amplify our conversations so they wouldn’t turn into arguments. I took time to get to know him very well. Such as, when he likes to be spoken to, or what he needs after a long day, or if he wanted food or a bubblebath after having a very hard or bad day at work. I learned his “love language” and I was at his beck and call, submissively seeing to his every whim and fancy. As this was all I knew. So As long as I did, he was the happiest. And so was I. As this was me naively showing him my love. Until one day, after having given birth to my beautiful ungodly child… I realised that I gave too much. And all he did was take. He sucked my love dry. And now, it had all been finished. The glass finally shattered.

I decided to have a child based on the clear visual that I was lonely. I thought to myself, I have nothing to live for, maybe having a child would fulfill me. Boy was I f*****g wrong.

Two years later, I became with child eight months after trying to conceive and here I was, ignorantly excited. Feeling every moment, every kick, every turn, every craving. It was everything I expected and more. My pregnancy was an absolute dream. I was once again on honeymoon. My husband was happy, he was very loving, very caring and treated me like every pregnant woman deserves to be treated. During my pregnancy, I planned for the most magical home birth. Nine months later, I found myself soaked in a tub of water, contractions coming on like waves on a hot land of sand. My birth experience was as fantastic as I imagined. Extremely calm, private and peaceful. My husband was by my side. In the tub with me, witnessing every push, and there she was. After three pushes, she was finally here. In my arms. In a tub of bloody, poo water. All three of us were in awe. My husband looking at us as if he had conquered the world and me cloyingly holding onto my newborn being my most important possession. My little girl set on my chest calmly. Eyes wide open feeling loved in every manner. This experience was nothing but spiritual. I felt powerful. I felt like I went to war and I was holding the flag upon my people. We had won.

A week later, I felt completely different to the night after my birth. I felt differently about it all. This moment stands out to me the most because this was when realisation hit me. It was two in the morning. And I hear her crying. To my terror, I had not slept before those cold lonely hours of the night. Her cry became more desperate and I thought to myself, this baby needs me. I grabbed the side of the bed. Struggling to drag myself up. Rubbing my eyes to the light that inherently disturbed my life as I would know it. I sat up firmly, trying to find a position that does not completely draw pain to my entire existence. With every move, feeling my after birth stitches rub against my bloody maternity sponge. I find a comfortable position and so I begin picking my newborn up into my arms. Still in pain, now readying myself for more pain, I open my bra, exposing my cracked, bloody n****e. Thinking if it will be okay to let my child suckle on the dry blood. I tense up, close my eyes to prepare for the inevitable moment I would endure more pain. She faffs and cries and waves her arms and legs until lo and behold, she sniffs out my bloody n****e and takes it into her fierce little mouth. Her latch so tight, it makes me want to rip her off my body and throw her across the room. The pain at this point, is absolutely unbearable. And I finally find my center and look down at her, suckling, having no idea what pain it is to just have her tiny tummy full. Staring right into her eyes, a desolate tear, trickles down my cheek and I find myself questioning why I hate this so much. Why am I so unhappy. Why is the littlest human being in the world bringing me such pain and heartache. I wipe the tear away, confused and then I say to myself. Get your s**t together.

I wake up the next morning, and I finally find that to my surprise, I am going through post natal depression. Everything makes sense. But nothing adds up at the same time. I am desperate to make the sadness go away but still, I long to wallow in it. If only this child would just somehow disappear for a few weeks. So I could sleep all the day away, eat everything I set my sight on and cry till my eyes have had enough. But I simply cannot. This little human, a part of my aimless body, relies on me for salvation. She does not only need me to keep her alive, but she needs me to be strong, to be okay, to be enough. And to her. I am. To her, that is all she knows. To her, that tear was hidden in the blur image of my eyes being the compass of her universe.

“I met a thief, an innocent bandit

He stood in-front of me, he is the culprit

For my thoughts locked by chains

Instead, take my love in reigns

I met a thief, an innocent villain

He stole my breathe, it wasn’t given

I lost my memory

Where it lies no sympathy

I met a thief

And he stole my heart”.

-Yours truly