True North

I never knew the real reasons why people get married. Not until yesterday when once again I was (and still is) in so much pain throwing up whole night and for the first time thankful that someone though confused and barely awake from being roused from his slumber (happening more and more lately) was there for me, ready to help, understanding without questions, without complains. There and then I realized that despite everything that happened to me, I am lucky to have found someone who accepts me for who I am and willing to take care of me no matter what. He may not be the one I want, the one I have dreamed of, he may not be perfect or the ideal guy but he’s there, and that’s the most important right now.

Love is never the reason why I got married. Not the first time, not this time. Money was their reason to marry me off, despair was my reason to do it all over again. Sound harsh but plausible and valid in my book. Besides, it’s the truth. I will not begin lying to myself at my age (never done it before why should I start now) so I look good to the eyes of the world. Not my style.

My first marriage was a hell. I can’t say it enough. The consequences of that union will resonate for the years to come and I (and some) will carry the burden of it as long as I live. I existed in a terrifying nightmare for twenty years. Half of me is still there. Don’t ask. The man I married was not interested in me as a person but as a commodity. I was a body without feelings, wants or needs. He didn’t bother to know about them, about me. I was there for his pleasure, nothing else. Troubles begun when he found out that I was not what he expected me to be. Despite the abuse, he never managed to touch my core or break my spirit. He could not accept defeat. It went from bad to worst. For both of us. I was just a kid in a distant land with no one to turn to. My family was and still is not interested with my ordeals. I am just a meal ticket to them. I’ve done things I am not proud of in order to survive. I found out I am a warrior, and a survivor. That I am proud of.

I got married again because I have to. That was the price of a safe haven. Small price to pay I thought. I could have done worse. This time it is a quiet journey but nonetheless arduous. Don’t underestimate the weight of psychological burden. Sometimes, it is more heavy than physical suffering. Once again I have to grow up on the spot to take a role that is expected of me. I vowed to fulfill it with all I have. No mistake this time.

I’m a weed. An unloved flower that cannot grow in a row. I am a wild species. I don’t belong in a green house. Contrary to popular belief, caged birds don’t sing. Not even in a golden cage. They cry instead. We often mistake their pleas for songs. I found myself wondering if this is it, if indeed I made the right decision of exchanging my freedom for security. The wondering turned into longing, the longing became an itch I can’t anymore ignore. It inhabits my thoughts in every waking hours and walks in my dreams at night. I have to go.

But fate has another plan for me. A chronic condition rendered me helpless. Well, almost. I can’t fly. The cage I loath is once again a safe haven for me. There is someone there who cares. For the first time in my life, there is actually a person who doesn’t do me harm deliberately. It is difficult to trust, surrender my whole being to someone, open myself completely and be vulnerable. There are days full of suspicions and paranoia. I can’t believe that there is somebody out there who doesn’t have a hidden agenda. It’s impossible.

These days I have learned to resigned with the situation and accept the fact that I do need someone. I learned to trust and be grateful. I still cannot give myself over completely. I have to hold onto a piece of me I need to survive in case…


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