Sound

Excerpt from my story Jacob’s Girl:

The last image I have of my family together occurred when I was nine years old. My mom had just walked in the house from a long day of work.  She was tired and you could see it in her face.  My dad had been drinking.  My ten month old brother and I were playing in the living room.  The sound of the television playing in the background as I made my brother laugh.

My mom came in and sat down on the couch. My dad had a frightening look in his eyes. The next sound I heard was his fist hit her across her face. I screamed. My baby brother fell and started to cry. My mom started fighting back and screaming at me to get my brother! Get the baby and go in your room! I did. I picked up the baby and ran into my bedroom.

My six year old sister was crying and I being the oldest tried to comfort them both. I heard the sound of glass breaking. Blood curdling screams. Cursing and crying. Fists punching, the sounds of pain being inflicted in the name of love. This is what it was right? This was love.

©Tikeetha Thomas

This post is in response to the Daily Post. The word today was sound.

The Third Love

Let me tell you about the types of men I’ve loved. Some good. Some bad. Was it all there fault? Nope. In many cases, I didn’t know who I was so they could never love me the way that I needed to be loved.

I didn’t know me.

I didn’t love me.

I couldn’t love them the way that they deserved to be loved.

Love was a concept to big to put in words and yet I desired it so much. I believed in it. I craved it. I wanted love and I needed to be loved.

Don’t most people?

What happens when you wake up and realize that you keep falling in love with the wrong type of people? What happens if that love abuses you or leaves you so messed up that you can’t fathom the pain of ever giving of yourself so completely? You sigh. You withdraw. You start to believe that you will never know love. True love.

That’s how I felt. I kept falling in love with the same kind of men. Until Mr. C. He was different. I couldn’t explain it. For the first time. I felt safe. I felt wanted. I felt loved. It was easy. It felt natural. It was healthy.

I was in shock. I was surprised. I was scared. I didn’t believe that a love without cursing or yelling, cheating or hitting was possible. We women are taught that no one is perfect and that we must fight for love. That love was hard.

However, that’s not true. I read this great article called  We Only Fall in Love with Three People in Our Lifetime – Each One for a Specific Reason by Kate Rose while perusing Facebook about a month ago. Man, this article was the truth.

This article had a profound effect because it basically summarized my  life story. I wasn’t alone. It basically said that we fall in love with three people in our lifetime:

  • Idealistic love—the one that seems like the fairy tales we read as children.
  • Hard love—the one that teaches us lessons about who we are and how we often want or need to be loved.
  • Third love  – the one we never see coming. The one that usually looks all wrong for us and that destroys any lingering ideals we clung to about what love is supposed to be.

I’ve had 5 idealistic loves. I’m not sure if they knew it. We just existed in this space between fantasy and reality and planned lives we would never have and futures that wouldn’t be. We believed in fairy tales. These loves occurred between high school and college.

I’ve had 2 hard loves. These loves were painful. They were loves that I tried to fit. Loves that I wanted to mold and manipulate into the greatest love ever to be. But, they couldn’t. They weren’t designed to be my forever love. They were designed to teach me about myself. I was hurt. I was broken. They shaped my belief that this can’t be real. This can’t be the love that God has for me.

And then there was three. The third love from the third type of person. The love that just works. That’s the best type of love. I know because I have it. For the first time in my life.

You can too. We just have to get out of our own way and love ourselves enough to heal from love #2 to get to the third love.  We can’t let number #2 have all the power over how our lives turn out. We have to move past the pain,the anger, the resentment, the failure – all of it. Once we do, we allow ourselves to know and appreciate a safe and easy love.

Fight

She sat there screaming.

Glass was breaking.

Crying.

Fists flying.

Busted lips.

Black eyes.

Broken furniture.

She had to fight.

Fight to get him off her.

Fight.

That’s all she knew how to do.

That’s what men do.

They hit women.

They fight the woman they love.

She knew no other way.

Most of her sisters had to fight.

Fight the men that loved them.

Fight for the dysfunction.

Fight for the bullshit of security.

Fight for the illusion that marriage was good.

Fight for a no good bastard who fathered their children.

Fight.

I never wanted to fight.

I would never use my fists to inflict pain on someone I loved.

I didn’t want to fight.

But I did.

I had to fight.

Fight for my marriage.

Fight to prove that I loved him.

Fight for my sanity.

Not physical.

Emotional.

I was tired of fighting.

I realized that I hated fighting.

I just want love.

No more broken glass.

No more broken furniture.

No more bruises.

To fight the one you love is wrong.

I’ve healed.

I’m learning.

I’m trusting.

I’m growing.

I want you to fight for me.

Not fight me.

 

 

This post is inspired by today’s Daily post. The word is fight.

On The Surface

On the surface her life was picture perfect. She was always smiling. She had an adoring husband who was very successful. She lived in a house on the hill with a beautiful man made pond in her backyard.

The most beautiful thing about her wasn’t the way she laughed when she heard a funny joke, but it was in her smile. Her smile radiated from within. She genuinely liked people. She was at every church service, baby shower and wedding in town. Everyone loved her. Everyone wanted her to be a part of their lives.

So, she tried to make every event that she was invited too. She was really busy. The townspeople understood when she couldn’t make every event. But, she tried. She sent gifts and she sent handwritten notes.

No one did that anymore. Quick emails or text messages is what they were used to receiving. But, she was different. She believed in the art of sending handwritten notes. She was loved.

But, no one looked below the surface. They couldn’t imagine that her life was built on lies. That her pain was real and she suffered in silence. Why not? Because the surface was so beautiful. It was hard to see beyond that.

She hid the bruises with make-up. She took “siestas” to a retreat in the mountains to recover from the painful punches he inflicted on her body out of anger. She leaves. Always to return to her life lived on the surface.

No one knew the true pain she hid. It would’ve taken years of therapy, wine and drugs to forget the last few years of her life. Years that she couldn’t imagine reliving. So, she struggled. In silence. She smiled at the right time. She wore the right clothes. She appeared by his side at every event.

Many women wished that they had her life. A life filled with a beautiful husband, a beautiful house and beautiful jewelry. They were looking at the surface.

And that’s where they found her body…floating near the surface.

 

 

Today’s post is in response to the Daily Prompt – The word was surface

Blood makes noise

A must read from Daisy at Daisy in the Willows.

Daisy in the Willows

I had nothing prepared to blog about  in my mind. Again – I thought. No inspiration to type anything.

I’m finding out my inspiration comes from reading your posts!

So thank you .

Today I want to thankAnnette @ Annettes place  – post on child hood scars  and her using the daily prompt. 

Her  child hood scars remind me of my own scars.

One scar I have is huge – it almost wraps all the way around my upper wrist -it is 2-3 cm wide.  Indented, It reminds me of  a dried up river.

The cause?

Domestic violence.

Before I continue..

I do want to point out  this month is MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS week in the UK.

The theme  and focus  for 2016 is on relationships

I’m going to state the obvious here.

Domestic violence in a relationship fucks about with your mental health, whether you love the…

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The beginning chapters– Drops of blood

You have to check out http://www.lynzrealcooking.com if you haven’t already done so. Whew! Her personal stories will have you ready to buy the rights to her life story and sell it to Hollywood. Not to mention her beautiful food recipes and photos. Check her out!

lynz real cooking

Outside temperatures in Riyadh dipped down, making life inside the villa bearable. The door stood ajar and the brown plastic window remained cracked, both bringing a much needed breeze but also giving another point of entry for lizards and cockroaches. After six weeks in Saudi, life had improved dramatically but it still seemed we were living a make shift existence, one that I assumed had been left behind in Seattle. See See and Foof ran around the villa playing made up games, bed pads were stacked to make forts and reinforced with pillows and blankets. The older boys attended Arabic school, struggling with the language and behavior of both students and teachers. I walked down the street to pick them up at the end of each day, listening to stories that fueled my frustration and posed the question, “why had we come to this place?” Contractions came and went as I…

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