Uncaring Father

Today I am linking up with More than Cheese and Beer. Our word prompt is "father". 

 When I think of the word 'father', nothing positive comes to mind. I wish I had fond memories of my father, but I do not. 

 Instead of writing a long, boring post about how I was abused at his drunken hands, I'll let a poem I wrote speak for me. 

"Uncaring Father 

How dare you help create me, and then just walk out on me?

Never once did you try to make me a part of your new family. 

Instead I was an outcast, I was never good enough. 

I could never please you, never earn your fatherly love. 

But your hatred and resentment was as clear as the light of day. 

I saw in your eyes every single time you looked my way. 

I felt it with the beatings you felt I so richly deserved. 

It was in your voice every time you ever uttered a word. 

Yet  I was desperate for your love, for your acceptance of me. 

But your heart held no love..it was dark , cold and empty. 

Instead of allowing your cruelty to turn me into a person like you, 

I became better, I'm able to love..which was more than you could ever do." 

 Even at the ripe age of 38, I still have a deep fear of rejection. I guess it stems from my father, I'm not sure. But I do know it's something I have struggled with my entire life and I'm still learning to deal with it. I'm trying my best to overcome it. I don't want the way my father treated me to write the story of my life. I do not want him to have any control over me anymore. Maybe I can finally be free of his cold grasp one day. 

My Beef With Boobs

Boobs are pretty awesome, aren't they? They can nourish your baby, and most people enjoy looking at some plumpy cleavage. 

Here's my only issue with boobs. 

They are over sexualized. People get all fired up if a mother Breastfeeds in public, but don't blink an eye if a woman shows her breasts in a sexual way. 

Sure, it's ok to wear a small piece of cloth over your boobs at the beach, but don't you dare move that cloth aside to feed your baby. How dare you use your breasts the way you want to?! Don't you know you are supposed to use them the way society says?! 

You will make a lot of people extremely uncomfortable if you dare nourish your child in front of them. 

Why is that? Why do people get so offended seeing a baby eat? I can't comprehend it. 

I'm not raising my daughter to view breasts as something to flaunt. Their size doesn't equal how attractive you are. Their size doesn't add or take away from your self worth. That's what I want her to grow up understanding. 

Here, is our home, breasts are nourishment. It was where her milk came from. They are not objects to be obsessed with. I want her to value her brain and heart more than her breasts when she grows up. 

She's a Runner

 

( Anyone get that Billy Squier reference in the title? If so, can we be friends?) 

  Today I'm linking up with More than Cheese and Beer. Our word prompt is "run". 

  Oh boy. Actually running is not a concept I'm familiar with. I nearly had to google it to get the exact definition. 

  I do have a general idea of "running". And I don't like it. I don't "run". If you ever do see me running, just go on and start running yourself. Because some bad shit is about to happen. 

  I prefer to move at a much slower pace. Maybe even a crawl, if you will. Even my toddler can outrun me. 

  Nearly every time I take her outside to play, I hear the dreaded words, "Mommy, let's race!" 

  Gah. No. How about we don't race and just sit here and stare at cars passing instead. We can ponder on the meaning of life. How's that sound instead, little girl? 

  But I don't say that. Instead I get up and prepare myself to be humiliated. If you can try for a minute to imagine this..

  She leans over and prepares herself in the correct way to run. (Stripper ran track for many years and has passed his infinite knowledge on to her) 

  She starts to count down. 

 On your mark...get set...GO!! 

  Me, well I'm still standing there dreading it. She takes off in a blast while I grip my boobs the best I can and limp along. Did I mention I don't run? I think I did. 

  She beats me in an instant. She is already on her way back by the time I have taken two steps. And guess what? Those two steps made me tired, dammit. 

  I hate running. That is all. 

I Am The Poet

 I'm someone who is all too familiar with depression. Unfortunately, I have suffered from it since I was merely a teenager. Most people brushed it off as typical "teenage hormones" until I first attempted to take my life at age 14. Might I say, I was even more depressed when I woke up from my overdose in the hospital and realized that I was, in fact,  still living. 

 Medication never worked for me. Therapy did help some. What I found that helped me the most was writing. Specifically, writing poetry. 

  Poetry was my drug. It kept me up at night. It invaded my mind during the day. It nagged me until I listened. And I always listened. 

 Most people can tell when depression is creeping upon them. I can too. A sure sign for me is when I'm unable to write a poem. 

  You have to understand. Poetry is literally who I am. Like most addicts, it took over my life. I had no control anymore. Feelings and emotions poured out onto paper. And I felt free. I felt a huge weight lifted off me. When I write, I feel myself healing. 

When I'm unable to write, when it seems I have to force a poem out of me, it scares me. It scares me because the only time that happens is when I'm depressed. 

 It's like depression takes my voice away. It takes my freedom away. It takes my poetry right from me. 

I am the face of depression. I am the voice of depression. 

I am the poet. 

My First Love

First Love 

I fell in love with her instantly,

The moment her eyes met mine.

I knew she loved me just as much,

The instant our hands entwined.

She placed a kiss upon my cheek, 

And laid my head upon her chest. 

The sound of her heart beating, 

Made it so easy for me to rest. 

I curled as close as I could, 

And drifted off to sleep fast. 

My first true love slept, too. 

This is a love that will always last. 

Nothing could compare to it, 

Nothing could cause it to fade. 

My mom is my first true love, 

And she is until this very day. 

Guilty Pleasures

  Today I am linking up with More than Cheese and Beer for Sunday Confessions. Our prompt is "guilty pleasures". 

  Now, I have literally pondered on this topic for several days, trying to figure out what my guilty pleasure is. 

  I don't even have many pleasures to begin with. Here they are in no particular order: 

  Sex, books, Coca Cola, and Star Trek. (I don't feel guilty about loving any of those) 

  That's it. That's all I've got.

I began to wonder if maybe something wasn't seriously wrong with me. Doesn't everyone have a guilty pleasure? I have no clue. You weren't expecting me to answer that, were you? 

 Instead of writing about my guilty pleasure, I am writing about my lack of one. 

  That's right, folks. I don't feel the least bit guilty about any of my pleasures. Although, Stripper assures me I should, in fact, feel guilty about loving Star Trek. 

  

Sunday Confessions: Denial

  Today I'm linking up with More than Cheese and Beer for Sunday Confessions. Our word prompt is "denial". 

  

  I will go on and admit, I am in denial. In denial that I'm getting old. Here's a perfect example. AirBear asked me to hop with her. 

AirBear: Let's hop like a bunny! 

Me: Ok! I like being bunnies! 

  She hops on ahead of me and in my excitement, I forgot I'm nearly 40.

  On the first hop, my head pounded. I fought on and ignored it like a trooper. On the second hop, my boobs nearly knocked me out. I could've been killed right then! So, I decided to just ignore the pounding brain and hold my boobs. Hopping we went! 

  On the third hop, I broke my liver. Yes, I said liver. Can a liver be broken, you ask? Nope. But I'm pretty sure mine broke. 

  I suffered through the agony of my broken, and surely, bleeding liver. I hopped on! AirBear was in front of me, laughing with joy! 

  "This is fun, mommy!", she said through her laughter. 

 "Oh yes..fun", I agreed through my tears. 

 

  After eight hops, I was ready for someone to call 911. My legs were creaking, my back ached, my liver was dying. 

  I'm not ready to get old. My heart still tells me I'm 18. But my body bitch slaps my heart and tells it to shut the hell up before it gets me killed. 

  Who knows what I would do next! I would probably be trying to do a cartwheel. Imagine the horror. I'd break my entire body then. 

   In three years, I will be turning 40 years old. I'm totally expecting to just fall apart right then and there. 

 Do they make WD-40 for old folks bones? Cause I need some. 

Why You No Like Me, Sleep?

  This is my issue with sleep. He's a crazy stalker-like dude. Yes, I've deemed sleep to be a man, because he's an asshole. Just go with it, would ya? 

  Sleep creeps in my mind at least ten times a day. I mean, this dude just will not effin leave! He doesn't take the damn hint that I have a toddler who's wide awake and seems to have more energy than three kids combined. I'm now convinced that said toddler sucked my energy from me as well. 

  So then I finally cave in and start pondering about sleep. Cause that's what stalkers do. They just beat you down until you go along with them. At first you get pissed they are there, then you start kinda liking having them around.  

  Anyhow, the instant my own version of the energizer bunny collapses at night, sleep runs from me like the cops just caught him jacking off while looking in my window. In other words, he's no where to BE FOUND. 

  Suddenly, this annoying asshole who had been bothering me all damn day is no where to be found!! It's like he vanished into thin air! 

   I then find myself laying in bed for well over two hours, waiting on him to return. Did the jerk get lost on his way back?! Was he kidnapped by aliens? Maybe he was getting probed right that second!! Why the hell is he taking so long?! It's just like a damn man to take his own sweet time! This dude better hope he's dead. 

  Then out of no where, BAM! He shows back up. But by then I'm so pissed that he didn't even bother to call or text me ,I ignore him. That'll teach him! 

  He whispers his usual promises of sweet slumber in my ear, so I give in. Hey, he promised me eight hours of this sweet stuff! I'm only human. I cave in. Every. Single. Time. 

  Yet,  only after an hour of his promises of fulfilling my needs, the bastard runs off. I'm starting to think he's seeing someone else. Oh yeah, sure he returns. But only long enough to tease me. It's like he's falling out of love with me, like he can hardly tolerate being in my presence any longer. 

  He only gives me a tiny taste of what I need. Here's my question to you, sleep.. 

 Why you no like me? 

  

Day and Night: My Battle With Depression

  With the death of a comedic icon, everyone is bringing up depression. It is sad to see someone lose their battle, but sadly I can relate. 

  Depression is not new to me. I've struggled with it since I was in my teens. It only worsened as I grew older. 

  I watched as everyone around me laughed and enjoyed life, while I forced myself to just get out of bed. 

  When I was 14, I attempted to take my life for the first time. This was for a number of reasons. One was depression and another was to escape the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father. 

   At the age of 29, I tried again. This time, I came so much closer. I was almost there. But my sister in law found me and called for help. 

  Once paramedics arrived, I pleaded with them to just let me die. I honestly didn't want to go on. I wanted my pain to end. I refused to go with them. I could feel the overdose of sleeping pills I had taken pulling my under. 

  They had the sheriff come and threaten me with jail if I didn't go along with them to the ER. My response.."Take me to jail. I'm already in my own prison anyhow". 

  The pleas from my family dumped guilt on me that I couldn't cope with, so I went. Needless to say, I was admitted to the psych ward by my family after having my stomach pumped. 

  I was there an entire week. I told them what they wanted to hear so I could get out of there. I didn't belong there with those nut jobs. That's how I thought at the time. I wasn't crazy. I just wanted to die. Why wouldn't they just let me die?! 

  When I left the hospital a week later, I reluctantly found a therapist. An amazing therapist. She saw beyond my wall. She "got" me. I began writing again after she encouraged me to write down my feelings. Poetry poured out of me in huge waves. This is the first one I wrote after that: 

"Day and Night

In the light of day..

Insecurity is my only companion.

Heartache is the only emotion I know.

Fears and worries are constant thoughts,

Pain consumes my very soul.

In the light of day..

My every flaw is put up on display.

Shame surrounds me like a thick quilt.

Embarrassment trails my every move,

Never allowing me to forget my guilt.

In the light of day..

Every sin of mine is plain to see.

Rays of light point out every single one.

Disgust filled eyes follow me always.

Finding me no matter where I try to run.

In the darkness of night..

Courage is a dear friend of mine.

Happiness surrounds me like a halo.

Here, pain and fear can't find me.

Bravery is the only emotion I know.

In the darkness of night..

Flaws no longer cause me shame.

Proudly I show them for all to see.

Here, they don't make me different.

They simply make me unique.

In the darkness of night..

Sins don't make up the person I am.

They are but scars from battles lost and won.

Here, in the night, I'm safe and I'm free.

Here, I will never again have to run."

  When I showed that to her, she hugged me. She understood it like no one else could. 

  I still struggle with depression, though I have a better understanding of it now. I cope with it better now. 

  

  

  

  I share my story in the hopes it will help someone else share theirs. If it seems you have no one to listen, remember I always will. 

Sunday Confessions: Sex

  I have been waiting a while to write about this. Sex... 

  I won't lie, I enjoy sex. But that hasn't always been the case. It took me until I was in my 30's to realize sex was even enjoyable. 

  I used to honestly think something was wrong with me because I just couldn't get "into it".  I couldn't get excited. Couldn't get turned on. I sincerely hope that isn't TMI. 

  I guess it took meeting the right person who I "clicked" with. Or better yet, someone that knew what the hell he was doing. 

Now, sex inspires poetry. So I'm going to bore you with one I wrote. Here it is, it's titled "Beautiful Climax". 

"His hands are on my body 

My skin is scorching hot 

I run my fingers through his hair 

And beg him not to stop 

He softly kisses my wet lips 

Making  his way to my neck 

My heart starts to race 

Wondering where he'll go next

His breath is hot and fevered 

My body arches close 

I wrap my legs around his waist 

I want him and he knows 

He pulls my arms above my head 

Puts his hand around my wrists 

He leans his head down to my ear 

And whispers that I am his 

I answer with yes..yes..yes.. 

Take me now my love, please 

He kisses my aching breasts 

And settles between my knees 

Then he makes love to me 

With his hands, his mouth, his lips

His head is between my thighs 

His hands are gripping my hips 

I am in agony and I love it 

I don't want him to ever stop 

Once I reach the beautiful climax 

He lays down and pulls me on top

We make magic together 

It's amazing how he turns me on

I collapse in his arms exhausted 

And together  we greet the dawn" 

That pretty much says how I feel about sex. Sex is awesome. May I even say, it's Spock-tacular? 

  

Inside My Pain: Part 2

  The decision to move in with my father at the age of 12, was my own. My mom had 8 children all together , including me. We struggled every day. Many times we went without electric, running water and even food. She did her best. I can not even imagine how hard it was for her. School was hell. It was literally like a living hell. I was tortured. Although I was a great student, I still dreaded school every day. I was picked on relentlessly. Other kids took for granted things I wish I had. Even simple things like deodorant and clean clothes.   

  My father had only his wife and their child. When he suddenly showed up out of the blue and showed an interest in me, I saw a way out. I hate myself for being such a greedy, selfish child and abandoning my mom and siblings for what I thought would be a better life. But I was desperate. I thought my father loved me... Many people ask why I didn't tell someone or go back to my mom. The answer: I was ashamed. I felt it was what I deserved after choosing my father over a mom who had loved me, protected me and took care of me all of my life. That is the thought process of a 12 year old child. My mom only knew my father drank on occasion. She had no idea he was a monster. Here is part 2 of Inside My Pain.... 

 

My step mother was jealous of me. 

Now, I didn't realize that at the time. There is just no way a child's mind could comprehend or understand that. 

She viewed me as competition for my father's love and womanly affection. I see that now. As an adult, I'm able to grasp things I just never could as a young girl. 

She knew things I didn't and never even tried to protect me from what was to come. She could've. She just didn't care about me enough to do it. I wasn't her child. I was the spawn of another woman and her demonic husband. 

She wanted me gone. She gloried in my pain and suffering. She would come to me and discuss my father as if I were a grown woman. Telling me things that would forever scar my young mind. 

My father didn't view me as his daughter. To him, I was a conquest. A prize to be broken and conquered. One that would be won at any cost. Even the cost of my childhood. The cost of my innocence. The cost of my trust. The cost of my faith in men. 

 

And it was a price I alone would have to pay for the rest of my life. 

My tears and pain never once stopped my father from abusing me. Even when I attempted to take my own life at the age of 14, he convinced everyone that I was "messed up in the head". As I recovered in the hospital, my father never once visited me. My teacher from school did. The night I came home, he slapped me and raped me. 

  

He would always promise me that if I didn't tell, he'd take me back to my mom.. And I believed him. When I realized he had no intention of returning me, he told me my mom wouldn't want me because I was a nasty whore. 

It took me nearly four years of unimaginable abuse at the hands of my father before I finally confided in my teacher that my father was raping me. 

She alerted authorities and I was whisked away by my loving uncle, back to the arms of my mom. Who welcomed me back home without any hesitation. 

For many years, I was terrified I'd somehow end up being an evil monster like my father. I didn't want to be him. I couldn't be him. I wanted to be better. I couldn't allow his abuse to turn me into a person like him. So I didn't. I share my story because I hope it will help others. Maybe even you... 

Inside My Pain

My father divorced my mother when she was 5 months pregnant with me. I only saw him a few times throughout my young life. At the age of 12, I went to live with him, my step mother and their 1 year old daughter. 

After only being there a few days, 

I realized he was an abusive drunk. I was not even permitted to eat when I was hungry, and would get hit when I did. I was allowed to eat when he told me I could. 

Keep in mind, I was a straight A student in school. Honor roll, Beta Club, Honor Society, all that. The worst thing I ever did was leave my light on at night after falling asleep reading a book. But my father always found a reason to beat me. It was if he took delight, even pleasure, in it. 

I remember being held against the wall, my feet dangling off the ground, by his hand around my neck. Why? Because I had not washed the dishes well enough. I still vividly recall the horrid smell of his breath as he told me he couldn't stand the sight of me. 

I found no love from my step mother, either. She couldn't bear to even be in the same room with me. I began to despise myself. I couldn't understand why they hated me so much. It had to be because I was a horrible child. I would soon learn why they hated me. I will save that for another blog post. Another glimpse inside my pain...

Sunday Confessions: Hope

  Hope. There have been moments in my life that I've had no hope at all. I just wanted to give up and throw in the towel. Life sucked. I didn't see it ever getting any better. 

  It felt like I was in a boxing match with life and it was beating the shit out of me. I kept waiting for the referee to ring the bell to stop the fight before life finally killed me, but the ref was no where to be found. 

  I wanted to lay there and just take the beating, since I had no hope of things ever changing. I didn't believe I deserved any better than what I was getting. 

  Maybe I had talked smack about life before the match and he heard about it. Maybe he was pissed at me for being ungrateful for the chances he'd given me in the past. Maybe he decided that this time, he was either going to beat some sense into me, or kill me trying. 

  Maybe this time, he was going to bring me to my knees and make me see that things could only go up from here. 

  I was at my lowest. I wanted to die. I waited for life to take the final blow. I was ready. I closed my eyes and prepared myself. All hope was lost. I had nothing to keep fighting for. I braced myself for the punch. 

  But he didn't do it. He leaned down and kissed my forehead and whispered "Don't give up..keep fighting..there's still hope left."  

  I left the ring bruised and battered. I could barely stand. I could hardly function. I walked outside and felt the sun shining on my face. The warm, soothing sun. Oh, how I had missed that sun. 

  Suddenly, I could feel my heart beating again. I could feel it trying to put the shattered pieces back together. 

 Maybe there was hope left for me after all. 

  

Sunday Confessions:Forget

  What comes to mind when you think of the word forget? As for me, many things come to mind. 

  The one that stands out the most, is the fact that I've gotten to that age where I forget everything. I literally forgot my own age. Seriously. I had to count back from the year I was born. That's sad, I know.

   I couldn't remember if I was 37 going on 38, or if I was going to be turning 37 on my next birthday. 

   I'm not sure if it's a combination of motherhood and age, or just my age. 

   It seems like the instant I hit 35, my memory ran away. It not only ran away, it hasn't returned since. 

   I'm always forgetting what day of the week it is. I use my calendar on my iPod more than I do anything else. 

   I left my house once and forgot my shoes. That's even more sad than forgetting my age. What makes it even worse, I didn't even notice for ten minutes. I had to walk all way back with my head hung in shame to retrieve them. 

   I guess you can blame that on growing up in the South. Growing up, we only wore shoes when we went to school or out somewhere. 

   To top off this beautiful platter of memory loss, my boyfriend has the worst memory around. He is no help whatsoever. He expects me to remember stuff for him! 

   It's almost like he's forgotten that I forget EVERYTHING. 

   I'm constantly checking burners to make sure I turned them off only minutes before. I can never remember. Ever. 

   I'm worried one day I'll forget my own name. If I do, someone please remind me that it's Chasity. 

  And now I have forgotten where I was going with this post... 

Dear Mom.

Dear Mom, 

 I'm writing this because some things are just so hard to say. 

When ever I try to speak, my tears always get in the way. 

I'm really not sure where to even start. 

I guess I should begin by saying, I love you with all of my heart. 

The thought of not having you.. it rips me in two. 

I'm just not ready to let go of you. 

But that seems so selfish for me to even say. 

Because I can't imagine how you must feel day to day. 

Every time I hear you cry, it's like a part of me is dying inside. 

I nearly choke on my anguish, and I want to run and hide. 

I don't want to face what I know is surely to come in time. 

I don't want to even picture you gone from my life. 

If I could somehow take away the pain you feel every day, 

I'd do it in an instant.. I would make it all go away. 

If I could heal you with my love, I'd do that too. 

If I could take away your fears, I'd take them all from you. 

Every day I wonder, is this it? Is the day my life will change? 

That's always in my mind, and it's driving me insane. 

But this shouldn't be all about me, it should be about you. 

I just never know  what to say, I don't know what to do. 

I want to lay my head on your chest, and hear you say it's all right. 

I want to scream and yell for you to not give up! To please fight! 

I can't even fully express how badly I hurt for you all the time. 

Even now I am blinded by tears, it seems like I'm always crying. 

I don't know how you do it, mom. You are the strongest woman I know. 

Through out all of this, you've hardly let your fear show. 

I can't begin to understand the decisions you've been forced to make. 

I can't comprehend the hurt you must feel, the fear or the pain. 

But what I do know, is that you mean the world to me. 

And without you here, my heart will feel empty. 

I'm sorry mom, for all the stupid things I said as a kid. 

I'm sorry for any pain I ever caused, any bad thing I ever did. 

But mostly, I'm sorry I can't help you now.. I can't change all this. 

I can't stop time, turn it back, or erase it all with a wish. 

I just want you to know one last thing, before I bring this to an end. 

You are not just a mother to me, you're also my best friend. 

I hope you never feel alone, because you are not. 

Even hundreds of miles away, I'm right there.. In your heart. 

 

                             Love, 

                           Chasity 

Sunday Confessions: Without

Without.. That's a word that could take this post anywhere.

 It could lead to funny conversations, like the time I left home without my shoes and didn't even notice for nearly ten minutes. 

It could lead to deep conversations, like how I'd be lost without my family. 

But instead, I'm going to write about me without caffeine. 

How can I best describe me without caffeine? Hmmm. Let me put it this way. I'm a bitch. A total bitch. I'm grumpy. Moody. I'll rip your head off over the least little thing. 

Let's say you breath too loudly around me. I will look so deeply into your eyes, with an evil look, and curse your very ancestors for creating you. I will practically breath fire at you. Burning you to cinders. 

Ok, I'm getting a little carried away. But you get my point. Me without caffeine is not a pretty picture. 

I'm hooked. I'm an addict. A caffeine junkie. Is there rehab for caffeine addictions? No? Good! Because I don't want to be cured! 

Stripper, my boyfriend,  often harasses me over my caffeine addiction. My reply to him, "Caffeine is my ONLY weakness! I don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs! I could be addicted to much worse stuff! Let me enjoy this, dammit!" 

Rise, all my fellow caffeine addicts! Let's rejoice! Then let's enjoy a tall glass of whatever your caffeine preference is. Mine is Coca Cola. 

Excuse me while I go open a cold can of happiness. 

Sunday Confessions: The Gas Epidemic

 

During my eighth month of pregnancy with Mini, I began going to the doctor three times a week. My pregnancy was high-risk and I had a lot of complications. My doctor was about an hour away from where we lived. 

Anyhow, I had to take the Metro there and back, which was a three hour trek because I had to wait on the next bus, etc. 

I would usually leave our apartment at 6am, and not get back home until 5 or 6 that evening. I was always exhausted.  

One morning during my ninth month, I was sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office. I was my usual dog-ass tired. Plus, I was experiencing so much gas. Just so much. Apparently I dozed off in that overcrowded, tiny room. 

I felt someone gently shaking my shoulder. It was a nurse. I guess they had been calling my name. I noticed that the two people that had been sitting beside me were no longer there. They were standing against the wall. 

My face immediately turned red. I knew what I had done. I could smell it. I had passed gas in my sleep. I went to get my huge body out of that tiny seat, and PASSED GAS AGAIN. 

The room was soooo damn quiet. I wanted to hide right then. Everyone looked at me and a few kids started laughing. How flippin' embarrassing. 

Let's just say, I made a point to stay awake the last few times I had to go. 

Sunday Confessions: Resilience

 Resilience is inside all of us.  Even when something unimaginable happens and you feel like it will absolutely break you, somehow you will bounce back from it. 

No matter how many times your heart gets broke, most of us will still mend it and be ready to love again. 

No matter how many times people let you down and disappoint you, most of us will be willing to trust others again. 

No matter how many times people show you their worst side, most of us will still believe there is good left in them. 

It's amazing when you think about just how resilient a human is. We can  bounce back from nearly anything. 

 I've experienced a lot of horror in my life and even when I think I am emotionally bent to my breaking point, somehow I come back from it. 

 I come back stronger. I'm better prepared for the next time something  happens. I'm resilient.