Growing up in a broken home causes a whirlwind of emotions, some logical and others that seem to make no sense at all.
A child is supposed to learn to love through the examples set by their parents. Learning the ways you should treat others and be treated is possible in a negative environment, but oh-so-difficult.
When yelling, fighting, slamming doors, and puddles of tears are your normal, that's what you expect from life. Those behaviors create a picture in your mind that can never be erased.
But I know that love exists.
I know how a woman deserves to be treated and I know how to love, but I don't know how to accept love when it's offered to me.
A strong, happy relationship is hard to come by and a loving, faithful man is even harder to find. I'm lucky enough to have found both, but a broken heart rooted in a broken home isn't easily mended.
I take an inexcusable amount of time to fully accept that someone actually loves me and an even longer time to accept that I'm worth it.
I take situations and twist, turn, and overanalyze them until there's no turning back. I take things for more than they're worth.
I question every little thing and I bring my traumatic past to the surface on an unhealthily regular basis.
I recognize that mending a broken heart like mine is not a journey that just anyone would embark on. It takes a special kind of guy to weather that kind of storm.
But a strong, healthy relationship with a faithful guy is the cure to end all cures.
My heart is nowhere near mended, but the pieces of it are no longer spread out across an ice cold floor. In time, with the help of my love, I know I'll be able to piece myself back together again.