Burning Sensations and Wedding Bell Dreams

Every little girl dreams of her wedding day with a flowing white gown, flower petals surrounding her, beauty unmatchable, and with a lasting love unbreakable. Beautiful wedding bell dreams. She pictures a father; handing over his precious princess, to the arms of a man who will hopefully love, cherish, and hold her until death do they part. For myself, those dreams are only slightly true. Just a few small things that slowly grew into many. so many in fact that I do not know where to begin; Maybe, perhaps we begin with, that burning sensation that erupts in the back of my throat,  hand in hand with the memories of screaming matches fueled by hatred, and the resonating sound of a little girl's fragile dreams; Shattered to pieces. You did not love, cherish, or hold my mother for better or for worse like you promised. She too was once a little girl with one sweet and simple dream. Instead you shattered and beat and broke her, Maybe not physically, no, at least not that I've witnessed, unable to tell what lay behind doors. You broke with your words; a far more sinister weapon. I return to this first memory, of that vile burning sensation, First encountered when I was still small, hearing you verbally shred down the woman who mothered your children, like venom ripping through flesh, spoken with a sharp silvered tongue. It bubbled up within my throat like vomit ; it had no means of release other than silent bitter tears. The second encounter with this ever present burning sensation was; birthed by something much less violent. My first broken heart, obliterated when I was only thirteen for a stupid reason, really, Puppy love is never meant to last, young love, bittersweet and hurting, but what stung the most, was what other girls had that I lacked. See, I had no father who I could talk to about my heartaches, patient and kind, with boundaries sure but teaching respect of myself most of all. I had no man who could sit down and listen, understanding perfectly how to convey that a small break up at age thirteen wouldn't be the end of the world for my naïve heart, unlike how my brain perceived it. I didn't have that guidance or love, so at age thirteen I tried to flee; sick of the pain, at age thirteen; tired of being tired, wishing I was free; trying to fill that hole in my chest that my so called "father" left me; "for bigger opportunities" he'd always preach. That empty hole in my heart at age thirteen, took its sweet time to heal; Much like the scars on my legs and arms, lying behind shadows unable to reveal. Left by the man who was meant to protect me, the lonely bitter fight I fought with anxiety. The third encounter sits bitter in my throat, burning with humiliation, making  the heartbreak of a 2-week relationship coming to an end at age thirteen, look soft and humbling in comparison. No, this sinister dread came in the dead of night at age sixteen. This encounter lasted ten, never ending-excruciating months lying awake in constant fear, anxiety, pain, embarrassment, and that same, damned, burning sensation  that blackmail brings. All these problems; born from a broken little girl's fragile sweet dreams. Desperate, you see, to fill that empty cavern at the center of my sixteen year-old being. After several hard lessons and so many mistakes, And ten months of blackmail tearing apart my brain. Where was I supposed to go when the man most girls turn to, had left me beyond this land, far beyond with no clue, Abandoned to lean on myself, to fight where Darkness ensued; consumed within a life full of dread and longing for death, because this sweet little girl's fate rested in the hands of a man, no, a demon who lived on the other side of the world; with every tool sharpened and ready to shred her already torn future, falling to pieces. You see, I could say "I ran to daddy so he could chase the monsters away" but then I would be lying; for I was saved by an angel who didn't punch, scream, yell or fight me. she didn't blame me or curse me, She simply held my hand and loved me like she did the first day we met, Back on March 31st, 1998. She gave me the strength and courage to move forward with my life when I wanted nothing more than to drown my sorrows in an ocean of red. I became happier and healthier, but I was still broken within. there is still that gaping hole at my core, where my father was supposed to be. 

Bringing me to my knees sometimes as I tried to remember how to Breathe

A man who helped create me and barely keep me alive but at least fed me for a while may be my textbook definition of a father but, he could never hold the true title of my "father", because a real "father" doesn't abandon his child in her hours, days, months, or years of strongest struggle for the sake of his own wants and needs. A father is someone who holds her hand and stands where no other man can. He makes her smile a smile that could go on for miles, lighting the way and guiding her, while he fights away the monsters that hide beneath her bed. I was never given that privilege of having a man who would stand in that place.

all I was left with;

 a burning sensation terrorizing my throat and a gaping hole inside my chest. This little girl's wedding bell dreams will be far from normal, you see, As her "father" won't be handing her away in honor and glory. The angel of love who cherished, loved, and held her through every bad memory; Would walk her down the aisle on her most special day. I always heard that "a girls first love is her father" But I can comfortably say that my first love was a blond-haired, hazel-eyed angel. She stepped up to the challenge and took on the role of both mother and father;  with such strength and grace, that nobody could have guessed that the beautiful angel was once herself, a sweet little girl with a broken wedding bell dream.

(disclaimer: I do not take any claim to this drawing)