I was alone for Christmas this year, but I wasn’t really alone. Text messages and phone calls were shared between my lovely and I. Many friends sent well wishes, and I had Vida (my kitten) to keep me company.

I’m currently feeling quite melancholy. I’ve been listening to Cherry Wine by Hozier and hoping to take a road trip somewhere. I want to drive out of city and see the chaotic flatness that is Saskatchewan. I feel alive, yet somehow trapped under a layer of unshed self, as I attempt to break free of a routine held for 3 years. I’m rejuvenated, yet held down by a suitcase, neatly packed, pad lock and all. I don’t want to open it, yet I think I may have unlocked it. There are personal effects, and potential evidence, in there, and I don’t want anyone to ask questions. Explanations are difficult, as well as uncomfortable. I don’t want to incriminate anyone.

“Oh Mama, don’t fuss over me”, but please do. Actions speak far louder than words you know, and the actions committed toward me say quite different things than you do. I spoke to you yesterday, breaking a silence so truly felt by me, that I woke this morning hearing new sounds. These are unique feelings, only felt one other time. I thought you’d changed before, but you proved me wrong, and I was hurt and alone. This time, if you hurt me, I don’t know what I will do. I live with the daily reminders of pain and torture, yet I have returned with a hopeful heart.

I was once told that an abusive relationship, filled with manipulation and pain, was the closest thing I would have to unconditional. I didn’t find that love with him, and he was wrong. Though, I’m still certain that the love I receive from you, if it can be called that just yet, is still far from unconditional. I am loved, however, but not in that way, and not from you. I have said it once, in poetry, and I will say it again:

      “I was not like many children,

        I had spent my time alone,

        hoping that I soon would find

         a mother of my own.”