Broken

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

Ernest Hemingway

I believe in that quote. I am stronger today in my broken places but it took 7 years and a two year stint in prison to heal that brokenness but it certainly did. I think. I was married 16 years and had three beautiful children. My marriage was a happy one until one day it wasn’t. I sank into a depression.Actually I have struggled with severe depression all my life.

Let me backtrack a little. When I say I sank one day, I think that is not quite true. I was a lonely little girl that grew up with horses and alcoholic father. After fourth grade I was home schooled. I grew up often times scared of the outbursts of a dry drunk father. That is what my mother called him. To this day I don’t totally understand the meaning. I just know I was alone and scared and as I understand the meaning, broken.

I will post this and update it as I can. I brings up a lot of pain and I have begun to see perhaps my brokenness is has not healed and mended as much as I thought.

update: I think this will be as broken piece of written material as I have ever written. Bare with me please. I must sort through my broken thoughts, delicately, to reach my broken heart and then I can brokenly talk, or write about it.

So I was homeschooled at fifth grade and let loose into the countryside astride a horse. I had the grandest time riding. I let my imagination fly as fast as I let my horse gallop. I was anybody and anyone I wanted. I learned to do tricks, riding backwards, spinning in my saddle at a gallop. I had read that Native American riders would tie a knot into their horses manes and then loop their arms through it to appear as if the horse had no rider and then attack the settlers from under the horses neck. So I attempted the same. Horses became my friends. At one time I had four of my own. I can’t say I did any schooling. I did however have a very quick memory recall so once I read something I retained it so it looked like I was doing my work but my math was terrible. You can say I have fourth grade education. Because that was the last full year of school I ever did.

The other side of my growing up was my father was abusive towards my mother. I was the youngest of five kids. At the age of thirteen or fourteen my dad began introducing me as his girlfriend. I was shocked and felt utterly disgusting when I noticed the leers of the men he had introduced me. It wasn’t until I was divorced and in therapy I understood why I felt so gross and throughout my teens and young adulthood I would shave my head and do anything to NOT have my father call me beautiful.

Fast forward….why digress and talk about what fucked me up. Let me finish with the fact that I choose to forgive my abusers. I am not ready to talk about it. I am however ready to move on and sometimes that means you stop thinking about it. You focus on here and now, the present. I survived, I am overcoming and I am not being hurt anymore, in fact the only time I hurt now, is when I let them, in my memories. We can choose our thoughts. We can stop thinking about one thing and rethink upon positive. Stay positive. I am broken. In places. I am healed and healing some of my broken places and in those places I am stronger, wiser and that is what I will end this on.