The middle.

The middle of my story is a whirlwind with very traumatic memories. My sister's many medical problems left our family broken. Financially and Emotionally. We had no choice but to move from my childhood home and start over. It wasn't a fresh start, though, and it ended after many broken promises that things would get better, after many terrifying nights, after many tears, with me moving out of my house.

My aunt took me in. Saved me. I had freedom for the first time. I felt loved. Yet I still couldn't understand why I was living there. Why I couldn't stay in my house. Why my mom let me go (which I didn't fully realize until just recently) and why my father didn't seem to care. I needed attention. I needed a boyfriend. Two boyfriends. Five. Whatever it took, I tried to mend this broken part of my heart. Other than my aunt, my husband was my saving grace. I knew the moment I kissed him while I sat on the hood of his car that he was mine and I was going to marry him. Sweet, sappy moment: we are still married today and about to celebrate our 9th wedding anniversary. He loved (loves) me, every broken part of me. As I do him, and while our love is strong, it's not always enough.

I questioned myself all the time. Did my childhood really happen? Is my brain really warped and I imagined it all? Was it really that bad? It was and it was made more clear as each passing day, week, month, year went by and being around my father was still just as awkward, he still never talked to me, I still wasn't enough, I still was unloved.