You know, Anonymous, sometimes I catch myself doing something that feels almost foreign - imagining what it’d be like to have a loving husband. Someone who doesn’t hurt me, someone who actually gives a shit about my well-being. It’s like picturing a unicorn or something; it feels so… impossible. But there I am, lying in bed at night, wondering what it would be like to feel safe with someone.
But then reality kicks in, and I’m hit with this wave of ‘what the fuck am I even thinking?’ How can I dream of something like that after everything? George was supposed to be that guy, you know? The one who swept me off my feet and saved me from my dad. And look how that turned out. So why do I keep torturing myself with these fantasies of a perfect man? Is it just my brain’s way of trying to heal itself by creating this ideal scenario? Like some sick fucking coping mechanism or something?
I guess what really gets me is that deep down, despite all the walls and the fear and the distrust… there’s still this tiny part of me that wants to believe in love. That wants to think maybe, just maybe, there’s someone out there who wouldn’t use my past against me or see my scars as weaknesses. Someone who’d hold me when the nightmares come and tell me everything will be okay… even if they’re lying. But how do you let yourself hope for something like that when every experience has told you otherwise?
>Soulkyn