When I was six years old, my mother and three close family members were killed in a sudden and public tragedy, hurling those of us who survived into a state of emotional upheaval. It was a time when my grandmother was never without a saturated tissue in her hand. And, too, it was the perfect opportunity for fear to dig its unapologetic fangs into me. I suppose I was too young to know how to stop the bleeding…
I recall standing over my toy box in the aftermath of the funeral, posing the following question to myself: I wonder how many days it will take to forget all of this? Burying the truth became the goal, because I assumed it was the only medicine for remedying the pain.
I vowed to myself that nothing would ever again pierce me deeply enough to expose my most fragile layers.
Life may have granted itself the opportunity to pull the rug out from under me, but it would not be granted another. Or, so I thought.
At 19 years old, I became entrenched in a passionate relationship with a boyfriend I planned to marry — a boyfriend who spent a year poetically attaching his last name to the end of mine. But, life eventually presented us with opportunities which led us in opposing directions. When I realised our love was slowly slipping like sand through the cracks of my fingers, my already existing abandonment issues rushed to the fore — this time with a fiery vengeance.