The more I talk to my mom, the more I confused I feel about her and the more confused I feel for her. I’ve always felt the existence of an inherent hopeless romantic, melting into the typical sappy girl after seeing any half decent chick flick or reading a super cute note sending anyone with any hopes in love on a trip of emotional overload… and I’ve always wondered - where did this come from? The only time I really witnessed any signs of cheesy affection between my parents seemed to be a sarcastic exchange of “honeys” and “sweeties.” It only made me want to gag. How could I have developed such a keen desire for romance when I am the mere product of these two romantically-bland individuals?
After being a bystander of so many arguments between them for so many years, I told myself I would never be in a marriage like that. I told myself I wouldn’t fight with whoever I was with to that extent and be okay with day to day life with someone I could never communicate with. After my first serious relationship, I realized that fighting was not an easy thing to evade. After that relationship ended, I realized that it wasn’t worth trying that hard to fix something that was bound to break and it only left me kicking myself for being so naive. (I have this theory that ever girl undergoes this. Every girl except my own mother, of course.) Even then, though, I still believed in something real and I knew from then on, I wouldn’t sacrifice just anything in hopes of achieving that. There was no way I was going to give up who I was for a lost cause ever again. Someday I was going to find somebody or they were going to find me, but I was in no hurry and I’m sure whoever he was probably wasn’t either.
It wasn’t until I found that somebody when I realized how damaged I was. I was experienced, sure, but all that shiny, hopeful polish became dull from past disappointments and left a rough, unrefined finish behind. Stronger, maybe, but definitely not the same. Day by day, cracks are being filled in and little by little, I seem to be smoothing out. This isn’t to say that I don’t still recall anything in the past or any stories my parents shared with me that scare me, but the hope that I’ve always had is being brought out again. I’m going to stop now before I make myself throw up. Anyway, it’s nice.

Happy one year + one week. (: