Dear... Broken Marriage
I believed, as I was getting married to my best friend, that nothing felt more stronger and more right than this. Well, I was wrong. Or so, he wronged me. Not once, not twice but a multiple number of times, I lost count of.
I was in this extremely comfortable, lay my hair back, no makeup and share the same t-shirt relationship that lasted three years. It all came crashing two years into my marriage. It almost felt like a TV drama series, with all the cheating, the lies, the backstabbing and betrayal. I clearly suck at recognising best friends. Or is it inhuman to have myself go through all this abuse, all the violence, all the hatred, the temperament, those high pitched screams while I stood right next to the window rolling tears down thinking and hoping that all this was a bad, bad dream?
Being the person that I am, I literally forgot why we had an argument the previous day, however it was a fresh day for an argument for him. If not that, then most definitely a good day for him to pick on me, on my body. A month into post-partum and I didn’t recover from the beautiful stitches I got from the C-section, but pushed myself to wake up each day to be at the gym to look like the Instagram glam. Courtesy and credits to my beloved husband.
The man he was and the lady I should’ve been treated as was a deep-rooted blur. I saw my world in his eyes at one point, least did I know, I was only his wing. The father that he was, he couldn’t care less and ring my bell to seek for his baby girl. He who rather spent his time and days rotting with his friends drinking and most possibly smoking ganja, than be with his family during my labour hours.
Whoever’s reading this, I have my heart out to you. You’re stronger than ever and I hope this letter finds you well and hearty and pray you only get stronger. Let time heal you and your scars too. You’re beautiful inside and out.