When my biological father gave me up, I wondered what it was about me that made it so easy to let me go.
When my high school boyfriend broke up with me for the other girl, I couldn’t help but wonder what she had that I lacked.
When the first man I ever loved broke my heart, I cried into my pillow, feeling like I would never again find that feeling I had when I was with him.
When I told the cute boyfriend in college, “I love you,” and he thereafter ghosted all my calls, I wondered what made me so easy not to love.
Broken girls become broken women, lacking love, yet seeking it desperately. I always put so much stock in how others felt about me. I was the new kid on the block who just wanted to be your friend, or the quiet girl pining for the cool guy, drawing secret doodles of his name in study hall. A people pleaser by nature, like a loyal pup longing to have its ears scratched while hearing, “yes, you’re a good girl.”
It sounds quite absurd putting it out there like that, but in hindsight I can see the desperation of my past. Like Pavlov’s dogs, I longed for a reward, and my ear was always tuned towards the ringing of the bell. I was eager in my relationships, yet skittish to reach out, if that makes sense. Having learned from an early age that the people you love will definitely leave you, I was hesitant to make new friends, but boy oh boy, did I long for them. I wanted to be wanted, while simultaneously fearing hurt.
I fit into the military like a missing puzzle piece. It was easy to excel when all you had to do was what someone else told you to do.
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
Right away, sir.
Of course, I was top of the class when it came to following commands. Being told exactly what to do is easy; having the courage to step out on your own volition, that’s a bit harder.
As a young woman I felt my body was a weapon, something I could use to my advantage. Like a carrot on a string, dangled to draw attention, but pulled away in hopes a chase would ensue. Sometimes often times not pulled away at all.
