How my parents' marriage fucked me up, part one

Hi beautiful, awesome peeps!

I thought about writing some witty title for this month’s piece, but decided that honesty is, and has always been, my most favorable trait. This is the story of how my parents’ marriage fucked me up. This one was the most difficult story I’ve written thus far, because every few paragraphs, I had to stop to weep. I didn’t say cry, I said fucking weep.

This story, and all the mini stories in it, are things I have never told anyone, maybe just my therapist. The reason for that is because it’s severely painful for me, and some part of me also feels like I’m betraying my family, my parents in particular, for airing out their “dirty laundry.” I feel protective, of course, but the wisdom in me knows this concept of “dirty laundry” is simply part of the mental health stigma that keeps us further traumatized and caged. It doesn’t exist— we all come into this world with intergenerational trauma. There is no shame to be found. This is not dirty, this is my truth. And the truth? It sets us free.

I also have the wisdom to know this isn’t just my own story, and that I’m not alone, though I may feel alone. So in hopes of that, I’m keeping part one unlocked. I figure if you’re here, maybe then you can find some healing in this heavy, heavy, tumultuous story. Lastly, please email me, I’d love to hear from you.

Sending love and light.
This is for every person who thinks they’re too fucked up to love,
Amy

Pages: 15
Word count: 10,531

From Statements to Questions

When I was little, I would proclaim at the top of my lungs that I never wanted to get married. I must’ve been only around four years old shouting in my Disney Pocahontas-themed pajama dress, but my parents and all my closest childhood friends from that time would attest I wanted nothing to do with the institution of marriage. It almost became a part of my identity. 

The little girl who was never going to get married.