For my 114th post, it’s only fitting that I dedicate its content to Mark. Nearly 10 and a half years later and I haven’t once found myself at a loss for words in all the times I’ve declared my unending love for this man.
I used to think being incapable of truly being in love with someone was a deformity, a genetic trait that had passed through the blood flowing through my veins. For years I was under the impression that somewhere in my ancestral make up, the wire that connected one’s heart to its soulmate’s was sliced away, floating into the ether forever searching for the connection it was meant for. Determination for better did its best to bury the alarm six feet under because more than life itself, I wanted to finally shake the loneliness that shadowed me no matter how desperately I ran from it.
There was a looming presence of sadness that took residence in our household after my father left. I truly think it had gotten comfortable there until the day my son was born and only then did it drain of life.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Keep reading.