The Elevator

I recently realized that for the last 18 years, I’ve been putting myself back together since you broke me, since all that I was programmed to believe came crashing down—like a home built without a foundation.

I want to blame my parents, but is that fair when they were simply reflecting how others were toward them? It’s probably more fair to blame the lineage, at least the last three generations, for the love that never had a chance to fully blossom because of the defective seeds planted and nurtured within me.

Maybe that day I was supposed to stop you. But how could I ruin your life? I was a mess. I wasn’t ready, nor did I feel deserving of you. Too many programs running inside me. Too many wires crossed, needing to be untangled and rewired.

I recently met 'her' again. It was a knowing, the same knowing I had when I walked into that club, and we locked eyes for the first time. I just knew.

It’s been hard. Not the hard times—they’ve passed—but it’s the good times that are hard. It’s on the elevator going up that I wish you were here. Someone to celebrate with. Someone to witness all my growth. I’m about to step into yet another elevator, and it looks like I’ll be walking in it alone once again. I have my friends, family, coach, and a few of them will fit, but at some point, they too will step off.