How can you hate yourself?
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Moral rights
S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
External content
S.E. Saunders has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Authors Note:
While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. As is the case with the following story. This piece is based on events from my life.
Despite my stepfather's double-dealing behaviour, he and my mother continued their relationship for several years. Never once did he lay a hand on her. Still, I hated him with the fire of a thousand suns for how he would lie to his wife and come running to my mom. He taught me the duplicity of men. Mother's behaviour taught me that broken women accept scraps of affection like a hungry person sifts through the trash.
During these times, I began to hate her as much as I loved her. How could she hate herself so much when she meant so much to me?
You might wonder where the romance starts in this story, as the tag states it's contemporary. It is, I swear, but it's the type of romance that explains all the human foibles first and then shows you what real love looks like when you find it. Or, I should more accurately say when it finds you. It also highlights when it might be time to extricate yourself from certain relationships if you recognize the patterns.
I met my first husband through a friend. I was seventeen, and my son was just shy of two years of age. I remember these years vaguely. The importance of things was skewed. I continued to make decisions with my heart and not my head. Again, I wasn't looking for a relationship. After witnessing the fiasco that was my parent's relationship and being stung by my child's dad, I focused on education and improving my status as a high school dropout.
In spite of the circumstances, I never saw my situation as permanent. I saw stepping stones instead of roadblocks, and I consistently made choices that would lead to better outcomes as I saw avenues of behaviour that didn't serve me long-term.
I started high school again. This time, I was forced to accept that I couldn't take the route I had hoped for. I remember sitting with other students in a far-off corner of the high school. I was annoyed by the politics and how the people behaved—the weapons in their arsenal, hair, makeup, and the rumour mill. I'd left that world behind years prior and became an adult the first time I held my son in my arms. I knew that whatever I did from there on in wasn't about me but about him too. They couldn't conceptualize anything of my life outside those walls.
I changed my hair colour and my manner of dressing and settled into what I viewed as the vision of what a mom should be. Gone were the heavy metal t-shirts and skin-tight ripped jeans. I began to embrace my femininity and I began weightlifting.
Somewhere between grade ten and eleven, I discovered the weight room above the gym tucked away in some invisible part of the school. A distant memory informs me it was because I once tried out for a dance troupe there. I remember practicing and being terrible at keeping time, always off by a half step. Sort of like my life the gym seemed much less complicated. I returned to check out the free weights and machines, and another mentor, like my reading friend, appeared. The gym/basketball teacher. He had long dreads and trained me to strengthen my body and mind.
I was skittish because I was a blonde girl, someone you might think more suited to a cheer squad, but he and the other boys were friendly. For the most part, not one person gave me a second look as each focused on their journey against themselves. There, I learned to shatter expectations of myself. I realized repetition and consistency is the key to success. When I trained hard, I felt good, mentally, and physically. There, I learned I could have anything I wanted if I were willing to exchange time, sweat and dedication.
At that school, I also found a group of fellow English students who would take a crack at analyzing the stories we read. I remember us sitting and speaking about a mandatory assignment and finding I understood it very differently - another proof I was there but didn't quite belong. It was also the first time I clashed with someone over the topic of faith.
Back then the only limits I had were the ones I placed upon myself. I'm comfortable admitting I can be stubborn like that donkey and determined not to let any circumstance get me down. I'll give up when I'm dead. I set my sights on becoming a doctor, and I was relentless in my pursuit, making it as far as writing the medical college admissions test before I realized I sabotaged every attempt because it was important for me to be a present mother.
I realized how much my mom had sacrificed. Her youth, career, time, energy. Her everything. I decided to continue to pursue my goals, revising this thought to include myself.
Why? Because I didn't want to be my mother.