BORNWAPS

I had awakened to hazardous terrain, a battlefield of conditional affection and hollow promises, my heart riddled with wounds that I hastily concealed with thin plasters of false hope. Each covering was a superficial solution, a fleeting attempt to staunch the bleeding without treating the injury. The scars multiplied, hidden beneath years, and layers, of denial, but still, I persevered in a war against my own sense of self-worth.
On this day, I took the bold step to lay down my arms and cease the relentless pursuit of validation. No longer would I plead for love, attention, and generosity, nor would I perform and contort myself, into shapes pleasing to others, imprecisely believing this to be the path to prove my deservingness and ennoblement. The realization struck with the force of clarity, and I resolved to escape the crossfire. No more would I be a mark for those who professed the beautiful and wonderful words of love, while carelessly aiming their volleys at me.
This self-vow began with me stepping off the battleground, to seek sanctuary in an environment where my worth was acknowledged at its true value – through the lens of “Our Father, who Art in Heaven.” At last, I envision a world, where my relentless pursuit, is replaced with quiet dignity, where my mere presence is celebrated, not for which I have to barter and beg. I aspire to cultivate relationships, where love flows freely, bi-directionally, and is not a scarce commodity, for which to be scavenged, but is, rather, a mutual exchange of genuine care and respect.
It was here, in this nourishing new environment, where those I love no longer speak to me with words laced with scorn, dripping with the venom of hatred, jealousy, and indignity. Instead, their words are a balm, infused with love’s true essence. Their voices, and harmonious sounds, soothe rather than scar. I surround myself with souls who understand the language of kindness, those who offer compassion without reservation, and support without underlying contempt. The communications in which I engage, are now devoid of malice; the connections fostered on a mutual foundation of respect. In this space, every word uttered is witness to the love we share — a love that is no longer a source of pain, but one of healing and empowerment. With every conversation imbued with genuine care, I am slowly reconstructing the crumbled pieces of my self-respect. Here, love is not doled out in measures, or used as a weapon to manipulate me. It doesn’t arrive tinged with conditions, or shaded with the darkness of ulterior motives. It is in this light, I’ve discovered the power of my voice — a voice that has been muted by those who spin webs of deceit and manipulation. As I persevere on this journey of personal rebirth, I’ve drawn fortitude from the tender support of loyal friends and the comforting arms of the chosen family whose sincerity remains untarnished. These individuals, unmarred by the dogmatic shadows of our collective history, offer pure-hearted intentions. Their expressions of affection and support are significant, imbued with a profound authenticity that resonates deeply. Their words are substantial, echoing with genuine care and a resonance of verity, a stark contrast to the echoes of our former, insular world.
All my life, I’ve assumed the guise of an indefatigable combatant, embroiled in an endless conflict, one that appears unwinnable. Every ostensible triumph left a residue of hollow defeat, reminiscent of a pyrrhic victory, and each setback, chiseled away the very essence of my being. I pursued the elusive phantom of unconditional love and acceptance with zeal, yet beneath the surface, my intuition keenly perceived the prevailing undercurrent of duplicity.
“I am worthy, please don’t leave,” I murmured softly to the breeze, a silent plea for my declaration to be ingrained in the hearts of those from whom I sought affection. But my pleas were frequently muffled by the sharp report of gunfire—the stinging criticisms, perfidy, and unfulfilled hopes—launched by those who claimed to hold me dear.
With each showdown, the knives embedded deeper than before, yet I persisted, deluding myself that this relentless struggle was the path to redemption and recovery. However, wounds cannot mend under constant assault; they become infected, deteriorating not only the body but also eroding the very essence of the soul.
And so, I made a resolute decision. It was time to retreat, not out of cowardice, but out of a newfound respect for my own well-being. I would no longer dress my wounds superficially, for beneath those bandages lay the raw truth of my pain – unacknowledged, oozing, steaming, yet yearning to be healed.
With trembling hands but a steady heart, I began the arduous process of removing each bandaid, exposing the decay beneath, to the cleansing air from Above. It was excruciating, as the cool air hit the tender skin, but it was honest. Each wound had a story, a plea for recognition, acceptance, and the chance to mend correctly. To tend to my wounds meticulously, I had to acknowledge each bruise, each break in my subconscious, and to apply the remedy of self-love and self-worth. It required the forbearance to mend myself from the inside out, to recognize that although pockmarks may remain, they would serve as reminders, not of my fragility, but of my grit. The greatest truth of all came, when the blasted memory returned, that impaled me with the solid evidence I’ve carried within my stilled neathers for decades – I have always saved myself while those around me lay in wait, breathless in their anticipation of my demise. To their dismay, I’ve never succumbed. This realization lent itself to another victory –
Tending to myself is neither selfish nor vain—it is necessary. Leaving the battlefield did not mean I gave up; rather, I redirected my affections and emotions inward, where it was desperately needed. I learned to care, to give, to nurture the forgotten corners of my own being.
Healing is not instantaneous; it is a with the peril of revisiting old events, pains, and druging up repressed memories. But I remain steadfast. Each disfigurement, each healed trauma, is an exemplification of my tenacity—a declaration that though it might hurt for a while, better days lay ahead. Eventually, the battleground of my past is becoming a garden of tranquility. I’ve realized that love should never require a chase, nor should it feel like the cold steel of rejection. Love, in its true form, should feel like coming home—a place of safety, warmth, and mutual give and take.
As I continue, I pledge to protect myself with an armor woven from self-esteem, trust, and the wisdom gained from my trials. As I emerge from the chrysalis of my old self, I’m not a wounded warrior, bound with temporary fixes, but a woman transformed through self-reflection and intent on healing. This revolution within hasn’t just changed my environment; it reshaped my inner narrative. I address myself with the same love and kindness that I now demand from the world around me.
Every day, I am reminded that where I choose to place myself, to whom I choose to listen, and what I choose to believe about myself, significantly impact my life and those I attract to it.
It is here that I stand tall, no longer a casualty of love perverted, but an attestment to love’s true potential — nourishing, patient, and forgiving. In this sanctuary, I finally breathe with ease, knowing that love is a gift to be cherished, a gift that, when given and received with grace, can transform even the deepest of wounds into a wellspring of hope and renewal.