Today’s word: Visit
Four hours every Sunday. It happened whether I wanted it to or not. A judge had decided and that is what I was required: four hours every Sunday with my father—my biological father.
I had always looked at these visits with the same enthusiasm as a long car ride or a visit to the dentist (mind you I nearly had a root canal at 5). And yet these visits were required, by law. I never do well when someone tells me I have to do something.
At one point I had decided I had enough. I didn’t want to go anymore and no one could make me (or that’s what my fifteen year old mind had shouted to the world).
Looking back it wasn’t as bad as I thought. In fact, I may have learned something.
I’ve learned that all that is shiny and fun is usually not as good as you think it is. It may provide a glitzy reflection, but that’s usually where it ends.
I’ve learned something can hurt and be good for you at the same time. But you usually can’t see through the pain to the peace.
I’ve learned that I can hurt, but I have a choice to heal. And I’ve chosen. Over and over again.
Literally. I would say “I forgive him” 490 times a day until it didn’t hurt anymore.
I think I had forgotten that. And when it hurts again I do the math and I become more of what I’m supposed to be, all because of a visit.
It feels good when pain no longer pierces.
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