Diary of a Concrete Rose Introduction

At this time of hour, most people are asleep, or so I thought. There had been plenty of sleepless nights around here. Either filled with tears, laughter or snoring. On any given day, the emotion is different. However, the tear filled nights lasted longer than any of the others. As I can recount, I have slept on wet pillows for most of the nights I have been here. I must say, happiness plays a major part in it all. Some days I feel secure, others I can't stop dreaming of the, "what if's" and "who else." Many nights I have felt unloved as he slept on the couch and I on the make-shift bed in the computer room with our sons leg wrapped around mine. I have often felt not good enough, less-than-perfect as we all are, but nothing ever seems good enough. "You have a terrible attitude," He says to me 95% of the time. . . "You are beyond rude," He comments if I say something unintentionally the wrong way. I have tried to better all of the wrong in me, but still I fail at the simplicities of the things he asks for. Nobody is perfect, only Jesus and for some reason they still found fault in the things he thought were good-deeds. The size of a grain of sugar is how he makes me feel Monday through Saturday. . . leaving one day for him to make up for it all, just to start the cycle over again. I often feel vulnerable, alone and scared. While there are plenty of days where he can make me feel like the Queen of the World. One night he lit candles, caressed me nice and slow, then laid me down to make sweet love to me. I felt so wanted, so loved, that it brings tears to my eyes that a part of me at times hates this man. I find it quite stunning that this man can make me feel so good, but in the same breath. . . make me have suicidal thoughts. Not as if this is anything new, I have wanted to take my life on many occasions. Just simply say fuck it all because I have that option. I cried as the first stream of blood left my wrist, then quickly covered it up with toilet paper, applying pressure and ultimately saving my own life. I have more bad memories than good ones in the life that I have been given. I want to share my hardships with those who want to learn and grow from the experiences of a budding rose with thorns and imperfect roots. The diary of a concrete rose has now been opened.

Stay tuned for more . . .