Written With Hearts

Written With Hearts - Chapter Twenty Nine

Abby.... Four months later

Time, it's been kind to me.

In order to rebuild myself, I have had to strip down to the foundations of who I really am. I have had to literally lay myself bare to the professionals who were willing to help me. I've had to cut open my heart and mind, in order for my counsellor to dissect every single part of me; bit by painful bit.

I've had to have conversations with my mother that I've always avoided. Learning how to listen to her without getting defensive and emotionally switching off. We have probably talked more in the past four months than we have in my entire life. My mother will never be perfect, but she will always be my mother. I'm learning to feel grateful for still having her in my life, rather than feeling resentful of her being there. I suppose you could say; we are starting afresh. I'm trying to be a better daughter, and she's trying to be a better mother. Therapy has been brutal but it's been cleansing.

After finishing my last book, I've been in no hurry to churn out another. I've needed this time to heal: my memories and my hopes. Hand on heart; I can honestly say that I've never felt more free. With help, I've been shown how my past is not the true representation of who I am today. I've been taught to let go of what can't be changed, what can't be undone. I am not responsible for the actions of my father, yet I am responsible for my own actions with the abortion. I've been helped so much over that, and now I know, I can't do anything about that either. As tragic and as awful as it was, I can't go back and fix it. My counsellor said I could only fix the devastation it has left behind. It'll never bring back my baby, but it does bring me a new sense of peace. I even have a little memory box now; things that I can take out and think of my baby, with a positive smile. Inside of my box there are motivational quotes, a hand-written copy of the lullaby that my nan used to sing me, the only picture of myself that was taken when I knew that I was pregnant, and finally, the two names that I would have chosen if the baby had been a boy or a girl; Mila and Michael. Each name is lovingly written on a small piece of hammered card; forever penned and forever remembered. My baby deserved a name, and by doing just that, it made the incredible guilt lessen. Giving my baby a name meant that my pregnancy existed. It was no longer this sordid, dirty big secret that I would forever keep buried deep. It happened, and now it's no longer hidden. That's been the most freeing thing of all, being able to talk about it. To talk about everything without the fear of not being listened to or being judged. All my life, I've not wanted to talk about anything. I have hidden every painful thing behind a smile. That smile hid a thousand evils. On the surface, I have always come across as content and calm. On the inside, I have been the absolute opposite. I had been programmed, from a young age, to hide my feelings well. I'd got so bloody good at it; I was no longer able to read my own feelings. I started pouring all of my pent up emotions into my writing, because it was easier than living in reality.

Writing was natural; living was not.

With counselling, I've had to learn to live again. Learn to be happy.

So am I happy?

The truth?

I'm getting there. I can see the finish line; I just need to finally reach it. I don't know what's in my future. I only know that I now do have one. The only thing that I feel is unfinished business, is Yate.

My counsellor has suggested that I write him a letter. Whether I choose to send it or not, is entirely up to me. By doing so, she thinks it will help me to move forward.

So I'm sat here, chewing the top of a pen; and thinking, and thinking, and thinking some more. The more I think, the less I'm able to think. I can't even form a single sentence. Agitated, I bring the ballpoint down to the textured paper, still thinking, and still nothing. Shit! Come on, Abby! You can write a whole fucking novel, yet you can't write a simple letter? I angrily scold myself. Trying to calm myself down, I suck in a deep and soothing breath. As I gently exhale, I start remembering all of the lovely little things about Yate: his honest, warm smile, his wickedly sweet wit and charm. How his eyes used to light up whenever he talked about Lily. How those same eyes used to darken with want for me. How good the sound of his voice always felt, and how good he always felt. Another sigh escapes me, only this one is more laboured and dreamy. I look down at the paper, and a smile pulls up the corners of my relaxed mouth. On the paper, without thinking, are scrawled little hearts. We actually used to laugh about that. How, all over my written notes, I would draw silly little love hearts. It's something that I always did whenever I thought of him, and four months on, I'm still doing it. Feeling inspired, I begin writing the letter that Yate deserves to be sent.