Bread.

Dating is hard, dating as a young widow is even harder. It’s as if I have a scarlet “W” branded into my forehead, and usually when people here I’m a suicide widow, they turn tail and run for the hills.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually had people blame me for my husband’s death or at best, tell me I must be “a real piece of work” if my husband was so desperate to get away from me.

I’m a serial monogamist, I struggle being content being alone- I haven’t cracked the code on why yet.

After I’ve lost so much, it’s tempting to stow away my broken heart and protect myself from getting hurt again. While I don’t want to live my life like that, I find myself frequently giving away pieces of my heart and in the end it doesn’t do me any favors.

I have a bleeding heart for broken things, my first boyfriend was a emotionally damaged drug addict, Sean was a mentally ill man with alcoholic tendencies. Since then I have dated people with truma and addictions while struggling with my own.

You don’t have to tell me- I already KNOW I can’t fix them, make them change, hope my love with show them the error of their ways. I know that’s not how it works, three cheers for self awareness.

Yet, time and time again I give away pieces of myself to those who either can’t, or won’t nurture and protect them.

I feel like that kind of bread that has craters and holes in it. It’s still whole, yet missing pieces. I wonder if I’ll ever be whole again.

Maybe one day.