“Please stay; I want you, I need you, oh God; Don't take; These beautiful things that I've got.”

“Piece by piece, I fell far from the tree; I will never leave her like you left me; And she will never have to wonder her worth, because unlike you, I’m gonna put her first ...”

The lyrics plague me. With every quiet moment, I hear the song, paying close attention to the lines. The lyrics don’t speak my story. They haunt me just the same. I substitute the main character with other challenging people, particularly an ex-husband that never showed adoration toward me. I chew the right side of my tongue. It’s red and it hurts, but not enough. I bite harder. My nails are chomped to the quick. My stomach turns over and I’m gassy – emitting radioactive stenches from my body. I pop an antacid, or three.

It’s not him. As much as I’d like that easy answer, he’s not relevant.

“He'll never walk away; He'll never break her heart; He'll take care of things, he'll love her …”

I pop a prescribed anti-anxiety pill as I try to solve the mystery. My mind reverts back to the recent bout of gossip. I’m consumed by the business that’s not my own. My body aches, my back in particular. Stretching feels impossible, like fresh concrete coursing through my veins.

Celebrating fitness victories is a thing of the past. I’m obsessed by the newly sprouted pimples on the bridge of my nose, inside my nostril, and on my chin. And, the excess weight I carry around my tummy like a child’s floating device.

Something’s not right.

I can’t find the proverbial missing puzzle piece. I substitute writing and blogging for coloring. The immediate stress dissolves, but the not yet diagnosed dilemma remains.

The bottle of moisturizer slips from the shelf. The clear cover pops off as does the plastic pump top. The bottle lay helplessly on the floor. The contents spew across the ceramic tiles, beige walls, vanity, and my bare legs.

It’s me. Figuratively sprawled out.

Physically a mess.

Driving home from work, I cry. Bawl, feeling all the feels. I talk to the quiet in the car. I ask my dad, “Are you proud of me? Am I doing something right or, it all wrong?”

Later that evening, a stranger visits my home. Without being prompted, she relays the messages I needed to hear. Yes, my dad hears me when I talk to him. He listens and he is proud of me. He’s always proud of me. He loves me. 

“Piece by piece, he restored my faith; That a man can be kind and the father should be great.”

What am I missing? The song continues on repeat in my mind. Days have turned to weeks.

I’m in the bathroom after a shower and, again, the bottle of moisturizer falls from the shelf. The contents spill out exactly as they had before.

The song abruptly changes.

“Please stay; I want you, I need you, oh God; Don't take; These beautiful things that I've got.”

Oh.

No.

It’s me. It was me. It has been me. All along. I’m the monster.

It takes a deep exhale. My mind shifts focus. The narrative changes. I have to restore my faith. I shouldn’t break my heart. I shouldn’t walk away. I’ll take care of her. I don’t wonder her worth. I’ll put her first.

The changes are small and becoming consistent. I won’t leave her. Again.