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“Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals.” ~Pema Chodron
I was nineteen when it happened.
Legally an adult, but in no way equipped with what I was expected to deal with.
As I found myself agreeing to a marriage arranged by my mum, my thoughts turned to my dad.
We had buried him two days prior. He’d suffered a lot before he died. I wondered what he’d make of all this.
What followed my agreement was nothing short of a whirlwind, but not the romantic whirlwind that’s often associated with marriage.
Sure, there was the buying of clothes and jewelry, the organizing of venues, and the excited congratulations.
But then came the serious part. The living together. The getting to know your partner. The complete indifference to each other.
And before I’d even acknowledged that I was a married woman, I was getting divorced.
We weren’t suited. We didn’t agree on anything. I refused to live my life with someone I couldn’t stand the sight of. And despite my own shortcomings, there was one person I blamed for everything I experienced: my mom.
If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have been married in the first place. I agreed to it because she asked me to—and because I wa…