From Broken To Blessed: Shattered Illusions

The news hit me like a freight train. I dropped the phone, curling into a ball on the floor, screaming and crying, as my brother rushed to my side, fury in his eyes. “I’m going to kill that piece of—” he shouted, but his words faded into the chaos in my mind.

In that moment, my heart closed up, encased in an icy resolve. I vowed never to open it again, determined to protect myself from that level of pain.

What happens next?

A few hours had passed since Michelle shared the news with me, and the weight of it all began to sink in. I locked myself in my room, just like I used to as a child. It was my safe place. This wasn’t the first time Patrick had betrayed me, but he always knew how to use words to convince me it was nothing. I didn’t have proof that anything happened with this other girl besides attending a party, but something felt off. Deep down, I think I always knew not to fully trust him, which is why I held on to my virginity. He would argue with me, asking why I was saving it, but I stood firm. The only person I wanted to give that part of myself to was the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

That may sound old-fashioned, and even my friends didn’t understand, but they weren’t in my shoes. They didn’t know the pain I carried or the reasons I guarded my heart. My childhood was far from perfect. I loved my father, but he wasn’t around enough to protect me from my mother’s strictness. I learned early on to keep quiet about the things that hurt me. To the world, my mother was a saint—she was active in our community and church, always praised by everyone. But behind closed doors, I was walking on eggshells. I was punished harshly for things I didn’t understand, and I was expected to be perfect to make her look good.

There was one time, when I was just four years old, that I’ll never forget. It was a hot summer day, and I went over to the neighbor’s house where the kids were playing in a little pool. The babysitter, a teenage girl, asked if I wanted to join. I told her I wasn’t allowed, but she insisted my mom had said it was okay. So I joined them, thinking everything was fine. But when I got home, my mother didn’t ask questions—she just spanked me without giving me a chance to explain. It was a betrayal I carried with me for a long time.

Back in the present, I was once again feeling that familiar pain. My brother called up to me, saying Michelle was on the line to check in. I had calmed down enough to talk, so I thanked her for telling me, and we made plans to meet up soon.

After returning to college, I knew it was time to confront Patrick. I called him, starting with, “How was the Halloween party?” I could hear the panic in his voice as he tried to figure out how I knew. He didn’t think I knew anyone from the party, but he forgot that my friend Michelle worked at the same company where we had both worked over the summer.

He couldn’t lie his way out this time. He asked me to come home the following weekend for a face-to-face talk. As I settled into his car, my gaze landed on a freshly filled prescription bottle on the dashboard—antibiotics for chlamydia. Shock coursed through me. He had claimed he’d slept with someone months ago, but the timing of this prescription told a different story. When I pressed for answers, he finally confessed. His excuse? 'I’m a guy with needs.' The words fell flat, and in that instant, I knew it was over. My heart felt calm, almost numb, but a spark of relief flickered within me: I hadn’t given myself to him. I was grateful for the strength I had to hold on to that part of me.

A high school friend once told me, "You won’t be able to keep a guy if you don’t give it up." But I was the one who ended things with Patrick, and it saddened me that she believed the only way to hold onto a guy was through sex. So many teenage girls felt that same pressure. While some girls became popular for giving in, I earned a different reputation. I remember Greg, a close friend, pulling me aside once to tell me that the guys were calling me a “goody two-shoes.” I pretended to be shocked, but deep down, I felt a sense of relief. In a world where casual sex was everywhere, I was proud to stand by my values. I dated a lot in high school, and most boys, knowing my reputation, treated me with respect. If any guy I had broken up with tried to disrespect me out of anger, my friends would quickly step in to defend me. I always knew when it was time to walk away—usually after about four months—when the pressure to go further than kissing began.

Maybe it's society or the media, but we've been taught to believe that casual sex is the norm. Yet people still deal with the consequences, whether it's heartbreak or something worse. Looking back, I’m glad I trusted my instincts and held onto my heart. It’s why, to this day, I guard it so closely.

Patrick and I had been in a long-distance relationship while we were both in college—our schools were four hours apart. That distance, combined with the growing realization that we weren’t right for each other, made it clear that I had to end things. When I finally broke up with him, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I was free to be myself again, to explore life without the strain of trying to make a long-distance relationship work. It wasn’t easy, but I was ready to move on.

Unfortunately, Patrick wasn’t.

He kept sending me cards, each one filled with his smooth words—the same charm that had worked on me in the past. But by then, my hurt had turned into anger, and I refused to open them. My best friend and roommate, Jenny, kept asking, “Aren’t you curious? I don’t think I could resist.” But I stood firm. I knew what those cards would say, and I knew they would be full of empty promises and sweet nothings that no longer had any effect on me.

Week after week, more cards arrived, showing that Patrick wasn’t ready to let go. As time passed and my emotions settled, I finally caved and opened the last one. It was everything I expected—beautiful words, filled with all the right sentiments, crafted to tug at my heart. And being the hopeless romantic I was, I called him.

But when he answered, it was as if I’d caught him at the worst possible moment. His voice was distant, distracted, not at all like the guy who had supposedly poured his heart into that card. Then, I heard a girl’s voice in the background. “Patrick, are you coming? We’re going to be late!” she said. I froze, my heart sinking as I asked him who she was. He casually brushed it off, saying she was just a girl from his dorm and they were heading to a game. But everything in me screamed that something wasn’t right.

Without hesitation, I told him, “Don’t ever call me again or send me your phony cards full of lies. We are over!” I hung up the phone, this time for good. People don’t change, no matter how much you want them to. I finally accepted that hard truth. After that, I had all his future cards sent back to the post office, with a note: This person no longer lives at this address.

For the next few months, I chose not to date. I needed time to heal, to reflect, and to figure out who I was without the drama of a relationship weighing me down. I found happiness in my classes, my friends, and just living life without the constant ups and downs that came with Patrick. Life felt lighter. I was laughing more, enjoying the peace that came with simplicity. After all, life is too short for drama, especially at such a young age.

During this time, I envied my friends who had close, supportive families. Watching their interactions made me realize that not every family was like mine—critical, harsh, and suffocating. I gravitated toward people who came from healthy, uplifting backgrounds, and it felt refreshing to surround myself with positivity. I learned by then that people who try to tear you down are often hiding their own insecurities.

I don’t know how I became so strong-willed, but I did. Every criticism thrown at me, I used as fuel to prove people wrong. It became my driving force, and it pushed me to chase my biggest dreams. I even tried to help friends who struggled with similar issues, encouraging them to set boundaries with toxic people and not take criticism personally. My psychology classes in college were eye-opening, and I loved them. My professors always praised my brutally honest papers, and through my studies, I finally put the pieces together: my mother wasn’t just critical—she was a narcissistic sociopath.

Understanding that shifted my perspective. It wasn’t me, or anything I had done. It was her need for control, and as I grew older and more independent, she started losing that control over me. That terrified her. She had always expected me to attend a local college and stay home, where she could keep me under her thumb. When I chose to leave, her criticism intensified. It didn’t matter what I accomplished on my own—she would take credit for it.

When I confronted her about the lies, she spread to my siblings and friends, she gave me the silent treatment. It was painful to realize I couldn’t trust my own mother, but at least now I understood why.

As I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the pain of Patrick’s betrayal no longer weighed as heavily on my heart. I had been through enough heartbreak to know that every experience, every disappointment, was pushing me toward something greater. Or maybe someone greater.

 Epilogue Tease:

With newfound peace, I could finally let go of the past, of Patrick, and all the mistakes that had led me here. They had served their purpose, guiding me to this moment. I closed my eyes, clutching the pendant around my neck, and whispered to the figure in my dream, “I’m ready now. You can turn around.”