365 Days Of Love. Day 4

I wanted to write about my Grandma Judy yesterday, but every story I started about her was near impossible to finish. Today, I realized why. The love my grandma has is perpetual, I don't know when it started, but I'm certain it will never end.

When my grandma was 16, she married my grandpa. As I understand, they moved to France shortly after their nuptials. Per my grandfather's military duty, he was flown to France. My grandma. however, sololy set sail, to reunite with my grandfather. 16. My grandma was 16 with the spirit of a swallow, a spirit that I am hopeful to say I inherited. When I think about my 16 year old grandma hopping ship, it makes so much sense to me that throughout my life, she's been my greatest source of solace. It's as if she is my free spirit's kindred mate.

One instance of this kindred dance between spirits was particularly defining.

At seventeen, I felt like no one loved me for me, which was primarily due to the fact that I was an insecure young woman. In an attempt to make myself more lovable, I started an unhealthy relationship with my running shoes and the refrigerator. I wore the former out too quickly and I didn't visit the latter near enough. Because I actually did have people that loved me, I found myself fielding copious amounts of questions about my budding relationships. Most of these questions came from a place of love and genuine concern. However, one such commentator came from a place of exploitation. My social studies teacher used my shrinking size as a means of justifying sexual comments about me and my body. His interactions with me only added to my feelings of inadequacy and cultivated a distrust for everyone around me. I continued to find solace in the pavement, attempting to build a distance between those who loved me and myself. The only person who I let close the otherwise extending gap was my grandma.

I spent many afternoons with her and my grandpa, which soon because a form of therapy for me. As we awaited my grandpa's return from work, my grandma and I would sew or bake or look through old photographs. Once my grandpa was home, the three of us would snuggle into their comfy couches, coffee in hand, and watch a Lifetime movie or Jeopardy. My grandma never expected me to talk, but if I wanted to, she would listen as if I was telling some gripping story. She never expected anything of me, she simply let me be.

As afternoons turned to evenings, I would curl up on my grandma's couch and drift into sleep. I depended on those catnaps to propel myself through the rest of the evening and, the inevitably, sleepless night I would have upon returning to my own house. Every moment passed with my grandma was one of peace, I lived for those moments.

My grandma's love, coupled with the promise of quiet moments spent with her, saved me.

It was her love that taught me how to love myself.