It's going to end soon, I used to tell myself. It's okay, this is okay.

The insults hurled at me were familiar; they came in through one ear and left through the other. I was used to them.

When the abuse turned from verbal to physical, my spirit dimmed even further and the small beacon of hope I had was smothered.

It's okay, though, I kept saying, I can handle it.

When it evolved from physical to sexual, however, life was nothing but dull, bleak, and unfair. It became useless and disposable but I never dared take my life away. A part of me, I suppose, didn't give up.

So, I ran.

I ran and never looked back. Sometimes, the familiarity of the abuse kept itching at my skull, tugging and pulling, filling me with unwanted thoughts about going back.

The world was cruel, cold, and lonely.

At least, back there, I had a blanket, I could sleep in the bathtub, it was safe. Truly, we're hardwired to feel that the known evil is better than the unknown angel.

I didn't. I'd had enough and was ready to break free from the chains that held me back, chains of pain, familiarity, and false hope.

My body did. But, my mind? The Pattersons salvaged as much as they could from the wreck that was inside. The broken pieces were woven together again with the love, acceptance, care, safety, and warmth they offered.

Yet, some pieces were missing and I lost them along the way at our old apartment, in the streets, and inside me. They refused to be glued together and I chose to deny their existence.

I was in a happy environment, thriving, healing. Why couldn't I be happy? And, I was. I was more than happy. I was safe, secure, and loved. That's all I've ever wanted.

So, why couldn't I shake off the sadness?

The more I ignored it, the more it called for my attention and my denial turned to anger and boiling hatred. I was full of it, like a ticking bomb so close to exploding.

But, they helped me release some of it. Truly, the Pattersons were saints, the masters of solutions. They helped me deal with it and the storm inside me eased a little with each hug, each cookie Catherine baked, and each book Willian read to me.

The burning flame within me flickered, dimmed, and instead started targetting me. So, I became my own enemy.

A liability, ugly, scarred, too emotional, too indifferent, cold, unable to love. 

My mind worked restlessly to destroy me and I was spiraling down bottomless pits of self-sabotage, flailing my arms to no avail.

Then, each one of them grabbed a hand and pulled me up, tight and secure against their warm embrace and I broke a little less, their love mending my bruised soul.

I was better, a lot better, and, my gosh, it felt good.

The routine they built around me helped me up to my feet, tweaked the clogs of my brain, and eased the chaos in my soul. They kept pushing me to become the best version of myself and I was heading that way, so close but so far away.

The therapist helped a lot and tried her best with the bits and pieces I shared with her, and I shared very little. So, no one knew the full extent of the pain and abuse I went through. I regret it now, though. But, I preferred it this way. To everyone, I was just a neglected child.

Danielle and Ian's existence was like a soothing balm to my wounds and I loved them. But, not even the companionship they offered could fix the part that was still aching in me.

I found that the more I loved, the more I hated myself. 

How could someone like me love? 

The more I was loved, the worse it got. 

How could someone like me be loved?

Everything was going okay so the sudden swerve off the road had me reeling, the whiplash too overwhelming at times.

But, I kept pushing through. I kept loving, I welcomed being loved. What else could I do?

Yet, the underlying issues only festered.

Bargaining with my mind only proved futile for it did nothing but worsen my state. The walls I'd built around me were back with a vengeance, sturdier than ever, and the isolation came with it.

No matter how many times I tried to be positive, happy, and content, it never worked and I was lost. Sometimes, it felt like I was in oceans of thoughts and feelings, drowning with no one to pull me out. Other times, it felt like I was lost in the wilderness with no directions whatsoever.

All these struggles were always there, always present, always lurking.

Lately, however, they started to overflow, my body growing unable to bottle them in. Realizing the issues didn't warrant instant relief or solutions but it was a good step forward when all I've been doing was stumbling backward, being pulled by strong currents of denial, anger, and sadness.

That's how I found myself shifting on my feet in front of a white door. It was silent when I pushed it open, a gentle breeze the only thing greeting me. Beige curtains flapped softly by the open window where a woman sat huddled in a chair facing it, her back to me and a knitted scarf covering her legs.

The walls were painted with a mixture of light blue and lavender. A single bed was pushed to the corner, white and beige covers draped over it and a desk was situated in front of the window, right next to an armoire and a bookcase.

My eyes took in her chestnut curls, similar to mine, albeit hers thinning, as I approached her with slow, quiet steps. Then, they landed on her closed eyelids, the scattered freckles that made me trace mine as I noted the absence of the sneer and malice her face usually sported.

Instead, she looked peaceful. Yet, even in her sleep, she still looked as dangerous as ever to my erratic heart. 

Wrinkles creased her forehead and formed deep crevices all over her face even in its resting state. Drugs and alcohol cause the body to age prematurely and their users get bombarded with a full onslaught of negative alterations that can leave them unrecognizable such was the case here.

The sickly, sunken look I was used to, however, was replaced by clean, soft features that had me stumbling. I almost didn't recognize her until her eyes fluttered open and connected with mine.

Hazel eyes bore into mine, the green livelier, younger, tranquil. The color took my breath away for it was my first time seeing it up close, or seeing it at all. It was the same as mine, though in my case, brown was more dominant.

"Zia," she rasped out, blinking the sleep away. 

A/N: Did you guess what the title "stages" was referring to? I'll give you a cookie if you did!