Dandelions are a beautiful weed. At first glance, especially if your eyesight isn't up to par, they could be mistaken for daisies. But a closer look reveals its jagged leaves, fuzzy stem, and dusted petals. Yellow and tall, growing amongst a field of well-kept greenery, it's still a weed.
I still have nightmares about them. It's been over fifteen years since I left. But I still wake up with a racing heart and sweat-soaked pajamas with the sensation of their fists fresh on my skin. An illusion I wish my subconscious could forget.
Many individuals who were physically abused as children become the abusers themselves as adults. An ugly statistic. No one wants to believe the numbers. Parents could never hurt their own children, right? They were their protectors, saving them from the bad people. But what if they are the bad people?
I was the dandelion, but I wanted to be a daisy. I wanted to be loved. I craved to be protected. But my mother in her fits of rage often said she wished I was never born. My father would stand by and watch while her open palms across my cheek turned to closed fists on my back. When was the first time? I don't remember. Sometimes my dreams remind me, but I don't know if those are memories or my imagination. I don't want to know.
The day the nurse placed my newborn son in my teenage arms, I knew the cycle of abuse couldn't continue. I was this baby's protector. He was already fighting his own battle to stay healthy after being born six weeks early. I didn't want him to ever fight the battle of surviving in his own home. As I held him in the quiet NICU, I promised him that he would never fear me. He would never have nightmares about me. He would never know the feeling of dread when he heard my footsteps.
Once dandelions serve their purpose, they perish. Or so it seems. They close their wilted petals, but re-bloom with the fluffy white petals we all know. It's hard for a child to walk by a white dandelion without plucking it from the ground, filling their lungs with air, making a wish, and blowing out their cheeks. The petals of the dandelion floats in the wind, carrying with it a child's hope. From an ugly weed to an instrument of happiness. The dandelion is reborn with the unintended purpose of bringing a child a little bit of magic.
I was my son's fluffy dandelion and I was determined to always bring him hope. The inherited rage from my parents still bubbles in me, but it will never overtake me. It will never force my hand to hurt the ones I love. It will never become the person I am. The cycle is broken and only love prevails in my home.
I may be a dandelion, but I am going to raise a field of daisies.
