No, I didn’t mean that I’m the beauty, and Chris is the beast.

Beauty, to me, is not physical.

In fact, I hate the sort of shallow beauty that people notice just by looking at you. Other than two blogs, I have no other social media because I don’t take or post selfies and status updates. Shallow beauty, has nothing to do with who you are as a person; not to mention the fact that some of the most ‘beautiful’ people can be so ugly the moment they reveal their attitude and the way they treat people.

I would describe beauty, as what is underneath all the external.

To me, beauty is what you feel…. it’s what you fondly remember.

When I was thinking of ‘Beauty’, I was thinking about the way I look at things; the way I try to see the world… the beauty, was what I dreamed of escaping back to when I physically couldn’t get away. I would close my eyes, and remember.

Beauty is a day at the beach with the kids…. beauty is seeing my students grasp a concept after months of trying to learn it.

Beauty is stopping by at my mom’s, where she makes our favourite rice, even after a long work week…. beauty is piddling through the bookstore on a rainy day.

Beauty is a movie night with family, and snacks…. beauty is the miracle I witnessed on a Missionary to Ecuador.

Beauty is the ‘God Bless You’ that I get after stopping to buy a stranger (and possibly an angel) lunch after I saw him digging through the trash can.

Beauty is, everything you want to always remember…. beauty is what remains, when everything else has faded away…..

The beast, to which I refer, is all the ugliness that this whole thing was.

It was almost like a huge, dark, angry entity that seemed to grow in size and strength with each fight, with each unforgivable action, with each snide remark.

I could feel it when I came in the room.

I could feel the space get smaller, as this ‘thing’ just swallowed up the air space.

It was too big to fight; too exhausting to keep ‘praying’ it away.

I couldn’t get a grip on it.

The beast, is being held down by my wrists, shaking my head back and forth; helpless as I struggled to get out from underneath him.

The beast…. is the fighting…. it’s the broken dishes…. it’s me, packing the baby up quickly at midnight so we could leave and get away from the madness.

The beast…. still gives me nightmares; in vivid detail, of what I endured.

The beast…. is why I took my son, and left.

The beast…. is quite literally, a palpable evil that I could no longer stand to be in the presence of.