The project is starting to grow. There are a few people on board already. I’m quite excited about that. On the flip side, I continue to unpack a lot on a personal level.
This meme popped up on my Facebook feed:
One day you will tell your story of how you overcome what you are going through now, and it will become part of someone else’s survival guide.
This is at the heart of Something is wrong with me. I firmly believe that sharing our stories with each other becomes part of our own personal survival guide. Maybe even a pathway to thriving.
The surviving, healing, thriving can’t wait for the mess to clear up. It’s diving in deep; witnessing and feeling. Looking into the muck and toxic materials that has been internalized and reincarnated as self-harm in our lives; potentially harm we have unwittingly done to others.
Over the past weekend, I have been doing this very thing. It’s emotionally exhausting because I’ve been seeing myself and my habits in a different light. It’s not being my usual hypercritical self. It’s more of an awareness of how I fall down the same rabbit hole time and time again. The obsessive grasping. The contorting and wedging into limited emotional spaces. The co-dependent helper still seeking external acceptance.
The results are the same. Anger over feeling ignored and disrespected. The hurt of rejection. Re-enforcing that ancient narrative that I internalized almost a half a century ago that:
There is something horribly wrong with me
Not deserving. Not good enough. Not important enough.
Growing up never feeling that I was enough and easy to throw aside. As I became an adult, I have re-invented that narrative over and over again. Not only was I the expendable daughter. I became the expendable partner/lover and expendable worker.
A painful realization and difficult one to witness in action to say the least. While I have felt overwhelming anxiety over this deeper awareness, there is seems to be a twinge of self-acceptance.
I’m a whole lot of fucked up and a walking contradiction. I want to be loud and proud yet feel I must hide away in shame and/or fear. Again, an old narrative tied to my step-father; always hidden when there was company over.
I sit here writing this feeling deep heart ache and on the verge of tears. The characteristics that make me an amazing person are equally my Achilles heel. I know I’m not alone.
I suppose it’s finally time to abandon that narrative. It’s time to stop being expendable. To stop contorting. To stop hiding. To be loud, proud and unabashedly visible.