I’m not broken or bad. neither are you. I’m not destroyed or rotten. neither are you. I’m not worthless or disposable. neither are you.
The people who care about us most are the ones that can potentially hurt us the most. I am 51 years old. I have lived 33 years out of my parents home. For 33 years I have lived independently or with a husband or partner. Most of the time, I have lived alone. I was married for 13.5 years. I have been divorced for 16 years. 16 years I have been mostly single. Or attached but living single. I have paid my own bills. I have bought my own cars. I have figured out everything, mostly on my own.
I have had great people in my life along the way that helped me. they emotionally supported me. They filled in the blanks sometimes. They reminded me of who and what I am and what I can do.
I have to keep remembering this about me: I am a badass, mother fucking woman that continues to grow, excel, and expand in my power, beauty, magic, and glory.
I”m going to say that again.
I am a BADASS, mother fucking woman that continues to grow, excel, and expand in my power, beauty, magic, and glory.
I mentioned all of the math above to point out that I lived in my parents’ home for only a small fraction of my life yet the lessons they taught me still continue to haunt me. I say haunt because they are not good lessons conjuring a warm feeling of nostalgia. No, they are rotten lessons teaching feelings of unworthiness, self-hate, and not being enough. Those lessons were instilled as a child during those first 18 years. They were ingrained through repeated acts of judgment and sabotage. It hurts like a mofo. And it carries on in my belief system. Even though I have twice as much time being a successful grown ass woman, mother, server, nurse, friend, community leader, and partner. For most of my life I have been handling my shit on my own.
Still the silent statement that I must not be good enough if my own parents stop talking to me. I must be so bad that they think it’s best for my kids to move out of my house and shelter them without discussing it with me at all. I must be some kind of awful that even though I have raised 8 kids, they had to take over and rescue the teenager. I must be, right?
I will keep fighting that story in my head, that story that I am not good enough. I am. I know that I am good enough, smart enough, capable enough. I know that I am and yet it is still a struggle to contain the pain with each new exposure.
How many of the exposures are self-induced? How many times do I allow shitty treatment? How many times do I allow disrespect? How many times do I stay in a position in which I feel smaller, less than, unimportant?
I have to break the pattern. I matter. I make a difference. I am not expendable. But my actions keep putting me into this position, a position that is painful but familiar. Still feeling the same feeling of rejection, insecurity, vulnerability, unworthiness, unwanted, all the un’s, because I will continue to sink to path of least resistance, the path i have always known. The path that needs forgiveness and release.
I remember when discussing confession in the Catholic Church and people just assumed that Catholics believe that if you go in and confess to a priest then you are all clean and good with God. That was part of it. The other part is that you needed to have contrition, the willingness to change, to do something differently. To be truly forgiven, you need to be contrite and willing to do something different.
#juicylikeaplum #findingthejuicy #goddess