Random Ish & Other Nonsense

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Insight....

At the age of eight I would steal my mother’s small personal items and give them to girls in school so that they would like me and be my friend.  I don’t know what made me do this but looking back I can see that much of my life carried a similar pattern.

 

As years progressed I learned to act the way people wanted me to act and say what they wanted to hear.  Making my own decisions and having my own opinion was foreign.  I felt that I was everything wrong and ugly.  My marriage was full of drugs, drama and lies.  My day to day activities were performed in mechanical mode.  I acted as if everything in my life was fine, it hurt too much to admit it wasn't.  No one suspected otherwise, or maybe they did and just didn't say anything.  I had become that woman, the one that people talk about by saying "why doesn't she just leave?" or "she must like being treated that way if she stays."  The woman most people see as weak and pathetic.  I had perfected silencing my conscious with denial, this was how I lived my life.

In February 1992, at the age of 23, I gave birth to my son.  He was beautiful, innocent and completely dependent on me. One morning I was kneeling in the shower sobbing.  Crying and self-loathing was as common to me as breathing.  I was drained and tired of hurting.  I didn’t want to be this type of mother to my son.  My obligation to him gave me the courage to make a change and take chance on me.

Standing in front of an audience naked is the only way I can describe the fear and humiliation I associated with taking this step but I was drained and tired of pretending. I sat at my desk that morning and called a local clinic.  I was terrified of being overheard.  It felt like I was admitting I had an STD.  I whispered that I wanted to make an appointment with a therapist and was told I had to see a psychiatrist first.  I wondered how they knew just how screwed up I was. 

Several people in my life had made their feelings about therapy clear.  I kept hearing their voices:

“You don’t need therapy all you need is prayer and the good word of the Lord.”

“Therapists just try to control your mind and milk insurance companies.”

“Therapists are for crazy people.”

I dreaded them finding out but I dreaded continuing living this way more.

The appointment with the psychiatrist was a formality but I felt scared and exposed.  I don't remember his name.  I only know that he began asking me routine questions:  "Do any of your body parts move involuntarily?" (Apparently, this really happens.)  "Do you feel like you want to harm yourself?"  "No, but I often have the urge to hit my husband with a frying pan while he sleeps and hide so that he thinks he is dreaming."

These feelings are, surprisingly, not uncommon and did not qualify me as mentally ill but normal with a touch of slightly crazy.  He continued "Do you hear voices?"  "Only the one that never has anything nice to say about me and frankly I am tired of her."  All of the questions were basic until this one particular question.  "What are your needs?"  I remember looking at the doctor and saying "What?"  The psychiatrist put his pen down, leaned back in his chair, looked at me and repeated the question.  Imagine living in your own body for 23 years and not even know that you are entitled to have needs and have them met.  It was a revelation.

That question started the process of peeling through layers of lies, hurt and resentment that had consumed me for so many years.  I realized I was more than just someone's wife, mother, daughter or sister.  I was not put on this earth solely to be of service to others.  My value as a human being would not diminish if I took care of myself.

It is said that knowing is half the battle but in my case knowing was the first day of a 15 year boot camp.  Loving myself immediately was unrealistic.  I had to take baby steps by showing myself compassion and ignoring the voice in my head that kept saying I wasn't good enough or worthy of love.  I had to learn how to put my needs before others and set boundaries.  On paper this seems like a tidy task but I assure you it wasn't. 

Forming my own opinions and learning to trust my instinct, while battling low self-esteem, felt like crawling up a mud mountain during a downpour.  Accepting that I did not have to give every ounce of myself as a declaration of love aroused feelings of guilt and fear.  Simply saying "no” was painfully draining.  It was and continues to be a slow process.

My journey was not neatly planned out.  There have been times where I have detoured, stopped or sat on a fence because I wasn't sure which way to go.  I have even sought shelter when I was tired or the road seemed endless.  This is my journey and it has been a curse and a blessing.  I have learned so much about myself and am still learning love who I am.  I have found buried deep in me a sense of humor that allows me to laugh.  I am not perfect.  I continue to be a work in progress.  I am one of the lucky ones. 

To the disappointment of my sons, I have mastered saying no and even throw in a "hell no", "I think not" or "you must be on drugs if you think I would say yes."

In case no one has told you "YOU are important and worthy of love simply because you exist."  You deserve to give yourself the same, if not more, kindness and compassion you give to others and while it may seem like you are alone in your journey I promise you are not.