Me Too, Tell Me More
My recent exchange with my mother awakened in me the exact “nature” of my lifelong experience, as her dependent and child. If I said I was cold, rather than a sweater, snuggle, or blanket, I was offered a reading of the thermostat as proof that I could not feel that way (if I were normal, worthy, and honest). When I reported hunger or need a restroom, similarly, I was reminded of having recently eaten or relieved myself, OR that I was just too fucken much. Support was available only when she shared the sentiment. When my experience differed, I was reported to be equal parts incorrect and troublesome. I literally learned to doubt myself at a cellular level. I was wrong about things, over which technically, I would be the ultimate authority: hunger, exhaustion, fear, sadness, cold, a full bladder. Right? (more…)
After more than a year of wrestling with the reality of having my family of origin show me for the last time how little I mean to them, I am feeling as if maybe I am ready, to intentionally, for a few minutes each day, focus on doing something physically, mentally, spiritually to elevate the quality of living for myself. It has been difficult to exist in close proximity to people dedicated to erasing and silencing me. My internal fight with this reality has been all-consuming.
