I’m sorry I lied to you

lonely childAnd to myself, if that makes you feel any better.

I said that I’m invulnerable, unhurt – that I’ve moved beyond the pain. And I told myself I believed it, too.

When actually I bring it with me into everything I do, even if – especially if – I don’t acknowledge it.

To allow the download, to open to it and let it pour through me – through the wounds – is terrifying. Through the rawness of screaming out when no one was there to listen, or who brushed the pain aside because it made them feel guilty and it was TOO much, TOO raw, TOO out there.

Good girls never let anyone see they were bleeding. Blood is shameful, dark, secret.

Our secret. We won’t tell anyone, will we? It’s just between us.

My body TOLD me over and over “this is WRONG!” – and I was persuaded to mistrust it, to ignore its messiness, to use my MIND to block it all out, to appear smooth and SO in control.
Perfect.
Stepfordesque.

Except it never quite worked out that way, did it?
The pain kept screaming to be heard.
I’m here
I’m HERE!
LISTEN to me! SEE ME!

I confronted people and their bullshit constantly, antagonising them, waiting to be SEEN. Desperate to be seen. To be told it wasn’t my fault and it’s ok to be ANGRY.
REALLY. FUCKING. ANGRY. about it.

The real tragedy?
In my anger, I refused to become who I knew I was. I held back, stayed average, mediocre, when I knew I could be brilliant. Because otherwise they would think it was all ok, wouldn’t they? They’d breathe a sigh of relief, we managed that well, we swept it away and no one has to mention it again.

So I punished them. See who I could have been? If it hadn’t been for that … I could have been ANYTHING! A concert pianist. A great teacher. A writer. Anything I wanted to become, really. It was all possible … and I shut it down.
And it made a good scapegoat of course, just in case I was tempted to try, and failed. So much easier not to try and to blame it on them.

And probably nothing would have changed.

Except that one day, someone heard. As I stumbled over the story, he listened. Didn’t tell me it was so long ago I should be over it. Didn’t tell me I needed therapy. Didn’t try to fix me. Just five simple words that I’d been waiting a lifetime to hear.
Wow, that must have hurt.
He had no idea what it meant to me, just a tiny moment in time that came straight from his heart to mine.

But the wounds suddenly had a purpose, a gift.
And I fell in love.
With me.
With the scared, angry little girl and the woman she would one day be.
And with you.
All of you who were never heard or seen
In all of your YOUNESS, all the mess and the tears and the blood.

Don’t wait for it to be done, tidied up, put away in a pretty box.
It will never be.
The wound is the place where the light enters you.

And it’s also the place where the light shines from.

Celebrate your wounds.
Shine your light.
We’re waiting for you.

All my love,
Always

 

 

 

 

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2 Responses to “I’m sorry I lied to you”

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  1. Linda Reed Friedman says:

    Thank you for sharing – I’ve finally recognized my tearful “allergies” i.e.; smoke fumes from the bus my daughter takes home and many more allergies. The allergies are “emotional incontinence” a silly term but I’m learning to recognize the sorrow, anger and pain. Finally..

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