When your therapist tells you to stop beating up the kid inside you, and you really hear it for the first time, it kind of puts you into paralysis. Or, at least, it did me. I couldn’t stop crying when the power behind his words settled in my chest.
I’m working on that right now — honoring the little me inside. She’s the one that would sit in the park and blow bubbles. She was invincible. She didn’t care what people thought, or worried about who she should impress, or put herself second. She sat in her power without realizing she had it.
Somewhere along the line, she kind of died. Well, that’s untrue. She didn’t die. She just got pushed way to the back of the line. Countless lesser versions of myself stepped in front of her. At first, they didn’t do it on purpose. But then, they realized there was a kid way at the back that nobody really knew, and they needed to step up their game to keep this weird little unknown girl safe.
Had they asked her, for the record, she would have told them she didn’t need protection.
The judgmental me, the self-deprecating me, the perfectionist me, the anxious me, and the broken me decided it was their job to make sure the world didn’t fuck up the beautiful girl blowing bubbles in a park. And they’ve spent decades really nailing it home.
Breakthrough me is emerging right now. She’s kind of a ninja. A really weird ninja.
It sucks when you find out the things you’ve been relying upon for safety and support are the exact things that are causing your mental health to suffer. The heroes have been the villains all along. Plot twist.
I’m struggling with writing in third person, even though all this is one metaphor on top of another. And it’s getting too hard to keep up with the story without getting lost.
I’ve been waiting for this period of my life, the part where hard stuff would start happening. Well, here it is. Finally. Yay?