![]() Mercy is defined as compassion for someone whom you have the power to punish or harm. It wasn’t until I began the practice of mercy for myself about myself that modest equilibrium began. Trust me, I was good at giving myself that whooping. My biggest, baddest, ass-kicking rage was scoped in with crosshair perfection on me. That my childhood took precious gifts from me trust, safety, love, and an alert system. I can further agree with the experts who said that because I was raised in danger, I didn’t recognize it when it presented itself later. Yes, I can cite youth trauma, young adult trauma, wife trauma, as having been done to me, which is true. It has held true throughout my life that though I had sufficient experience with other people’s actions or the lack thereof to find myself angry, I was most enraged by and at myself. I’m not saying anyone else’s migraines are the result of unexpressed rage, but mine were.) When my core belief timidly raised a hand and asked to speak, the chorus of ‘old’ voices shouted it down and I would find myself utterly enraged by this and my inability to rid myself of the horrid chorus. But my core belief system made forays into the battlefield of taught messaging with enough consistency that I couldn’t quite wrap my brain or emotions around the utter disconnect between the two, hence the frustrated rage. The youth messages weighed more – a lot more – in my young adult world and left my naïve childlike heart dangling high on the teeter-totter. It’s very hard to describe the teeter-totter emotions of what my own belief about me wanted to be, and what I had bought as truth through the messages of my youth. But, I needed to navigate the magma of half-truths, lies, betrayals, the losses through to fresh air, to a life above ground. Here is where I credit the “You are” part. There are the obvious issues, physical, emotional, sexual, spiritual abuses but I was truly at war with me. Rage roiled subterranean until a fissure (migraine) released a bit of it. And my migraines as a teenager and young adult was my heart’s way of signaling the need for change. Traumas seen and heard didn’t really happen, we were told, so I locked them up – or so I thought. I would never be beautiful my smile would get me into trouble. But I figured, they’re the adults, they’re my parents, wouldn’t they know me best? I was the ugly duckling. You see, I wanted to believe that still small voice buried under an avalanche of trauma that said “You are.” Me at the core. This embarrassment was temporary, but were you to gently pull away a piece of duct tape, a pulsing bruised heart would have looked at you with wide terrified eyes, certain you would see her for the fraud she was who looked happy, acted happy and bled tears when alone who froze if someone surprised her who trusted no one’s emotion including her own who didn’t recognize danger when it walked toward her who was ashamed to admit how much she longed for a good mommy and daddy who would love her for who she was who accepted the negative messages of her childhood about herself but presented herself confidently to the world. I could have crawled under a nickel and given you four cents change when she informed us she was pretty excited about all the money she was making as a prostitute. Do I have a sister? How about four? Feeling pretty pleased to be asked out by this fellow, a junior, and for a recommendation for his cousin, I contacted my adopted twin. His cousin wanted to double date, so he asked if I had a sister. My freshman year of college I was asked out by a professor’s son. Only, my wounded heart was held together with metaphoric duct tape.Įven while you’re still young, the past and its dysfunctions can come back to bite you. If you had looked at me back then, all outward appearances would have been quite fine: Youthful, vivacious, high visibility on campus with music and drama, excellent student, athletic, and a pilot. I wear every battle scar with pride for having lived through the dark, dark places of my youth and young adult life. I love that too.Īnd yet: The journey from there to here was a harrowing one. Nearly two decades later we’re still adventuring together. If that isn’t an adventure, I don’t know what is! I met a man later in life, threw caution to the winds, and moved to his city knowing only him. I’m fascinated by new countries, new cultures, different languages. Exquisite was learning to fly, for my whole world opened up. I loved swinging onto my horse Mengustu’s back and trying a new trail. I adored our mule train explorations in Africa. I’m an adventurer at heart, a trait I inherited from my dad. ![]()
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