My friend Tina gave this table to me when she salvaged it from her neighbor's trash pile. At the time, I was hell-bound to move out of my parents' house, which I ended up not doing, but I kept the table. I figured I could find a use for it while I lived at home, and then take it to my new place when I decide it's time to move out. When I did a major overhaul on the upstairs of my parents' house, I tried to re-assemble the table. And failed. Miserably.
I attached the legs to the tabletop and turned the table right side up. It fell over faster than an alcoholic at happy hour, knocking my head on the way down. I swore at the table and its mother, and then I shoved it over to the stair landing, where it waited for my dad to take it apart and out of my sight. But my dad isn't known for task completion, especially not if the task involves coming upstairs. So the table sat for weeks, waiting. Taunting me.
I hated that table. It sucked. It failed at being a table, and it almost killed me. I hated looking at it at the top of the stairs, its stupid legs pointing in all different directions. I hated the way this table said I'd failed. That I couldn't even put together a prefab table that probably came from Walmart. That my education was useless because I couldn't even master this one life skill.
Today I decided to give that table another chance. It's not the table's fault I didn't know how to put it together the right way. It's not the table's fault it fell and hit me. It's an inanimate object that can't reasonably be blamed for anything. The problem was that I had failed and given up.
On the outside, I'm rebuilding a table. On the inside, I'm rebuilding myself.
On the outside, I'm quietly taking the legs off the table and putting
them back on, correctly this time, with the parts I didn't use last
time. On the inside, I realize I'm not worth giving up on.
On the outside, I see that I don't have all the parts I need to finish rebuilding the table, but the outcome is looking better this time. On the outside, I ask my dad to find me some more washers and a wrench.
On the inside, I feel like less of a failure, just because of this one tiny thing. I still feel disconnected, lonely, and aimless. I still look at myself on the inside and the outside and don't always like what I see. But I also know that I can be better, that I need to be better, but I can't do it alone. On the outside, I ask for help. I ask friends; I ask family; I ask writers, artists, musicians.
On the inside, I'm rebuilding myself. On the inside, my mind hisses at me saying--
I'm fat.
I'm stupid.
I'm ugly.
I don't deserve to ask for what I need or want.
I don't deserve your kind words.
I deserved for them to leave me.
I'm not worth the resources I use to live.
I don't deserve to live.
I'm not good enough.
I'm not ____ enough.
I'm not enough.
Those are the messages I've said to myself for years. Messages that didn't come from me but from people who bullied and abused me, and the guilt and shame I felt in response. Long after abuse ends, guilt and shame and a broken self image remain, all of which lead to insecurity, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and doomed-from-the-start relationships. I didn't deserve any of those things. No one does.
In essence, recreating myself is a self-destructive process. It's
deconstructing what I know about myself and sorting out what I know to
be true and what came from elsewhere. Many of the beliefs I've long held
about myself are not my own; they came from the cruel mouths and minds
of others when I was so young I could only internalize the negative
messages and not defend myself against them.
I am no longer a defenseless child who is shamed and punished for standing up against abuse. I've been away from that place for a number of years, but the trauma is still there. I am reluctant to open up to new people and experiences. I've tolerated (often manipulative and sometimes abusive) behavior from people in relationships that never should have been okay, all because I thought that's all I deserved. And with how difficult socializing can be for me, I marvel at the fact that I've had friends and boyfriends in the first place.
My defense against abuse/being mistreated by others has always been passive-aggressive, sarcasm, and avoidance. My new defense is going to be better than that. Stronger. My new defense is two-fold: removing hateful messages and replacing them with kinder truthful messages.
I'm kind.
I'm thoughtful.
I'm funny.
I deserve to live, and I should respect others and the Earth.
I am good enough, but sometimes I need help. That's okay.
I deserve the good people in my life.
I am intelligent.
I am beautiful.
Note: This entry is a follow-up to last night's post.
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