Oof.

It has been a rough couple of weeks over here. I won’t go into the details but let’s just say that I’ve been trying really hard to take my own advice. I've been telling myself things like:
 
​“Hold on to hope.”
“Look for the glimmers of hope.”
“Don’t be your own biggest critic.”
“Keep going.”


And, it’s hard.
This morning when my alarm went off, I hit snooze about two dozen times. Then my inner chatter started and I really really REALLY wanted to just pull the covers up over my head and hide from the world for 4 more hours. Since it's school vacation week and my sessions start later on Wednesdays, no one was counting on me to be anywhere or do anything.

But then I remembered what I told someone the other day when they asked me "What do you do to take care of yourself?"

My answer is always the same these days when someone asks me that question. I take care of myself by going to the gym. I pop on my headphones, tune out the world, and focus on me and what my body can do that day. 

So, I pulled myself out of bed and went to the gym.

Even though I wanted to hide from the world.
Even though I wanted to sabotage myself.
Even though I wanted to  hibernate.

I went because I realized that even though no one else was counting on me, "I" was counting on me.

I am counting on myself to keep doing the things that I need to do to feel grounded.

It's so easy in the stormy phases of life to put our own needs on the back burner. It's so tempting to avoid the things that always make us feel more like ourselves. 

So, if you are like me and are on the struggle bus right now and are thinking about avoiding the things that make you feel like you...

don't. 

You still need to make yourself a priority.
You deserve to be a priority in your own life.
You can be there for others AND be there for yourself.

“If you wanted to break your father, you did.”


I stared at the text from my mother, yet another reminder that my father’s feelings matter more than anyone else’s feelings could ever matter.

Yet another attempt to control me with guilt and shame. 
 It didn’t matter that I had nothing to do with the thing she thought would “break” him.
It didn’t matter that it was his own actions that led to someone else calling him out on his behavior. 
It didn’t matter that I wasn’t involved. 

It didn't matter because for as long as I can remember, my feelings don’t matter.
My needs don’t matter.
My truth doesn’t matter. 
They never did.
They never will--not to them. 
Because when you are raised by a narcissist, the bad stuff is always your fault.

Even after finally finding the courage to close the door on a relationship with my father, he still gets to reach into my life via my mother and try to push those deeply rooted buttons of guilt that were planted there in my childhood.

But as I stared at the text message, I noticed my heart wasn’t racing like it used to when my mother would scold me for my father’s feelings being hurt. 
My face wasn’t red with anxiety like it used to be in a situation like this. 
At that moment, I realized her words no longer filled me with fear or rage. 
Instead, I felt pity.

I felt pity for her that she never found the strength to walk away from his abuse, manipulation, and isolation. 
I felt pity for her that she made a choice I can never imagine making as a mother--choosing my partner over my children. 
I felt pity for her that she never could find the way toward a relationship with me, my sister, or her grandchildren. 

But bigger than the pity is a feeling of hope. 
Yes, hope. 

I’m finding that every time I hold a boundary with my parents, every time I shine the light on their toxic and manipulative behavior, every time I use my voice to shatter the false illusion they so desperately try to build about the reality of living with them as parents, I feel my hope for the future swelling.

I have hope that my children will never experience the kind self-doubt I have experienced because they know my love is unconditional.  

I have hope that my children will never have crippling anxiety stemming from their childhood and not knowing whether their parents are so drunk that they pass out in the middle of a sentence, tear a phone from a wall, or hurl insults at them. 

I have hope that my children will find partners who don’t have to bear witness to the darkest places in life--the ones that happen when old traumas get triggered--because we are raising them in an open, loving, and safe home. 

I have hope that my children will always know I love them, their partners, and their children with all of my heart. 

I have hope that the chains of guilt, shame, and obedience that have tethered me to my parents for all these years will one day be completely broken, and I will be completely free. 

****
Originally published in November 2021 by Her View From Home HERE

I’ve lost count how many days this week have been gray, rainy, and raw - just like I’ve lost count how many days now I have woken with similar weather in my heart and in my brain.

Today I woke with hope in my heart that the sun would make its appearance and start to warm up all the cold

It didn’t.
The coldness was still there - inside and out.

I took a deep breath in and focused my ears to see if I could hear even a faint whisper of hope from some brave little bird announcing that things would soon be better.

I couldn’t.
All I could hear was the sadness and the rain.

I closed my eyes and steadied my thoughts to try to find the good in the world - the good that always exists even in the bleakest of times. But as soon as I picked up my phone and took stock of the state of things, the good started fading away. I tried to hold tightly and will it to stay.

It wouldn’t.
The negativity rang louder than the positivity just like most other days lately.

And so, instead I did the things that often counteract the world when it is gray and cold and drowning me.

I tried to protect myself from the stormy elements - inside and out. Like an umbrella protecting me from the rain, I turned inward and hoped it would be enough to help me avoid the words and weather that would sting me.

It wasn’t.
Like side swept rain which is no match for even the biggest umbrella, the storm found me anyways.

I enveloped myself in things that usually make me feel warm and safe, like weather proof boots and a warm rain jacket. I tried to rely on external comforts to make me feel full and strong enough to withstand the storm.

They didn’t.
I still felt weak and powerless and cold.

I decided all I could was my best.

I could do my best to stay standing.
I could do my best to not let myself break completely.
I could do my best to hang on to at least a tiny shred of hope.
I could do my best to believe that at some point the sadness and hopelessness and frustration and coldness will pass.
I could do my best to just keep going.

And so, I did.

Because I know eventually the clouds will run out of rain and the ugliness will move on again.

And eventually, the sun and the warmth and light and hope that come with it will return.

It always will. ​