Story tellin’

We all have a story. If you are the one telling yours it means you have completed a chapter. Maybe even a book. If someone else is telling yours, it means they are lying or you are dead.

[Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.-Mark Twain]

Here is part of mine.
About four years ago I came to terms with a real problem. I was angry. If you had asked me then, I could’ve given you a laundry list of all of the reasons why (then in the next breathe, be upset with myself for complaining about my life). Today the only reason, the one that wouldn’t have made my four-years-ago list, is that I didn’t love me. You might be thinking, wow, this is going to turn into a pile of lovey bullshit real quick, but stay with me

I was caught in a vicious cycle. Lose my shit, be nice and try to hold my anger in or rationalize crappy things, lose my shit. Until one day, I loved myself just enough to hate my path.

After a fit of rage, a concussion and hours of barfing on the half, a friend of mine suggested I seek help. I did.

I sat on a couch and reluctantly opened up to someone who I paid to listen to me talk. It didn’t set me on the path I walk today, but it did pull me into the parking lot, reach over me, pull up the lock (the kind that sit by the window, the long metal indicator that you remember watching your older brother or cousin rest their finger on and then push down right when you pull the outside handle. The hot, metal, straight from hell-handle). Anyway, therapy opened the passenger door and kicked my ass out of the car. It threw some tools out the window as it pulled away. I’m not complaining, a lot of my baggage was in the trunk.

From there I started walking. Repeating my same old mistakes. A few steps forward a bunch back.
That healing back and forth dance led me to be open to friendships outside of my three kids and my husband. One of those friendships made me admire strength. One of them taught me boundaries. One made me feel beautiful. One lead me to a twelve step group. Yeah, the serenity prayer. All of that. Holding hands with strangers.

I shared at every meeting, I listened too. Mostly, I thought, holy shit I don’t want to end up like that. Only thing is, I already had. So just like any body from any twelve step program says, like they’re coming to some profound awaking, I made a choice. I wasn’t afraid to be alone anymore. I’d stop fearing it. It’s not until now, years later that I understand the fear. I was afraid of who I would see in the mirror looking back at me. Who she was, was so lost on me.

I came to some hard terms. Life had to slap me in the face. The grief, that flu of life, you know it will end, but when you’re in it you aren’t so sure. So you relapse if you’re like me, then you depend on someone to tell you what you are, even if that means hearing you’re a piece of shit, manipulative bitch who ruined their life, or that you’re so intelligent and beautiful. Then you proceed to blame someone for not carrying those ideals for-fucking-ever. Why would I be me when you can just tell me who I am?

The terms I’ve come to are that I deserve the best for and from myself. There are amendments I keep trying to slip into the terms, when I feel like I don’t quite deserve the best, they cause my terms to become null and void. I keep having to rewrite them. I try to slip in passes, so I can deconstruct my framework, old patterns are hard to break. Even when there is no one left to blame, I set things on fire and watch them burn. Then I pick up my tools and rebuild. I know this is part of it, and the sister to this part is unconditional love. Apologies. Forgiveness.

So what happened when the car pulled away? After waking around, kicking up dirt, collecting some stones to throw, I stood in the parking lot for a real long time. I planned some escapes because fuck facing reality. Can’t I just hitch a ride to another life? The car came back around about a year ago. It was dark outside. Dark, cold, miserable fucking wintertime, that I hate. Need a ride? I did. I needed some more tools, for my solo climb.

My marriage took the biggest hit. Mine was a marriage between two unhealthy individuals. And this one, she wanted to start climbing. And she wanted to do it alone. She had to. And she is.
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