My Story

I may be foolish. Beyond foolish.  I may not be deserving.  Probably, I am not.

But I want someone to know my story.  The whole thing.  The dark horrible secrets.  The secrets I’ve never shared.  The horror I’ve kept to myself.  I want them to know how it began.  My life.  Born into chaos, confusion and instability.  Sensitive and shy child.  How never been good enough, never being enough, never being wanted or treasured wore me down and eroded my soul.  How abuse, neglect, judgment and denunciation affected me so deeply and negatively.  How it broke me.  How I wound up where I am today.  I want them to grasp what happened to me that made me who I am.  This hollow shell.  This ghost of a human being.  This inadequate mess.

I want someone to know me and to know why I am who I am.

I want someone to know my story and I want the knowing of it to matter to them.  If only as a cautionary tale.

I want someone to see clearly how the innocent little tow-headed girl I was so long ago, after experiencing the painful traumas I have experienced, became the tired, numb, disillusioned old woman I am now.  I want them to comprehend why I did the things I did.  Why I made the choices I made.  Why I felt and saw things the way I felt and understood them.  Why my life’s journey has been such an ordeal.

I want them to see through my eyes, just for a moment.  To hold my pain within them for a second or two.  I want to be more than tolerated.  I long to forge a connection.  One that brings understanding and acceptance.

I want them to feel the roughness of path I walked and I want them to experience it as if it forms the surface of the trail beneath their own feet.  To understand the difficulty I encountered and lived through.  I want them to know what it is to walk that ruthless path.  To taste the dust.  To comprehend the harshness of the journey.  To be touched; moved because of the knowing.  To give me a small nod of respect for having survived as long as I have, even if I haven’t done so gracefully.

I want at least one person in this world to understand those steps I took in order to survive.  The steps that I struggled to take when I felt as if I couldn’t go one step further.  As I attempted to find my way.  Small steps taken.  One at a time.  Pierced by agony, fear, shame.  I long for them to realize the reasons.  The injuries I had to overcome.  To fully comprehend the progress I’ve made in spite of the odds.  And to recognize why there are some things I have never managed to overcome.  I want them to hear me.  To feel my heart beat.  To connect.  To experience what it has been like for me to carry on with these wounds; to act as if nothing has happened, nothing is amiss, to bear the weight I have carried.  To survive the emptiness and torment.

I want them not to criticize me quite so harshly.

I want them to embrace who I am and why I am who I am without judgment or revulsion.  I want them to accept me rather than to reject me offhand because I am flawed and damaged.  Or because I am different.  I want them to feel a crumb of empathy when they see my scars.  Not pity.  But sorrow for what was lost and who I would have been if I hadn’t been abused, beaten down and loathed.  Hadn’t  been starved from lack of love.  Sorrow for how little love it would have taken to save me.

I want them to know what it’s like to believe you aren’t good enough to deserve the air you breathe.

I want their understanding of my journey and my challenges to change how they view the world and others who fight to endure.  I want there to be a purpose for the anguish I have experienced.  I want the pain to be redeemed.  The darkness to be turned into light.  The hurts to be made into diamonds.

I used to want more.  Much more.

But now, there aren’t many minutes of this excruciating excursion left before me.  The opportunities, and time, have slipped through my fingers, in spite of how diligently I have attempted to grasp them both.  I have failed, but not for lack of trying.

I want one person…just one person…to understand.  And to find some value in the pitiful and uninspiring story I have to tell.  The story of my life.  I want it to matter.  Just once.  I want it to matter to someone who will look at me and see me for all that I am.  Who will see something good in me, in spite of the mess and gore.  Someone who will recognize how painstakingly I’ve worked to keep from being  who I have become.  Someone who can appreciate how hard I’ve tried…not to be a bother or a burden or a disgusting disappointment…and see some value in the effort I have made.  Who can give me credit for how intensely I’ve fought, even though I have not prevailed.

Someone who can finally forgive me for never measuring up.  Who won’t demand that I make something up; something less dreadful and depressing.  Someone who can forgive me for being a failure.  And who can forgive me for not having a more pleasant, worthy, inspiring story to tell.

2 thoughts on “My Story”

  1. I will “listen”, I will “see”.

    I know the type pain you hide, I understand the desire to let it out. I’m not brave enough yet, but I’m working up to it.

    I’m thankful to find your blog. To find your words and your strength.

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