In my lifetime I have been told I am miserable.
I’ve heard it from more than one person. I’ve heard it from people in my family…and I’ve heard it from people who have no way of knowing me, for instance, my daughter’s step-mother, because she has always refused to speak to me or acknowledge my existence…beyond, of course, assuming that I am miserable.
Whenever I have heard this I have always been speechless. It always has hurt me is such an unreachable place I don’t even know what the feeling is that it brings up for me. It’s so unexplainable and I’ve never been able to understand being informed of my misery, lol.
I still can’t really understand it.
But I’ve been dealing with a lot of things lately. Coming back to life gradually, in bursts. So I’m looking at my past and my history to what has brought me into being born all over again. This privilege I get, that sometimes I have to work at accepting because of the pain it also brings with it. It brings with it the reality of my life.
And so I run into the past.
I don’t run toward my past. I run into my past. (And that is a very big distinction.)
As I move forward, my past is there. It greets me, and I can’t move beyond it without acknowledging that it is there.
And so I’ve been thinking about times in the past I’ve been told or heard that I was miserable and the turmoil and confusion that has always caused to erupt from inside of me. I could never figure out why I was hearing that because inside of me my heart was not miserable. I didn’t feel miserable…but I eventually started believing that I was, indeed, miserable.
“You’re a miserable person.”
“You’re a miserable excuse for a person.”
I didn’t understand.
It did hurt though.
It hurt A LOT.
And I was alone for so many years and nobody ever told me otherwise.
I still couldn’t figure out why that must be what I was.
Because even though I probably should have been, I wasn’t.
However, I experienced my confusion about being miserable as…miserable!
Well, I’m happy (not miserable) to say that something has occurred to me over the past day or so.
I’ve realized that the people who have ever told me that I was miserable were possibly, themselves, miserable in some way. However, I would never say this to another person. I couldn’t imagine telling another person they are miserable, even if they were inflicting (or projecting) misery onto me. I can’t even imagine ever saying it which gives me some sort of faith that misery is not what defines me.
It still hurts so much that people who were designed to love me when I needed them most did not love me enough to be able to see past their own pain.
But I’ve been in therapy for the last couple of years with a therapist who treats me with dignity, and even though receiving respectful, compassionate care has been the most excruciatingly scary, I’m beginning to take some breaths of respect and compassion for myself. It hurts, but this is the part about running into my past I’m talking about. It takes me back to all those places where history got it wrong. My life has been given grace to correct itself.
For all the times I could never reply, I am hitting “Reply All.”
“I am not miserable. I am not a miserable person, and now that I love myself I have no excuse to believe that anymore.”
So to my brother and to my mother, I hope this finds you well.
And to my daughter’s step-mother, I would still sit down and have a cuppa with you anytime your heart will allow.
I’m my own person now. I would love for you to get to know me.