A really crappy excuse for a human being.
I said something horrible to my child in a moment of anger.
I can't take it back.
And it was the truth, not the whole truth, a small part of a much larger, more complicated truth. But it was the worst part of the larger, more complicated truth.
It came from the relentless voice, small, sneaky, in the corner of my brain that likes to remind me that I will never, ever be good enough and doesn't understand why I try.
The disappointed part.
The analytical part, the one that tries to figure out why I can't seem to connect and build friendships with the women around me, in spite of my honest efforts.
This is the part that makes me seem cold, because I don't want to come off as too eager.
This is the part that makes me seem distant, because I don't want to end up self-centered.
This is the part that makes me seem quiet, because I fear my questions will be intrusive.
This part gets louder every time I try to make a playdate with a kid's mom, or a woman friend for some girl time, only to be ditched at the last minute.
This part gets louder every time I try to make plans, only to hear the word no.
I know how that voice got here. I know that it comes from all those years trying to navigate a social environment in which not matter what I did, it was wrong.
I hate that voice. I hate what it is still doing to me, at forty years old. I hate that repeated attempts at therapy have only achieved in silencing it for short periods of time.
I am trying so hard to get healthy again. Subjecting myself to injections every week to get rid of the allergies that have come close to crippling my life. There is so much in my life that is good right now, yet I can't seem to cease the act of self-sabotage.
I don't know what to do any more.
I said something horrible to my child in a moment of anger.
I can't take it back.
And it was the truth, not the whole truth, a small part of a much larger, more complicated truth. But it was the worst part of the larger, more complicated truth.
It came from the relentless voice, small, sneaky, in the corner of my brain that likes to remind me that I will never, ever be good enough and doesn't understand why I try.
The disappointed part.
The analytical part, the one that tries to figure out why I can't seem to connect and build friendships with the women around me, in spite of my honest efforts.
This is the part that makes me seem cold, because I don't want to come off as too eager.
This is the part that makes me seem distant, because I don't want to end up self-centered.
This is the part that makes me seem quiet, because I fear my questions will be intrusive.
This part gets louder every time I try to make a playdate with a kid's mom, or a woman friend for some girl time, only to be ditched at the last minute.
This part gets louder every time I try to make plans, only to hear the word no.
I know how that voice got here. I know that it comes from all those years trying to navigate a social environment in which not matter what I did, it was wrong.
I hate that voice. I hate what it is still doing to me, at forty years old. I hate that repeated attempts at therapy have only achieved in silencing it for short periods of time.
I am trying so hard to get healthy again. Subjecting myself to injections every week to get rid of the allergies that have come close to crippling my life. There is so much in my life that is good right now, yet I can't seem to cease the act of self-sabotage.
I don't know what to do any more.
