Self Growth (2)
Wednesday: What emotions do you find it hardest to accept within yourself?
A very close friend who’s become family told me that I’m intimidating. That people would never think to comfort me or offer advice because I always appear to have it all figured out. And so the courageous ones humbly come to me for support, to get some of that strength and discipline. It took eleven years to hear this from my friend. She also said she thought I knew.
I had no idea. So many times my vulnerability hit high sky and I rock bottom. I started to think back at all those instances, whatever I remembered — because I used to hide the hurt so deep, that it would be close to impossible to dig out — and I realized that glimpses of this statement came from others, along the years, only that I took them as compliments and moments of pride.
How is it possible, I thought, that a person feeling more fragile than a butterfly’s wing inside could project intimidation? My tone, my demeanor, my whole body language exuded fierceness whenever I felt scared, lost, threatened, put down, broken. It was me against the world and so I looked tougher than the world combined.
So many windows opened in my mind. Starting with the vicious beatings I endured for no good reason. But there were reasons: the contempt and sheer disgust for my parents’ violence shone like an armor. I never shed a tear, no matter how ferociously it hurt. I never pushed back, letting the blows come, head held high, eyes piercing, forehead frowned, lips quivering with rage. Inside I felt like dying, betrayed, utterly alone and puny in a giant world where those who should have loved me and supported me called me mean, the devil. I had no idea that to them I indeed looked like one: some creature forever defying, inserted into their midst.
I’m trying to become aware. I’m learning to push my lips into saying what goes on inside, to explain my exterior reactions first to myself, then to whoever might be affected. My sweet sweet partner wouldn’t probably even know where to begin counting the times I wounded him with my gestures or words — my cries for help used to be rushed violent movements, harsh tones, outbursts of fury. Hilarious if you think of it, how my being acted as a weapon against myself, how I thought it a protective shield instead of a major off-putting attacking vessel.
Copyright © 2020 by Georgiana Petec. All rights reserved.
Thank you so much for reading.
Many many thanks to 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘊. for This Week’s Prompt: 14–18.12 :
