This week's blog post has been inspired by some words which jumped straight from a page and into my heart…
“I’d rather be all by myself, barefoot with wild hair, talking to the moon than just parts of me that fit in with how people expect me to be.”
(credit Wild Woman Sisterhood Official)
How many of us have broken ourselves into lots of small pieces to fit in, to belong, to be acceptable to others - for our whole lives?
Severely sabotaging the actual individual human being that we were born to be, exchanging our wonderful souls, our brilliant minds and our natural talents for an existence which wasn’t meant for us. We existed, we survived - but we never felt at home. We never felt completely safe or content, and few things felt within our control.
How many of us have scrambled around on our hands and knees, trying to gather our scattered broken pieces so we can put ourselves back together and show up in the world as the person we really are? The person who we were meant to be. One whole person, who shows up as the same person regardless of their surroundings, other people, social expectations and any number of other reasons forcing us to change to make us more acceptable.
And how many of us have been on such extraordinary, painful yet enlightening, self-discovery journeys, which required immense courage, strength and bravery, only to be rejected by the people close to us because we’re not the person we used to be?
And, as we sit here today, nursing broken hearts and mental scars that few others can see, how many of us actually quite fancy a life of alone time, wild hair and talking to the moon?
I know I desperately do.
This morning, while driving my children to the bus stop, I saw the fairground leaving town. A convoy of different vehicles, of all shapes and sizes. I felt a strange feeling inside - I wanted to go too. To leave. To move on. To break free. This was somewhat surprising, considering how much I hate fairgrounds, but it was like I’d been possessed by a strong-willed toddler, who was stamping and shouting to get me to notice her strong desire to pack up and move on.
Doing a u-turn with a car full of kids to follow the lure of the waltzer didn’t feel like a realistic option for me this morning, so I continued with my mum journey, feeling chained to my old ways because of the choices I made before realising the very foundations on which my life was built, aren’t really foundations at all.
To look at me, you would never have known there was a huge sinkhole sitting beneath my very existence. I watched other people, I followed the rules to the letter and I was winging it every single day. I copied pictures from magazines, literally bringing them to life. I copied characters from books and movies. I followed the patterns of life, which others seem to navigate seamlessly, trying harder and harder every day to be good enough to be loved. Some friends called me Superwoman. It baffled me how they couldn’t see the immense effort going into every single day.
The more I did, the more others took from me.
I was a great friend to too many people. Our home was always just so. I cooked everything from scratch. I nurtured our children with an abundance of love and care, making sure I gave them all the tools I never had. I succeeded at the big job, over delivering year after year after year out of pure fear. I did what I needed to do to fit in, to make friends, to appear successful, to survive - because I didn’t know any better.
But one day the ground beneath my feet started to crack.
I cried for help, but no-one listened.
They turned a blind eye, and the sinkhole dramatically caved in and swallowed me up. Years of trauma, layer upon layer at home and at work, took their toll. People pleasing to the extreme became unsustainable. I burnt out, collapsed with exhaustion, exploded with fear and then rage. The people who had taken everything from me, stepped backwards - some even kicked dirt over me so they didn’t have to look at the harm they had done. In my time of need, they walked away. I wasn’t useful to them if I had needs of my own.
I reached out for help, but it was difficult to find, but from nowhere a rope appeared next to me at the bottom of the sinkhole. At the other end of the rope stood a stranger who could see the real me and who knew how to guide me to safety.
A stranger who cared enough not to walk away.
In the early days of my climb back to the surface, I set one simple rule - history will not repeat itself, I will never ever let my children down. I used every bit of energy I had left to fight for my kids, and in doing this I saved myself.
I’m incredibly grateful that the mask I used to hide behind is buried forever at the bottom of the sinkhole. I am a shadow of the person the world used to know as me, but I am finally free to be me. To be the person I should have been all along.
I’m exhausted, hurt and overwhelmingly fearful of sinking again, but I’m slowly learning what my needs might be and how to ask for what I need. I’m slowly learning about the things which make me tick and give me joy. Against a tide of resistance from those around me, I’m slowly eradicating unhealthy people and practices from my life, vowing only to invest my time, love and energy in people who are prepared to love the whole me just as I am.
The me who spends time all by herself, walking barefoot with wild hair and talking to the moon.
NB After a cup of tea, it quickly became clear to me that my sensory needs would not cope well with fairground life, obviously! But I can’t and won’t ignore the warning which came from deep inside me this morning as the trucks drove out of town.
This blog post is written by Ginger Writer - Gingerly becoming the writer I was born to be who is a community member, and forms part of a 6 week blog series, where Ginger Writer will be writing for us and sharing her words.
Main Blog Image: Photo by Dylan Alcock on Unsplash
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