Not until my thirties was I able to acknowledge any semblance of myself and my issues . I judged them and judged myself. They were horrific and offensive to me. Scarlet letters . Only the seriously ill had them.
In reality: I did,too.
. Skid Row bums have serious life problems , Not teenagers who attend private school and live in gated communities. Society judges someone with them as a violent criminal. When I was young, my mother would say: through her watery eyes,” I wish I would just take your pain away, but I just can’t , Arlyn!”
Truth?She was right and that thought was unbearable .
Sometimes the suffering person is the teenage girl in your high school AP Journalism class who has emotional, mental, anorexia , and addiction problems. Staring blankly at the marred surface of her plastic desktop. Wishing like hell for the noise in her head to silence. Praying to come back to reality. Locked in the vicious cycle of her own mind. Praying to somehow find peace. This is one reason for my pervasive suicidal ideation. I didn’t know how else to end my mental torment..
On the surface: an everyday teenager. Albeit underweight. With bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils and reeking of alcohol. I’m not exactly sure. I’m certain that did not explain the fresh cuts on my arms. But only my therapists and parents asked about them. Maybe people thought I would somehow snap and turn my knife on them.
That was definitely a proverbial elephant in the room.
Beneath the façade dwelled a soul experiencing unimaginable pain. In my mind, I believed that hate and anger were strong. I had been spoon-fed this archaic belief. That hate meant strength. My juvenile mind believed this concept, trusted people were telling her the truth. Instead, it led her to loathe everything and everyone including herself. That, in turn, led to to people abandoning her in disgust. Hate tends to do that. Drive people away from the source. Conversely, other are drawn to it like moths to a flame. Because similarities cohabitate. Because hate my hate and fear were acting like an uncontrollable fungus in my brain. The result was a chronologically aged person throwing a temper tantrum like a toddler. My hate caused me to act like a screaming child whose parents will not buy her a lollipop at the candy store.
I’m fairly certain this helps me in the gym. I think when asked “how “! I just smile and think:
“These memories tend to make we want to explode. I suppose that’s the manifestation of love, kindness, empathy, and acknowledgment that people are not nearly as alone and different as they think they are ❤️”