The time is up on my self-hate

My entire wall is built upon events that happened before age 5. I know that for sure because I cried at the memory of one today. During my daily exercise that I was given to take down my inner wall, one event in particular came to mind. And while I stopped thinking and stayed with the memory, words came up as usual, “Why wasn’t I enough for you?” And this time pain came up as well. And it hurt. The hurt of a child, the woundedness of me. The funny thing about these experiences is that trauma literally blocks the heart. The heart has the capacity to feel so many emotions, especially love. Love for myself, love for friends, family, lovers. And when I release traumas by crying about them and getting angry, I feel the energy of the trauma move out of the way of the gate of your heart. With every tear, my heart opens a little bit more. And my world becomes a little bit brighter. But before now, I was a walking brain. Purely rational, purely stuck in one fixed routine and way of doing things. Not able to touch life, or experience the exhilaration and joy it has to offer. While I am closer than I ever have been, I am working on uncovering that joy. I have been in a very dark space for most of my life. But I thought it was normal. In fact, it is not normal to hate yourself. And now that I am working through these old patterns, I feel relief, but I am still in a kind of hell. As I bravely venture to the deeper levels of anger, I become more in touch with how angry I actually am, and my own innocence (still working on seeing it), and the hollowness of my capacity to love and future my own self. I need replenishment by clearing out the old, dead branches of my tree of life.

Anyway, when I was five my parents, who never had a wedding, got their wedding blessed. I was dressed up in a flowery dress, and looked beautiful, although somewhat plain still, I believe. The retelling of this event happens from my perspective and that is all that matters. One thing is for certain I can trust myself now when I retell events. Because the way they happened are the way that they affected me. I don’t need to question whether I am recounting the situation correctly. My cousins came up and they were dressed up as well. But, I feel they had stolen the show. They had stolen my spotlight. But in reality my mom had done that for me or was working on it, by that age already.

In present day, I feel physically how much uncomfort and blockage is built upon that event. How every day I live my life carrying that event and others- around with me. How that lease “they stole my spotlight” is embedded in how I see my reality. No wonder, that up until this point I only could touch someone through an instagram screen. That isn’t real love. I needed this. To learn to love myself. Then I have the power to attract the man of my dreams. But only when I work on my own internal obstacles that prevent me from seeing my light.