I inflict, conflicted
over which thing to punish my Self
more
for,
this time. Which not-good-Enough
is which, rich with the trodden
sweet-scented sticky sickness of
having failed one more time, grime
coating the Shoulds, adhering them
to my hands to carry,
evidence of my pithy
penny candy
problems.
How has trauma impacted your identity?
Do you hold yourself to higher standards than you do others?
What core elements of self do you tap into for strength?
Wow. This one took a cruel turn. I spent the past few days occupying an energy-intensive alpha portion of myself, in being “on” for high-profile work event. That self, if not quite working the room, certainly on and in it, engaged in the networking, celebration. Staying true to my values as a human being, and to the values my company incorporates into all we do.
But that part of me, that woman I sent to handle this necessity (though I don’t not enjoy it, other than the difficulties of travel), she looks down her nose at the Me writing this now; she still doesn’t understand the toll of this collective of Things (survivorhood hacking, fibromyalgia impatient, celiac swatter, anxiety wrangler, elfin earth mother), thinks it whiny, precious, snowflakey (though generationally I’m just too old for that shit), to be ridiculed as the worst possible example, in the eyes of strong women.
Something in these textural symbols makes me think movie theater stairs, concert venue floors. Sticky, dirt and burnt sugar grime. That’s how my Work self views this Real self. Still doesn’t really believe any of it’s real, constantly reminds me “at least it’s not______.”
(A historic allusion too, the penny candy: the grandfather would visit, gather neighborhood kids into his powder-blue Lincoln with the horn that played Yankee Doodle, Hava Nagila, take your mortifying pick, drive us to the pharmacy. We’d pick out candy, he’d pay, a demonstration of his largesse. The adults laughed at the cliché, because He “wasn’t like that.” I never saw any grooming. But what did their acceptance say to me? Because they celebrated him, too, as dirty old man. And many were in the room when his hands found their way to my body, his demands loud enough for all to hear.)
Odd, how what I posted most recently about embracing softness was still absolutely authentic, in that moment. This didn’t emerge until later, when I began to write.
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