Though I have a draw, dare I say a calling, to talk about things I don't actually want to talk about, I'm still hesitant. I've been bold, I've revealed secrets, I've been raw, but I'm holding back. You see my story isn't my own. My story, all of our stories, have other characters. I'm facing that to speak my truth means talking about experiences others don't want shared. This story isn't only about me.
I'm the villain in other people's stories. Though if they said the awful thing I did, I can fully justify it (to myself) that I had good reason for my actions. But to tell about the bad people in my life, or at least poor responses and actions, means opening it up for them to speak about me. It's fair. Am I prepared for the ramifications of sharing the stories where it's not all about me?
I hate confrontation. I despise conflict. No, I don't want to talk about it. Though the real bottom line is I don't want to hurt anyone. With the exceptions of a few evil monsters along the way, I'm not looking for retaliation. What I say may bring embarrassment to others. Would you want your worst mistakes told out loud?
Now though all this is the complete truth there is one big thing I'm not saying: I fear critique. The internet is a hard core place where people can hide behind a computer or phone and rip you to shreds. I fully own I'm too insecure to face that kind of ridicule. Or worse...laughter.
So just don't say anything, right? But it's eating me up. I'm no savior but I know I have important, and awful, experiences that someone needs to hear. I have what...30-40 years left at best? I don't believe in an after life, so why do I care? Perhaps only the writers, creatives and empaths will understand....I need to say it.
I realized a made a big financial mistake today. The short version is I thought I was contributing to an HSA but it was an FSA (use it or lose it) and I missed the deadline and lost quite a bit of money. OK, no one died, I'm fine but my fears of not having enough, not making it and survival are spinning out of control. Lesson learned, and it won't matter in the end, but it was my mistake. My Mistake. My Fault. My Screw Up. If you've read even a few of my posts you'll know that I'll get near ill at anything I don't do perfectly (which is pretty much everything).
I won't say I grew up poor; we had food, clothing and vacations, but there was a scarcity mentality. My father acted like we could be desolate at any moment and frequently said so. There was never a comforting, "You don't need to worry because your parents will take care of you." Money was something to be worried about and feared. Once my parents divorced when I was 15 we were flat out poor No new school clothes and cream of chicken soup with noodles every night for dinner. I once stole a bra from JC Penneys because I knew my mother didn't have the money to get me a new one. I came home sobbing and begging forgiveness to Jesus saying "What else could I do???".
From then on life was about hustle. I knew no one was going to take care of me and I was on my own. I can't recall the last time I worked only 1 job. My near constant thought was "What will happen to me if I don't have enough?" And enough of what? Money? Food? Clothes? Shelter? Any of it, all of it, even the unseen and unknown. What bad thing might happen to me and would I be prepared to handle it?
This lead to a life of a scarcity mindset. I remember once trying to choose between a pretty sweater I loved and some cheap t-shirts on clearance. I had the concern that if there was a war that I would need t-shirts to work in a machine shop and the beautiful sweater would be of no use. Was a fucking war eminent? NO! Yet somehow I was in terror that I might not be properly attired to be Rosie the Riveter. Anxiety doesn't always make sense. I bought the cheap t-shirts.
I've had the overwhelming desire to get rid of all the shit I don't use. Marie Kondo the hell out of my place. Now while being a big task this is much more about the petrifying fear it will bring. The shame of all the things I purchased and never used. The breath stopping panic that I might get rid of something I'll need later and then won't have the means to get another.
Back to my mistake. Again, I'm fine but it was a doozie. I'm livid at myself. Not allowing myself any grace here. But maybe, in going with my commitment to allow hope for a year, just maybe I can be OK.
