“Here—read this.” My mother shoved a religious tract from her fundamentalist religion into my hand. I stared at it, dumbfounded, reluctantly accepting the pamphlet. I didn’t want it, but honestly, I didn’t believe I had a choice. Her tracts carried more than words. They reminded me of how, as
I was walking my German shepherd down the street, when a tan Chihuahua darted off a porch, racing toward us, barking and growling. I quickened my pace, hoping the feisty pup would tire out and return home. Instead, the dog continued after us and wandered into the middle of the
My father was the only person allowed to express anger in my childhood home. He wielded his rage like a sword, ready to slice apart anyone who showed the slightest hint of the forbidden emotion. One day as an adult, I had a disagreement with him. I felt my anger
My mother had a scrapbook documenting her children’s accomplishments. Newspaper articles, photos of trophies, letters of praise—all carefully preserved between the pages of a notebook, but not one mention of me in the entire book. Whenever I saw that scrapbook, I felt bad about myself. I believed there was something
My parents blamed me for the dysfunctional mess in my childhood home. The anger, abuse, beatings—all occurred because of me. Over time, I developed a distorted sense of responsibility. I saw myself as the tail end of everything and blamed everyone else for my misery and discomfort. I thought
“It’s all your fault. It’s your fault they did that.” Those words were repeated to me over and over during my childhood. Each time I heard them, I added another rock to my ever-growing sack of guilt. By the time I reached adulthood, I blamed myself for everything that went
When I was a young child, I was raped. The church I attended blamed victims for a sexual assault, claiming they had sin in their lives, had disobeyed God or were simply wearing the wrong clothes. One church leader said rape survivors like me were worthless pieces of chewed-up gum
The religious tract read: “Value others above yourself. Sacrifice your needs for other people.”
For many years, I did just that. I spent my days making certain the people around me had their needs met, but I ignored my own. I tried to make everyone else happy, while I made myself miserable. I believed others knew what was best for me and often disregarded my own insight on matters. After doing this for several years, my health declined. I became bitter, resentful, angry and depressed. I had been drained dry.
Was it dead? The summer sun blazed down on the bare branches of the hibiscus. The limbs of the normally robust shrub were empty—not a leaf or bloom to be found. Still I refused to give up. I believed it would spring back to life. It just needed more time.
My relative scrunched up his nose. “That’s not good enough.” I turned away. My head dropped, and my shoulders sagged. His remarks reminded me of my abusive childhood. My parents beat me regularly and said I deserved it because I was a bad person, an evil being, a rotten soul—and
