Where to begin? In the present…or the past? Both have bearing on where and who I am now.
Only one problem…
I no longer know who that person is.
Am I the child who was never good enough, never worth loving, never worth a hug being returned, never worth a kind word that did not have a hidden agenda behind it?
Am I that person that was told that they were worthless, not even worth the air they breathed, a waste of skin?
Am I that person that their own blood kin do not want to be seen with for it would look bad on them?
That person their own child is so ashamed of them that they don’t even want to acknowledge them?
Or am I that person that taught herself Arabic and Urdu well enough to memorize three surahs, in full, well enough to recite them to a woman whose mother tongue was Arabic, and she understood, save for a few sounds that were not in English?
The person who taught herself calligraphy, drawing, painting, and is even now teaching herself coding?
That person who has been gifted with so many talents in art, poetry and writing, yet her works go unseen, her words unread, her voice unheard?
Am I that person whose very being is being torn apart by a soul deep yearning for acceptance, a hunger just once to be seen as herself, not what others try to mold her to be?
Who am I?
Am I the plain, fat, unwanted, unloved, lonely woman sitting in a place that has become little more than a prison for twenty one of her fifty three years…sitting trying to convey the confused tangle of thoughts onto a screen seen through tear filled eyes, her heart breaking?
I swore when I stripped this blog yesterday that I would not post again and risk the pain of seeing how worthless I really am made tangible, but I broke that vow this morning and again right now. But the words are hammering at my heart, seeking to be heard, just as I seek to be heard, seek to validate that I even exist.
I have both read and heard it said that events in our past form who we currently are…but what happens when the mold you were formed in was warped, cracked, twisted by ridicule, mockery, revilement, hatred, abuse, both physical and emotional…by words that cut oh so much deeper than any surgeons scalpel could ever cut, no matter how sharp it was?
What happens when the scars one bears are inside, soul deep…and never fully heal?
Who does that person become who has endured that? Do they have any right to aknowledgement, to caring, to love?
Up until recently, I believed I was unworthy of any and all of that. But I have been gifted in many ways, I am able to translate my dreams, both through my art and my writing, and I am able to teach myself…does that have no worth?
I received an email today, one that, after a day of deep soul searching, resulted in this post, and will result in my returning to posting. The person told me that one of the reasons many of my posts were not being read was not because they were not good, it was because they were so long. They suggested that I write out what I wanted to share first, then, if it was too long, break it down into sections.
So I will try that.
I offer my deepest and most heartfelt apologies to any that I may have offended, to any that I may have misjudged in my view of them as uncaring because they did not always comment. It is very hard for me to see that people are reading and yet do not seem to even think enough of my pitiful attempts to put a “like”.
By the time this post goes up, the other two will no longer be posted.
Thank you all for being patient with me,