Growing up. It's not pretty. It's not easy. No one ever grows up without scars. Emotional. Physical. Mental. We all carry these scars around with us everyday. My most obvious scar is the one over my right eye. I had a lovely set of stitches when I was five. Still to this day there is some debate about how I wound up going head first through a wicker table. I blacked out when I hit the table; memory doesn't start for me until a few moments later when I was crawling across the floor and became aware of the blood dripping from my face onto the hardwood floor. I vividly remember feeling the blood in my eye and watching it hit the floor with my other eye. My right thumb wears a huge scar from an unfortunate creamed corn incident. It's numb down one side because I damaged the nerves. There is also a scar on my elbow from a high school curling iron event. Yes, event. These scars are ones that have healed and the wounds are no longer painful.
It's the scars you can't see that hurt the most. The emotional and mental ones that never heal seem to burn and itch for ages. I find myself asking why. Why can't I just get over it? Why can I not let go of the pain? Why does it bother me so much decades later that a girl made fun of the ridiculous green and white sweater I wore in 7th grade? True, it was an ugly sweater that was an old one of my mother's, but it still bothers me that one person felt the need to call me out on it in front of others. She could have discreetly laughed at my 1983 sweater behind my back. Ha! Why do I still feel guilty for sticking my foot in my mouth at Bible study more than a year ago and making another woman cry? She isn't bothered by it and has told me repeatedly that I shouldn't let it bother me. But it does.
The root of the problem is me. It is my responsibility to forgive myself for the things I have done and let go of the past. It is my responsibility to forgive others for what I perceived as a slight.
I remember an English class I took in college where the class dissected a poem. It was a suicidal poem in nature. I don't remember the lines exactly, but it was something to the effect of:
Not good enough.
Not strong enough.
Not smart enough.
Not pretty enough.
I remember the professor asked if anyone had any thoughts about the author. I raised my hand and remarked that the author was selfish. The understood subject of each sentence is I. I am not good enough. I am not strong enough. I am not smart enough. The author made everything about her. I, I, I. Me, Me, Me.
That's how I feel about the way I carry hurt and guilt. It is selfish of me to be so very concerned with what I feel and felt. It is possible that some of the hurt I carry with me everyday is justified, but I should still let it go. Lugging around those emotions day after day isn't affecting the other party involved; it only makes me tired. I am beginning to realize how counter productive I have been. I am making changes in my life to help let go. As difficult as it is, I am letting go of the emotional cutters. I am taking responsibility for my emotions and relinquishing the guilt and pain.
What's different?
Me.