Unfilteredme’s Weblog

I walked into therapy today, nervous and shaken. I had gotten into a rather trivial argument with my husband before I left. Nevertheless, arguments–even trivial ones–always seem to put me a little on edge.

I brought my homework, which consisted of my journal entries here.

Every time I walk into that room, it makes me think of Alice and Wonderland. There is a checkered couch–blue and white. It has a throw on it that someone’s grandmother probably made, and these dark blue pillows in some faux denim material. To the right of the couch is an old, white built-in bookcase. It has books, of course, as well as playing cards, old dolls, and board games.

My therapist is very slim. She has shoulder-length blonde hair and a smile. She looks like Glenda–the good witch.

Anyway, I sat down in my usual spot. I always sit on the right side of the couch and rest on my pillow. I told my therapist, hoping and praying that she wouldn’t ask more about it, that I did my homework. Of course, doing what a therapist does, she asked and I got up the courage to read her my first entry Letter to My Parents.

I was nervous. I hemmed and hahed for a few moments before I read. At first, I kept my composure pretty well. Then, my voice started choking, I felt wetness in my eyes, and then I cried. I cried as I read the letter. I hadn’t reread the letter since I wrote it. All of those old, little girl feelings, that I thought I had gotten rid of, came flowing out in the form of tears.

I’ve been thinking about that moment all day. I don’t think I cried when I wrote that entry. When people ask me about my past, why I quit school, I relate the story to them without emotion.

I want to get that moment back. I felt so comfortable. It was a very selfish moment. For once, my feelings in regard to the way I was raised, were out there. I read the letter as if I were reading it to my parents. I felt a release inside of me. The hurt is still there; however, only slightly.

It was empowering. I am an adult. I do not have to live up to their standards and wishy washy ways anymore. I love them. But, at the same time, I also love myself.

This road has been so bumpy. At times, I feel as if I don’t know where I’m heading to next. I’m learning to love myself, however. I learning to love me. I am not perfect and I never will be. Logically, I’ve known that for so long. But, now I can really admit it to myself.  I can admit it to the part of me that withdraws and is afraid to cry or have negative feelings.

I am not perfect. Flaws, quirks, this cackling laugh–it’s all me.

I can love myself. I can and I will. I’m already starting.

-U.M.