Expectations

This post has been percolating for some time.  The title in part explains my absence.  There has been a lot of movement in the past three weeks, too much movement.  Busyness.  I am wary of busyness because it used to be one of my old coping mechanisms so I didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to look at my stuff, let alone process.  I think a lot of the busyness distracts me from thinking and feeling.  Now I become wary when I get busy, I wonder whether I’m not feeling.

Another reason for my silence is because I want to respect the man I love.  I learnt a while ago that there are three sides to the truth, each person’s side and then the truth.  My version of events is portrayed here.  His is not.  It’s not fair for me to drag him through the mud because it makes me feel better by writing and exposing us to the world.  So I have been thinking about how to write, process and respect him a little better.  I want to be fair to both him and us and yet I still wish to write.  So here goes.

Expectations.  I grew up with much more than my fair share.  So much so that I often felt like I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.  I grew up with my parents’ hopes and dreams and found out with time that I was carrying their unmet wishes for themselves.  I was the hero child, the one who could do no wrong.  I jumped through hoops just to prove them right and I thought maybe, just maybe, they’d love me a little more if I did.  A sad realization that for thirty odd years I grew up not feeling worthy.  Now I’ve internalized a lot of those expectations, I’ve also managed to be gentle with myself and let some go.  Seems to me relationships call on our expectations an awful lot.

Failed expectations.  I have them.  I set myself up to have them.  The man I love doesn’t feel like he measures up to my expectations.  I can’t say I blame him because I can’t possibly live up to mine.  I can hear my counsellor’s voice saying: “how does this serve you?”  It doesn’t.  I know it doesn’t .  Yet I have lived with them for so long, they become second nature.  I’m hard on myself, some say extremely hard on myself.  I don’t see it because it’s just the way I’ve always been but it’s the aha moments that come unexpectedly which remind me of my toughness.

I remember teaching staff in the military telling me I had to toughen up.  If only they knew how tough I already was, especially on myself.  I’ve been really tough on myself in the past week or so.  I slipped, I went back to a drug of choice.  In the process I discovered I had built some integrity around myself, and didn’t step as far off the precipice.  Now I’m left with the uneasy task of forgiving myself.

My self-sabotaging behaviors have been out in full force since.  The feeling of unworthiness is rearing its head and activating the itty bitty shitty committee.  I’ve felt the furies pursuing my soul since. 

I need to forgive myself.  How does one go about forgiving themselves?  Little by little I’m told.  So I’m asking the Universe to please deliver me a little peace.

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