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Pushing

I used to actually think that, deep down, everyone hated me, whether they were nice to me to hide it or not.  I realize now that this was a result of my abuse from when I was a child.  I was beaten whenever I questioned the things my mom did, because she felt like I was disrespectful for disagreeing with her.  She did everything she could to make me the way she wanted me to be and told me that I was unacceptable if I didn't push myself as far as I could go.  Even then, my best was never enough.  I was never accepted by my mom, who I (like any child) loved.  I began to "realize" that I could never be accepted by anyone.  Who would love me if even my own mom thought I wasn't good enough?

My dad loved me very much.  It made him happy to see me, and I saw that.  One of my favorite childhood memories with him is when we were waiting for the bus on a sunny day (I think he brought me to work or maybe he took me out to the city).  I was just happy to be with him and be able to talk to him and for him to appreciate that.  God knows I couldn't have put it into these words at the time, but I can now.

My dad was seriously drained by work, by his abusive family, by my mom... It wasn't his fault, though.  I always loved him without reservation. I eventually learned that I could not love my mom.  It made me feel broken inside.  It made me miserable that all of my friends at school would talk about how much they loved their moms while all that I felt when I thought of her was a consuming void, like a pit in my heart.

Eventually, I discovered religion and I felt like sharing this great joy and triumph that I had found was more important than what anyone thought of me.  I wanted people to find the happiness that I found in my life, so I learned to push myself because I was more than enough, not because I was less than enough.  My cup ran over, and I wanted to fill every glass in the house.

In time, I found people who cherished that.  I found people who envied it.  I found people who hated it.  I found people who felt despair because they lacked that in themselves.  All the while, "Here I am.  I want to share with you, because I have enough.  I love you."

It's true that life has sometimes hidden that from me.  It's true that I am sometimes jaded and I don't want to share because of all that has been taken, but I always seem to pick myself up sooner or later.  I always seem to run into someone whose life is blessed by mine, and my heart spills over again and again.

It's just like the story about Christ breaking the bread and feeding the masses.  I don't remember the numbers, but thousands of people were fed with a few loafs of bread and a few fish.  When the food was blessed and broken up, the disciples came back with baskets full of food.  Whether it is a miracle that truly happened or whether it is nothing more than a parable, it is beautiful.  Somebody wants your love.  You may feel pain when you bless and break your heart, but sharing those peices will fill you.  You will find that you have more in your heart than you could ever need.

SeraphicWannabe SeraphicWannabe 22-25, M 4 Responses Mar 1, 2009

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Wow your story is almost exactly like mine! I was beaten by my mum but loved by my dad, trouble was I was so traumatised from my mums actions I couldn't bring myself to be close to anyone for years.



Now though I have a loving boyfriend and a great family. There is always light at the end of the tunnel, it's getting through the tunnel thats the tricky part :-)

I am honored that you call it an "end piece." It makes it sound valuable.

That is a beautiful story. And I love the end piece.

that's the thing: I am afraid to give, sometimes. Only now am I realizing that I don't always have to go out of my way to give. I think it's just as important to take from life and savour every last drop. I believe that is part of the key to all of this.