I know we all have baggage. Some more than others. Some less than others.
I have closets crammed deep and to the top, a storage unit full, and an 18-wheeler truck full of my baggage that follows me wherever I go.
Last night my husband did something that triggered me beyond reasoning. He was in the wrong and of course he apologized but this was after nearly an hour of my screaming and even tears.
Yes, I cried.
I got a hold of myself only when he matched my pitch and told me,
I am not your parents... I am not him... breathe and look me in the eyes...
Pressed into a corner of the room, it was then that I came back to reality. Suddenly he didn't look like my father anymore and his words didn't sound like my mother's searing rage.
He told me late last night, after we went to bed, in the dark so that he didn't have to see the hurt on my face, that he hadn't fully realized just how damaged I was until this episode. His words cut me to the bone because they were true.
I am damaged and on the off chance that a closet door is opened just a little too far, that baggage tumbles out crushing whomever is standing in the way. It is times like these that I feel so badly for my family. They did nothing wrong yet they are getting trampled by my past. Although not as bad, this is my mother all over again. Her past knocked me over flattened me. Damaged me and smothered me under her own musty baggage.
I can't be her. I just can't. It is not fair to my family and it is times like last night that I wonder what the fuck I was thinking when I started playing house.
“Shall I Crucify Your King?” #UNITE Linky
22 hours ago