Journal Entry 12.15.23

Even as an infant my parents were preparing me for the notion that I was not important. The stories that our family told were all about how I didn’t matter, was wrong and bad, and was a betrayer for even hoping to be of value. I was born the wrong gender, I was a bother and an inconvenience as the youngest child when my mother already had two daughters to contend with, my toys, my desires, my interests disruptive and distracting to my father. All the stories, laughed about and retold, were gentle and funny reminders that to expect love in my family was a crime, a betrayal of my family. It has had such a gentle and pervasive effect on me that even now at almost 58 years old I still feel bad and naughty for wanting, let alone expecting, love. When love arrives I doubt it, crush it, run from it, am terrified of it. I bash and diminish love, myself, my lovers because it was such a bad and dangerous thing for me to want and to have love. I was taught that something disastrous would occur if I were to be loved and enjoy being loved. To this day, people appreciating, loving, valuing me, and me enjoying those things makes me horribly anxious. So anxious that my mind wanders looking for ways to destroy and diminish it. I struggle to control my thoughts. Yet another thing for me to unbind myself from.