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Category: poems

Validation

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In someone else’s story, we are a villain. Despite this, we must know our own truth. Knowing is not enough, however.

In addition to knowing our experience, we must also give ourselves back to ourselves.
We must reclaim our lives back from the people, places, and even the very things that bring out the victimhood in us, even if our biggest obstacle is our inner critic.

Learning how to talk back lovingly but assertively to the voice inside that tells us we are undeserving, too lazy, too noisy, too loud, too much – is, therefore, an indispensable key to living life wholly again.

Validation of self is far more effective than validation from another. We won’t always have someone there in the flesh to make us feel good. We won’t (or don’t) always have a lover to tell us how beautiful, priceless and intelligent we are.

Self-love begins the moment we realize we don’t need someone to tell us we poop gold because we already know we do.

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Step 1: We Admitted That Our Lives Had Become Unmanagable

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I did it. Tonight, I joined a Codependents Anonymous Support Group, otherwise known as Coda. I am codependent to a larger degree than I had thought. I also don’t know where all of this shame is coming from, but I’m happy that I’ve taken the initiative.

I’ve known that I was codependent on an intellectual level; tonight I dug a little deeper. This happened by accident. Someone who is struggling was referred to me yesterday evening. My friends know me as someone who is kind, compassionate and a person enjoys lifting people up. I really do love being a helper.

The issue, here, is that I often suffer from burnout. I will toil, and toil, and will not rest. And boundaries? Pfft! Hardest thing ever!

Not to worry though, I’ve taken baby steps. I can acknowledge when things are getting a bit hazy, and when I need to step back. As an example, I formed a bond with my friend and we clicked instantly. Consciously, I put in the effort to ask her if she’s had enough time to “recharge her batteries”. If she has, then we talk. If not, We miss each other healthily until our next conversation.

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Growing up without a mom for most of my life was really shitty. It still is. My mom deserves to rest in peace. Therefore, I won’t go into too much detail about the why and how of her passing. I only know that losing her was brutal. I was a self-absorbed little shit, as all children are, (and I try to constantly remind myself of this so that I don’t punish myself for her death). I digress.

I didn’t have the chance to appreciate my mom.

I was busy trying to sort out these weird feelings in my head, like “Why are these teachers so mean to me?” and “Why can’t I go to my grandma’s house? Nobody screams, fights, or flips their lid every two seconds there.”

And: “Why are you screaming at me because I can’t count quarters correctly?”

Look, I love my mom. I know moms are stressed, tired, and way undervalued; I’m just stating my truth.

My mom could not cope. My mother loved me and I loved her, but it is simply time to let this shit go; I will never be able to move forward if I do not. My mother could not cope and I got the brunt of all the irritation, jealousy, and insecurity.

I catch myself behaving in these negative ways. It’s time for them to stop.
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So, yeah: step 1: My life is a mess at this point, though I do have to say I’ve still made awesome progress. Now, it’s time to change my stinkin’ thinkin’ and realize that even though things are a mess, I’m still worthy.

Indigo

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There’s always been someone there when I felt like I wanted to end my life. Giving up is harder than pushing forward when there are these indigo children just like you, begging you to listen. So I do. I do not mean indigo children as in ancient aliens or the oval-shaped dudes on spaceships. I mean indigo, the color a child chooses to smear on her oil-painting as she tells me, someone who is three times older than her that I cant control my life, and that when I’m sad there’s nothing I can do but feel something.

There’s always someone there when I want to end my life.

She welcomes me home and does not know I have been trying to be a safe place for others to lick their wounds in, but still I am the altar left to collect dust from their mouths.

She says we’ll get out of here. She welcomes me home, and I forgot that I wanted to die.

There’s always someone there to remind me of what it means to be alive.

Sometimes I forget

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Time moves on, and I have held on 
Still, I will weep for the child 
That got lost in the abyss.

I can feel the ache in me
When I think back to all those homes
That I could not escape

I was too old at eighteen.
I left with nothing.

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I am twenty-six now,
and sometimes I forget my age.

I forget that I'm in charge of me
I'm in charge of my feelings, now.

At times, this joyous freedom is too big a responsibility.
This is normal to a degree, but 

Sometimes I forget my age,
When I think of 
What people are capable of 
Doing to a child 

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Sometimes, I forget my age
When I think back on where I've been 
Or when I say I want to go home;
I forget that I pay rent 

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Sometimes I forget to remember that I am home.
Sometimes my mind forgets that I'm home.

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I want to go home 
And know that I am there,
For once 


About Yesterday

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Yesterday, I did not turn around.
There was some comment
About how I'm a blonde now, 
But, I'm not.

"It's bleach,"

I let you pretend
That our house wasn't on fire.

"Do you like it?"

You ask this in a way that reminds me
 you like to make my mouth your favorite fishing spot.


"It's whatever,"
I've learned a lot about lying from you.



You only came over to look around.
But you've covered your eyes.



I look over and I see your child 
Repeating the same mantra,

"I am not a dock, there are no fish here,"



We repeat this together until you leave.
And then you do.



Our life resumes.




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A.D.D.

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The personality of a stinging bumblebee,
This tongue defies gravity.

Mind the words,
Mustn't make them feel threatened.

Talking too much -
Too often our conversation's death sentence.

See, here I go again!

These parables in my throat,
Plead for ice-water
There is a special kind of Hell for untold stories.

I'd offer you apologies,
But that would turn into ten-million other stories
Probably about how I've always been made to apologize
For the gymnasts that are my thoughts.

They only know summersaults and headstands.
And all I wanted to say was,
Yeah, I hear you. I understand.




				

Be Like Water

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Pain felt, morphs into more love to pass on.

Somewhere in our own personal hells
We learn how to detect when someone else, is in that same fire.

The lava and brimstone of our own anguish,
permits us to become a river
For the ones set ablaze.

Why then,

are we made to fear Hell?
Why then,

do we run?

I say to you, come what may
devils, depression, or snakes-in-disguise.

Bring on the fire.

I will have learned how to be.

Pain will teach you to be like water.

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