“You Complete Me” and Other Lies I Tell Myself

Today I was miserable.  I slept deeply last night thanks to modern chemistry, but I slept very long and it was not terribly restful.

As I was laying in bed trying to just rest a thought crossed my mind: “if only I had someone to do things for for, I wouldn’t be so empty inside”.

Did that come from inside my head?  Mine?  Ms Spokesmodel for Independence since October 2012?

Yep.  It did.  It came from inside my head.  Which means I have a problem.  Well, I still have a problem.  Because this is an old problem for me: I jam whatever else I can in that empty space except what actually belongs in there.

I knew I had this hole, and I know I’m the only thing that can fill it.  But I’m afraid I’m going to stuff that hole with something else but me.  Why?  It’ll hurt less than filling it properly.  It’s easy for me to serve others.  I’ve been conditioned to do so since before I have memories to say for sure.  So I serve.  My religion at that point even reflected that.  I was encouraged to serve selflessly.  While I still think that’s a good idea in moderation, I never got the memo about taking care of oneself and how that’s essential.

In spite of this early conditioning I now know that I am the first one I need to serve.  I cannot pour from an empty cup, after all.  But I have been more comfortable trying to serve others than filling my own cup.  Or learning to fill my own cup.  There, that’s more accurate.  I’m still learning how to fill my own cup.

That’s where the lie of the other half comes in.  The mind abhors a vacuum, and will stuff anything at all in it.  Because my “cup” is empty, I need to fill it.  And the easy way is to fill it with another.  I did it when I was married.  In fact, that may be a reason I did marry.  It gave me purpose.  It gave me direction.  I was an empty cup, starving, and I filled myself with a husband.  With domestic responsibilities.  With his expectations of me. With dreams of a family of my own.  It was easier than filling the void with myself.  I was no one special, no one at all.  How did I deserve to have my own life?

I’m learning that I was wrong.  Very much wrong.  I was, and am, a decent and good person.  I do deserve my own life!  And say I wasn’t.  Say I was the shittiest person that ever lived. I still deserve my own life because everyone does.

Now that I’ve gotten this off my shoulders and out of my mind, I can keep on learning to fill myself with myself.  And maybe do it better than before.


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