Sometimes with this mothering of myself, I make myself fucking knackered. I make myself stressed out ‘cos I just want to do the best, be the best I can be for myself. But sometimes I am starting to see that the gold dust is in the rest…in the not-trying-so-hard…in the having gentleness and compassion with myself…in the trusting that I am enough. Just as I am. Whatever that looks like and whatever that shows up like. Just so long as I am there for myself. That is enough.
I have been so aware the last few days, and week, of how we parent ourselves how we have been taught. It keeps on blowing my mind as I discover another way that I am mothering myself how I was mothered…it’s not just as simple as abuse, i.e. self destruct. It goes wayyyy deeper than that. I feel like I just can’t stop noticing patterns and things I do because they were shown to me. Like, my desperate effort to be perfect and be enough and be more than enough and to make up for the shitty bits in my life right now, by flooding myself with love and affection through the right food, the right ice packs for my weary back, all the right supplements and tinctures and teas and decoctions…because that is what my mum would do. She would suddenly get bursts of having to make up for all that she hadn’t been doing, hadn’t done, wasn’t doing, or abuse that she had laid upon me…us.
It’s a trait that ran clean throughout my years. The up down up down ALL OVER THE FREAKIN’ PLACE offerings of love…the fucked up and twisted love that I knew. It’s a trait I don’t want to know anymore. I want to know that I am nurturing myself because I want to. I want to know that I am nurturing myself because I can, and because I deserve it.
I don’t want rollercoasters, I want freedom from all that. I want stability and consistency – with the love I shower upon myself and in the life surrounding me. And in me.