“I want to know what my bullshit is. Is that under the umbrella of therapy?” I started seeing my therapist years ago as a preemptive measure. I wasn’t in crisis, but knowing the general concentration of my feelings, it seemed like a good call to get the ball rolling.
“Yes. Absolutely under the therapy umbrella. Are you sure you want to know.” Gotta love a woman that gives you fair warning before shit gets real.
“You let your background undermine everything you do.”
In other words, I am my bullshit. I doubt my right to have a voice because of the privilege I was born into. I believe that same privilege invalidates the work I do until that work matches what I’ve been given. I believe that any partner solid enough to stand with me will see that I’m a fraud, acting in my own life. And related to privilege or no, I am continuously unsure how to live in my body, a fact which makes loving myself incredibly tricky business.
I don’t know what your bullshit is. Or whatever it is you think makes you unlovable. But here’s mine. Given not to be made invalid with outsourced evidence to the contrary. Rather, I just want to place it here before stepping into my fourth decade later this week. I’d like to leave it in my twenties. To say it out loud four once so it stops gaining volume inside of me.
Here is my bullshit. Maybe it’ll make you feel less alone in yours. I’m done feeling alone in mine.