Good gratefulness.

I grew up trying to be grateful.

Which sounds like a good thing.

When you grow up with an abusive, hyper-critical, likely BPD-stricken parent, this idea of gratefulness can ruin you.

I decided to take the good with the bad at a very young age. Sure, they are doing things in the wrong way, but let me take what they say to heart. So I looked passed the screaming, the hitting, the manic-depressive episodes, and I decided to take the criticism to heart. I thought there really were grave, serious problems with me (after all, I made Jesus die an excruciating death with my sinfulness) and I decided I would fix them.

And I tried, and I tried, and I tried, and I tried. And I could never make them happy.

Until I decided to be a missionary in Africa. I was thin, tan, blonde, young, obedient, stayed away from boys (who would've messed up my future unless they were the ONE, PERFECT man for me), and dedicated to doing the most spiritual thing I could possibly do.

I escaped into things that seemed spiritual. It was the only way I could win.

And just when everything was going peachy keen, my body, my savior, my last unsevered connection to my intuition, began to ruin itself.

I am forever thankful that my body keeps me grounded.

I gained 30 pounds, I started to break out, I couldn't cry while holding orphans dying of AIDS. My body was screaming at me that SOMEthing was very, very wrong.



Looking back, I'm not sure where I found the strength to listen. My willpower was so utterly broken down. But they call abuse survivors "survivors" for a reason. Because I could've just stayed where I was and let my soul die. But I didn't. I fought for it.



Then I found myself in college and refusing to belittle my issues. I was so loud about them. My roommates had to deal with them, my friends, the guys I dated. Even that blasted parent had to. No more would I apologize for being human. No more would I accept whatever shitty way someone decided to treat me. I stood up for myself and tried to stand up for others when I could.

I refused to simply forgive and forget. I might forgive later, but for now, I was going to seek justice, or at least seek to name bad things as bad.

And I named, and I named, and I named, and I named. I couldn't name enough of the atrocities that are committed every day and accepted as a normal part of society merely because they are so common.

And now I find myself starting over with a slate dirtied by the many erase marks. And I name good things and bad things. I am attempting to be even-handed. I will not return to accepting abuse as good. I hope to not reject good things for fear of being abused. I hope to see good for what it is and bad for what it is.

It was sad and angering that I had my phone stolen. I cried on the phone as I told my boyfriend what had happened. I couldn't help it. And I also didn't need to. I spoke to the thief and treated him as an equal, even when my intuition told me not to. It's unfortunate and complicated that my white guilt pushed me to ignore my intuition and not think to safeguard everything around me (although, I apologetically embraced my possible racism and grabbed my pepper spray thinking I was at risk for being attacked, not my phone).

It was kind when the woman at our phone company pretended we had insurance so we would be spared an even more agonizing process. She broke the law for me. The man who stole my phone broke the law against me. Funny how that works.

I grieve the bad and celebrate the good, however small or large.