“What?” I asked, slightly offended. “We’re still talking. That really hurts.” I was convinced that what he was doing was wrong, that he should have stayed engaged. The truth is, he should or shouldn’t have done anything. He’s free to do as he pleases. My bruised ego just didn’t want to acknowledge that fact, or the possibility that, in that moment, there might have been something more important than talking to me. The “me” being my delicate and demanding little ego.
The Story We Tell Ourselves
Jack, kindly, gave me an extra moment. I don’t remember exactly what he said because my brain wasn’t fully present, trying to manage this acute “threat.” Yes, I’m the anxious type, if you couldn’t already guess. Jack’s calm, soothing voice brought me back to reality, snapping me out of victimhood. Suddenly, I could see what was happening so clearly. I saw the story I was telling myself, a story that frightens me. “He doesn’t care about me.”
The deeper truth behind that story is even more confronting: my belief that my feelings aren’t valid, that they don’t deserve attention or care, and ultimately, that I don’t matter. Hidden deep within my body and mind is the immense pain of having felt so incredibly unloved when I was young, so unseen. And although I rationally felt I was valuable, the lack of attention and care made me feel tremendously unworthy.
The Roots of Unworthiness
This sense of unworthiness didn’t come from a belief but from lived experience. I told my therapist once that believing you’re valuable doesn’t matter if no one wants you. I used the analogy that if everyone in the world stopped valuing gold, its worth would drop to nothing. I could be the rarest diamond on earth, but if nobody wants it, I’m still worthless.
My therapist didn’t have a proper comeback, at least not one that changed the way I saw it. What eventually shifted my perspective was having friends and people who love me now. That gives me the confidence to set boundaries and not accept any type of behavior, something I used to do, which led to a series of abusive relationships.
Breaking Through the Pattern
Seeing this dynamic so clearly and snapping out of it so quickly is a breakthrough. Yet, right now, it doesn’t feel that way. I feel heavy, sad. As I write this, I’m trying to unravel it all. It’s as if I can feel that sad, young girl within me, the girl who suffered so much hurt, who felt so deprived of love for many years.
By my own belief in how to heal, the way forward is through the pain, through the sadness. So here I am, sitting with it. As I stare into the distance, I feel it in my chest, the ache in my heart. This part of me needs love, nurturing, and healing. I realize that it’s not Jack, nor any other person, who needs to be there for me to give me the love and support I crave. It’s me.
The Wounds of Childhood
As a kid, it was my parents I needed that from. They were supposed to keep me safe, to protect me from the terrifying world. But my mom had demons of her own, and my parents’ sweetness often meant avoiding any type of conflict, with other people, that is. Not so much with me.
My mom, likely unaware of how to raise a child, did her best. But that often meant ruling with tyranny, leaving me feeling unvalued, unseen, and most importantly, unsafe. My dad, in his effort to keep peace, put the responsibility for avoiding fights on me. He allowed my mother’s wrath to reign without protecting me. He never hurt me himself, he was always kind, yet, in his effort to not fail my mom, he failed to protect me.
This dynamic made it impossible for me to properly heal from some devastating situations in my childhood. It turned me into a sad, broken girl. I’ve fought hard to rebuild myself, to overcome it all. But inside me still lives that damaged girl, and today I saw her clearly. She isn’t mean or entitled, demanding attention just to be heard. She’s deeply wounded, and when she feels threatened, she shows the spines of a hedgehog.
The Path to Healing
So here I am, trying to process it all. Realizing that the tone of this story still displays a sense of victimhood. Realizing that Jack is just a mirror, not the fix. The universe has shown it to me before, but I wasn’t strong enough to see it yet. I idealized the people in my life, subconsciously believing the fix lay in receiving external love and care. If only it were that easy…
For the first time, I see that isn’t it. The fix lies in coming to terms with the pain and what happened to me. It’s about processing the hurt without attaching damaging beliefs to it, beliefs like “I’m not worthy” or “Nobody cares about me.”
No, enough of that. The answer lies in grieving the young child who suffered so much. And the only person who can do that now is me. It’s me who has the power to give that girl everything she’s ever dreamed of and to finally give her the gift she’s been waiting for so long: of truly being seen.
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