The Silenced Conscience…

…

It shows up every day.

Mostly in the mornings.

But not because it’s meeting me to tell me what to do today, but because it’s reminding me of my yesterday.

It asks me, “why did you ignore me? Why is it that when you were trying to decide between the easy thing, and the noble one, you taped my mouth, tied me down, and acted as if I did not exist?”

So, I realized two things:

Everything that I do matters. And what I do today will determine how I feel about myself tomorrow.

Meaning that every day is a chance to compound the chances of whether I accomplish my goals or not.

Meaning…will I do everyday the thing it takes to make a dream, no longer a dream?

Seems amazing I’m just now figuring this out in my 30’s, right?

…

I used to wake up to thoughts of self-hate.

Every. Day.

It materialized at the beginnings of becoming a teenager, and lasted, unhinged, until I made it to about 30.

Honestly, I don’t know how I motivated myself to do anything. I was brutal to myself, before I was even awake enough to understand what was going on. There was no stopping it. It was these thoughts that would rouse me.

“You’re pathetic.”

“I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“Why does anyone love you?”

“There’s no point. Just finish it already.”

“You’re a piece of sh*t.”

Thinking back, I think it was desperation that kept me moving. That and the “superman complex” we all tend to have from fifteen through our twenties.

You know, Fast and Furious lifestyle…

…

Here’s the thing though.

The darkest part of this, isn’t the statements themselves, but that I had no reference to where they came from.

How could I dissolve what I couldn’t pin down?

Kids aren’t educated on how to understand the Self and the Ego. Nor are they taught to understand emotional irrationality, desires and aspirations, healthy independence, and social incorporation.

We’re not taught anything on self-discovery and that living a life isn’t purely about responsibility to society, but responsibility to adventure and self-actualization that demands discipline and responsibility.

But, I digress.

…

That self-hate speech?

These weren’t words spoken to me by anyone, but they were what I fabricated myself from the life mistakes that I made that triggered an emotional state in my then father figures:

I accidentally forgot my shoes at my father’s house and didn’t realize it until I got to the airport with my father, where I was supposed to fly back home to my mom. I got yelled at and blamed for not thinking, and for missing a flight that cost my dad money. I was eight.

I got threatened to be whipped with a belt after I had gone to the edge of a very fast-moving ditch, in order to grab my mom a flower and bring it to her. I was again, eight.

I got threatened again when I was 14 for waking up and turning on the TV in the morning, rather than ‘“knowing” I was supposed to be outside working with my father on his project. I should’ve known, so I was punished for it by being tasked to do his chores.

…

Many boys of my age were reprimanded and threatened for doing exactly what they were supposed to do:

To be boys that pushed the edge, learned a lesson, gained wisdom, and carried that risk and character into adulthood where they could fight demons, lead others, and make a fucking impact.

And I think good fathers help boys find that edge, show them the lesson, and help them get back up and not allowing fear to keep them from acting courageously on life.

Not pin them down, guilt them for their natural naivety, never show them the lesson, and help them filter the mistake to help them grow.

Sorry…I get emotionally irate about the suppression of boys.

Anyway…

…

There were many more of these instances in my boyhood.

None of them were really horrible, honestly.

But, none it came with helping me to understand why these were mistakes. It’s fairly typical of fathers to emotionally intimidate, threaten, and reprimand without logical explanations of why such things weren’t acceptable.

It isn’t that these fathers aren’t making necessary boundaries for boys, it’s that they don’t follow it up with the wisdom that helps us grow.

They all ended the same unfortunately, giving me a life philosophy that to live under thumb is to succeed(survive), and that adventure and action meant punishment and death.

I have compassion to those men for that.

But it fucked up my ability to even make mistakes. It set me up to have exhausting anxiety about any task.

It turned into a character trait. It meant never pursuing anything out of fear of making other people angry, and having to endure so much shame. And pursuing nothing means having no voice strong enough to guide you toward interest.

Everything is a possible mistake.

Even happy, divinely in-tune things.

Hence my hesitation to embrace my creative soul.

…

It’s only in my thirties now, where I’ve started to practice believing in myself.

That to make mistakes is an okay thing, and that there is a conscience inside of me, that needs space to expand and become important.

Not for others, but for myself…to help me make the decisions that embolden my higher self.

I’ve lived so long telling myself that I wasn’t good enough, because people had punished me for not doing what was right by them. Not realizing that meant never coming across anything in life that was right for me.

It’s humbling, and embarrassing really, that such a thing lasted so long into my adulthood. And that dissolving all of my accomplishments and the hard things I’ve lived through, are the very proof of why my life has value. Of why making mistakes is important, not something to be afraid of.

…

I didn’t actually realize that it’s a damaged ego that has held tight to these notions of inadequacy. That they’re just lies that I made up based on someone else’s inability to teach me thoughtfulness, discipline, forward thinking, and how to pick myself back up.

All I remember is the emotional darkness of those moments with those men.

And the way they built into me a self-imposed tyrant that just carried out the same threats and feelings of insignificance that they did.

I was continuing their work.

But…

…

My soul was always there.

Thankfully.

I think it kept me alive through all the mornings of self-hatred and all the days filled just trying to keep myself numb to the recurring voices.

It was my soul that gave me a whisper that I was meant to do something. That I shouldn’t give up on life, because if what I was doing made me feel not worthy, then there had to be something that could.

Even though I had no idea what that meant.

And it was my conscience that was there to remind me, again and again, that when I was getting off track(which was a lot in the beginning) I needed to come back to my intended goals.

This eventually led to my writing, and the expression of a person that never fully existed.

The process of being a skeptic of social expectations and the start of asking incriminating questions of the crime to define life by another’s definition.

…

Eventually.

Those morning voices slowly faded.

But not without work.

Not without me forcing myself to seek something that made me happy. Constant reminders that I had something good in me. A constant practice of attempting to stop that hateful morning voice quicker and quicker, until it no longer had a space to exist.

Journaling.

Scheduling.

Building businesses and ideas.

Deleting things from my life and also including new ones.

Learning determination, resilience, and rest.

…

I’m pretty neutral now, when I wake.

And it takes stimulus and intentional discussions with myself to get me going in the right direction.

It’s work.

But I couldn’t have ever done it without the tag-team of my soul and my conscience.

My soul tells me, “You have something to do here. Find it.”

My conscience tells me, “You took the first cookie. You gave in to temptation. Align again. Follow your future.”

And I wouldn’t be what I am with both of those, whatever the hell those are.

Divinity?

Nurtured character?

Genetic disposition?

Intelligent survival mechanism?

Who knows.

But they never gave up on me.

And that’s why I’m still here.

Why you’re still here.

Truth and Love, Reader.

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