musings

Having spent a life time being concerned with what I 'should' do and who I 'should' be, and only a few short years learning how to value what I want to do and who I am, it's little wonder I've been so conflicted about telling my family about my baby. Telling mum is reverting to the me that tried so hard to be who I thought I 'should' be, and who failed so miserably at being her. Telling her is ignoring what I want, and doing what I believe I 'should' do. Telling her is telling all of them, and while it may not be so, telling them is allowing myself to feel judged.

Because there's one versus a multitude of others, it'd be fair to assume that the single oddity was surrounded by a sea of functional blood relatives. After all, I'm the constant and they are the variables. That concept has occupied my belly button contemplating time for several years, that they're normal and I'm the freak. The truth is though, and it's one my logical self can grasp with ease but that my feelings cannot, is that I'm the functional one and my family is fucking weird. Somehow, and truth be told, it was probably by virtue of the journey taken into and then out of my eating disorder, I escaped the destructive narcissisism that defines virtually all of my family members. The only other one who escaped our family's madness was a drug addict, for as long as I was anorexic. I don't think that's a coincidence, by the way.

I want to be in a family, I want to be a daughter, and because I believe families are defined by sharing these things, I feel I'm defined by everything we, as a family, are not. If one's own family doesn't value you, then who will? The reality is though, that I do have value and I am lovable. I need to remember that my worth lies not in the eyes of others, it simply is, because I merely am.

I am, therefore I am worthy.

Nothing I do or say makes me more of less so.