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Why is it so hard to be kind to Myself?

Why does it take my full awareness

Not to pick up the addictive stick

that I beat myself with?

A cupboard full of sticks

with different names:




Not enough,






It’s not as terrible as it used to be;

Every day, nearly every minute.

But it still rears its ugly head

too often.

Sneaky, sly, covert –

a torture chamber of

me to myself,

that pushes me from God,

who sits on the other side of the fence

with Love, compassion, kindness

and endless patience.

It is these thoughts of how God treats me

That help me drop the stick,

take a breath and


God wants me to love me –

Even if I don’t understand why.

I lean into the photo

I have of me as a child

And look at that lovely face,

aged 2 or 5 or 9;

already abandoned and


already so terribly alone;

already taking the blame

for my parents

inadequacies and wounds.



in my heart,

in the little human being

under their guardianship.

That open hearted, curious,

Bright, cheeky little girl.

Who could have been…

But instead by 12 was shoving down her pain

With food.

Already lost

to a childhood

that left her years before.

Already fragmented

and tired with the effort

of not being herself.

Already feeling like an outsider

Every day.

The first beating stick

Given by my mother,

Who then gave me another

And another.

Better to hit myself

That be hit by her.

This abnormal becoming my normal

And now its hard to give up.

Hard not to be on automatic.

And if I had not found God’s Truth

I think I may have beaten myself

Into my grave by now.

God is the negotiator

In this battle with myself.

Gently asking me to put down the weapon;

Gently asking me to slow down

the panic in my chest.

To not believe the lies I was told,

but to grieve the lies I lived in.

God is asking me to surrender all weapons –

can see how they weigh me down,

and push me away from Her loving arms.

I don’t understand the patience or care

Or why I am still wanted.

But sometimes I hear it in a song,

or in words,

or the rainbow in the sky.

which always seems to come

on my darkest days.

I leave the flock when I beat myself

and put myself in danger.

But every time He leaves the 99

For me.

Yet I am even mean with myself

about my meanness to myself.

Angry I have messed up again.

Why is it so hard to be kind to Myself?

Because its hard to face the truth

Of how unkind my parents were

to me.

Or I tell myself its hard

Or was it really that bad?

I think it was

but I still float emotionally outside

of the story:

terrified to be vulnerable

ever again.

Somewhere I made a pact on that,

enclosing my heart with a lock,

buried the key.

Stuck in ambivalence

of longing for kindness

and scared to give it to myself,

or let it in too much from others.

But beating never works.

I’ve tried it long enough

I know,

really know this.

I’m trying to practice kindness

Some days I achieve it,

But I can’t always tell what is kindness

And what is a ‘pleasure’ addiction.

I have to watch which is which

I have to keep going to the teachings

Of God’s Truth

Of God’s version of Love.

Not mine.

Kindness is a new friendship

I guess,

An acquaintance I’m just beginning to know.

I just wish I’d give her a call more often.

All new friendships take time to form

and grow,

I guess.

Her number is in my phone book now…

That’s a start.

A new phone book.

Cause the old one has the names of all the beating sticks.

The one I haven’t got rid of yet.

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