Why I don’t love myself

Realization as a result of yesterday’s therapy session:  I continue to look for surrogate Mother figures because I am so mean and filled with rage and anger towards myself.  I look for someone to be kind to me, to tell me I’m okay, that I’m right for doing/ thinking/ feeling like I do because I try to figuratively beat myself up for my likes, dislikes, wants, needs, mistakes, failures, and I see no victories in anything.  I am very abusive towards my inner child.  I send her mixed messages and then beat her up for not understanding or for wanting or needing or hurting or celebrating.  I let her have fun by buying something we want and then beat her up for spending money we shouldn’t on something “stupid” or inappropriate or for using money that should have been better spent.

I look for surrogate Mother figures because I hurt myself so badly.  I punish myself, repeatedly, many times, every single day.  And so I look for someone who can take care of me emotionally even if they don’t know that is what they are doing.  A smile from one of these people is like water to a flower.  A kind word is like a hug.  A laugh, an exchange of a few words, a feeling of camaraderie, is like the perfect dessert, treat, or reward.  It’s why I look to bosses or teachers or gym trainers or my Aunt even.  They are people in “authority” to whom I can give my power away.  I let their judgement supersede my own.  But the light quickly dims from these encounters because I tell myself I should not, I must not, go fishing for these bright spots of refuge.  I must not enjoy them because I know the real truth.  The truth, I tell myself, is that I’m a whiny, needy, self-centered, greedy, good for nothing, ignorant, immature, child.  I am so mean towards myself for wanting these things.  For wanting to be told I am a good person, that I am loved, that I am appreciated, that I am worthy and valuable.  I’m an adult, dammit! I shouldn’t want or need these things!  I shouldn’t need other people.

But there is this little girl inside of me.  The emotional part of me, the “real” me, that does need these things.  She does need to be told she’s smart and pretty and loved and valued.  She needs to be told that she’s wanted.  And right now she is so incredibly hurt by the things I’ve been telling her and the anger I hold towards her.  And I realize I am reliving the past.

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