I was born without reproductive organs. I made that mean I wasn’t good enough. That I was broken. That I was unlovable.
Shortly after the discovery of my birth defect, I began dating men who I felt couldn’t abandon me because of it.
I dated bad men. Men who were projects at best and abusers at worst.
Men who wouldn’t leave me because I couldn’t give them a baby.
Subconsciously, I was choosing to punish myself for not being born with a uterus.
Margie’s only dream was to be a wife and mother.
She married in her early twenties the moment she met the man who checked all her boxes.
When her husband of twenty-eight years announced his love for his college sweetheart, insisting upon divorce, she was destroyed.
“I can’t be alone. I don’t know how to be alone. I’ve never been alone in my life,” she sobbed, sharing her heartbreak.
It’s taken me to this gorgeous wise, age of 53 years to say that I do believe I am able to honor & enforce, unabashedly, my boundaries.
It’s taken me a life time of relationships with addicts, abusers, the unavailable, pathologicals, sociopaths.
It’s taken me being on my knees in gripping pain, in my attempts to save addicts from themselves that it literally nearly killed me in the process.
I have had ‘experiences.’
Ripe.
Believe.
Begin.
Be you.
This, my mantra of late.
I’ve been putting on hold launching my coaching practice.
My perfectionist has me paralyzed…
“But the website isn’t perfect.”
I now know grief.
I now know the heart ache of losing a love of your life.
I now know what it means to long for the sound of your voice.
Or the scent of you. A bouquet of sawdust, old spice, and pipe tobacco.
I now know what it means to crave the sound of your laughter as if it would anchor me.