Cognition

Orphan. Teen Mom. Know it All. These were a few of the labels that I wore throughout the majority of my life. “No one in the family wanted you”, “You killed your mother”, “You don’t really want that baby”. “You think you know everything”. These were some of the words that developed and shaped me. These words clung to me because they crept out of the mouths of the people closest to me. Without dispute there were many moments of happiness in my life. These moments, however were fleeting. Some new tragedy was always on the horizon, stalking me, mocking me, as I relished in temporary joys. Instinctively I became a woman, who was terrified of death, terrified of developing close relationships, terrified of vulnerability. My mind was a perpetual inferno fueled by anxiety and insecurity. To deal with my racing, burning thoughts I molded myself into a woman of fierce ambition, immersing myself in ubiquitous sayings like “everything you want is on the other side of fear”. Achievement of my career and financial goals while neglecting the detrimental aspects of my upbringing would be the banner of my success. My proof that nothing is impossible. Addressing painful memories only seemed to deter me from my goals and served no purpose in my quest to defy the odds set against me. I was wrong. Years of burying emotions came rushing to the surface. I was now in the outpatient program and being required to face the skeletons in my closet. Remembering the little girl I used to be and acknowledging as an adult the support she needed. I was being purged of everything that went into creating the damaged version of myself. I began to recall the memory of seeing my father sick and dying and the emotions of guilt that ensued. I was 9 years old, visiting my father in the hospital. He was unable to speak since tubes were down his throat. He was using a notepad to communicate with me. His note read: “I love you, I’ll se you soon”. I cried, seeing my father in this condition and if memory serves me well, I was taken out of his room. This was the last time I saw him alive. For years I felt guilty for crying in front of him, as if his life depended on my ability to be strong. The sadness of seeing my mother in her frail state as HIV consumed her, the embarrassment of being an unwed pregnant teenager, was all resurfacing. Time can’t be undone, but I was learning how to cope. I was being healed. I learned how to express my emotions with crystal clear precision. The stigma of the labels given to me was being taken away. I could feel the weight of my own expectations being lifted. I felt the excitement and anticipation of a new beginning. The possibility of become my authentic self was alluring. Finally, an existence free from baggage, a chance to embrace and display the beautiful parts of me that it seemed everyone else failed to notice. But who was she? What did authenticity mean for me? What were my values? What were my passions? What were my hobbies? My interests? Who am I, without influence?