The Inner Work Continues

    My friends see in me something I have yet to see in myself and I am grateful for that. I can't see what they see because my wounds have obscured my vision; they are often all I see. I'm so caught up with the task of trying to heal from and untangle myself from past hurts, that I can't make out where I'm going or who I am. I've been dreaming about writing a book to help me with this and have been inclined to write under the name I was born with: Charlotte Wolfe. My idea behind this is that I feel the need to give this version of me her voice back since it was so unceremoniously snatched from her. Hopefully, as I write out all my grief and wonder, all my sources of sorrow and moments of elation, I will begin to feel more self-compassion.
    People may not realize this, but self-compassion is hard after what I've been through. In my mind, currently, my trauma caused me to become a freak that almost no one could understand; and as the misunderstandings between me and my peers kept piling on, my classmates first got frustrated and impatient with me, then they began holding a grudge against me, until one day the continual misunderstandings led to outright contempt. I couldn't tell them that I was crazy because of trauma, because I was convinced that my life hadn't been bad enough for me to be as insane as I felt I was. I never felt that I had an excuse to act the way I acted, but I could never stop myself from behaving unpredictably. I wanted, and still often want, beyond anything else, to be "normal" and yet I was crying due to traumas I couldn't remember. This separation, or dichotomy, between my reality and what I perceived my reality to be has caused me to be impatient with myself. I failed to have compassion for myself because I have felt that I was defective for no apparent reason.
    The good news is, I see this now and I am working on mending this misperception and forgiving myself for being extra reactive to events that triggered my body's memory of trauma. What's really hard for me now is that certain things have occurred this past year that have caused me to feel absolutely certain that everyone hates me and is simply pretending; that they have grown tired of my "woe is me" and "loathe is me" moments. In all honesty, the hell-scape that has existed in my head was supposed to remain a secret to the people around me, but it leaked out like the contents of an over-pressurized pressure cooker. The insane train came along and barreled right through my rational mind and all the coping skills I have acquired over the years and quickly convinced me that I was despicable and everyone knew it.
    Again, I'm working on all this. In my quiet moments of meditation, I have been hearing, "Don't worry, beloved. We've got you." At night before falling asleep, I repeat the mantra, "Let me lean into the wisdom of my soul, for my soul knows how to heal itself."