Happy Women’s Day! Short phrases with photo to share

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“I am not going to continue thinking of myself as a victim and blaming myself, moreover, for victimizing myself.”

It has taken me many decades, many tears, many slaps, much violence, much therapy and much friendship picking myself up again and again but, finally, I have seen a little light there in the background.

I experienced violence in childhood. That was so. One of the things that happens with violence is that, as soon as you mention it, all the alarms go off and that feeling of falsifying the thing, that it wasn’t such a big deal, that yours wasn’t that serious either.

And since we all walk in these, well, we lack shared stories to realize that all of us who experience violence in childhood We thought that ours was not that bad.

That is part of the process.

Well, look, I don’t know if it was for so much or so little, but I grew up in a state of perpetual fear and on several occasions, as an adult, I felt my life was at risk. And that doesn’t seem to me to have to be what happens in a family, really.

Overall, I have read a lot of things about the consequences of having experienced these situations and I have realized that there is something in the story that we are missing. And they are our stories.

Because everything points to the fact that having experienced this leaves us with lifelong scars, and you end up convincing yourself that you are a sequel with legs, a person with a defect, with a void that you have to fill but that you will never fill because that has already happened and you will tell me how you can go back to fill it.

And I have realized, or am realizing now, at 45 years of age, that those narratives have not done me all good, because they have been reaffirming the idea of ​​a trace of perpetual violence, that this hole, this void is real.

And it is not.

Here I stand. That already happened, it already was. That was a lived experience that we have to put in its place in time and space, an experience that we have lived to tell about it, that we have to be proud of having survived and being here, standing. That this hole is a phantom void, that it does not exist, that it is not real.

That violence itself has made us believe that the hole exists and we don’t stop giving it a ball. Enough. You have to return the hole to whoever created it and tell him that it is not ours, that it is not mine.

That I grew up lacking love, or with a violent love, that I have learned a lot from that experience, that I am going to explain it as many times as necessary because I’m not ashamed anymore let each one carry his burden, and that burden is not mine.

That I’m not crazy, that I’m not empty.

That I lack nothing, that there is nothing to fill, that I’m not going to keep thinking like a victim and blaming me, furthermore, for victimizing myself, that I am not going to continue pondering if it was for so much or so little. That it was

I am still understanding the whole process and I am missing the perspective of closure. But I’m here right now In a place he hadn’t even suspected existed.

And I am here not only for me, but for the friends with whom we have shared stories, because we have told each other, we have talked, We have cried together and we have recognized each other.

The wonder of standing up, groping, yes, hesitant, yes, but being there and finish completing our histories