I truly felt like I was the problem.
The one with rediculously high standards. The one that could FEEL clutter, and claimed it was noisy to my aura. Believe me, saying that out loud will get you some weird looks.
My Love Language = Acts of Service. The only one in my house. Realizing that helped ME make (a lot of) sense of things… however, it doesn’t really help or do anything if THEY don’t realize what that means.
For a long time I’ve said, “I’m hard to live with.” That’s what I thought, based on how they felt and what they said. Based on the feedback given – whether on purpose or just naturally observed.
Outside the house, things were different. People said I’m a supermom; strong, independent, and hard working. I would diffuse that with, “Ya but you have no idea – I’m really difficult to live with.”
I thought I was the crazy one. Had to be, right? I was different. The cause, the issue.
And then I left.
I’ve started to realize…
Honestly, I don’t think I’m ready to write this post yet. This is still a very tender subject, and I fear that if I proceed, it will turn into a pity party; accusatory and full of blame. I definitely don’t want that. So, I’m not going to save it… I’m publishing this as is. Leave it as evidence that this is a topic I’m working on – diving deep, swimming in the ugly parts for a bit, until ready to surface again.
Who knows – by then I may have grown a mermaid tail to go with my long hair 😉