July 01, 2010
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig!
We drank good wine, ate delicious food, listened to live music and had nice conversation. I even managed to keep up some pretty good eating habits and did my morning walk four times while I was away. I might have gained a couple of pounds, but probably no more than two back from the nine I lost. Yeah!
I only had one dissociative "episode" while I was on this vacation. My son said something inappropriate and disrespectful and I got triggered. I managed to deal with him during this "learning moment" in an appropriate parental manner.
But, I heard a voice in my head responding with, "Just shut up. No one wants to hear anything you have to say." Yuck! I'm sure I heard that one--almost word-for-word--many times while growing up in my abusive household. Then, I noticed something else. I responded with my behavior as well. I did exactly that--I shut up. There's like this part inside me--a monitor--that notices when an idea starts to form in my head at these times. This monitor quickly spots the idea and squashes it down before it has a chance to become words that form on my lips. The idea is shut down before it can come out of my mouth.
I had a therapy session today and we talked about this quite a bit. It's a huge self-esteem issue. I'm sure it is closely related to my inability to finish my book and my habit of shutting down and not getting any writing done on my blog at times.
Ah, the work continues. I'm going to be coming around to your blogs in the next few days, now that I'm back in town and online, and see what YOU have to say. Because, I do care and I am interested in your thoughts, feelings and ideas. See you soon!
Labels: aftermath, child abuse, dissociation, self-esteem, shame, therapy, triggers
March 02, 2010
Allowing Myself To Dream Again
Dream Job: Botanical Illustrator by MarjakaThriver(on break) on Polyvore.com
I am really enjoying it. My T really likes this for me as she says that it really helps me with my level of competency and self-esteem. I agree. It is also so freeing to dream again. For such a long time, I've felt like recovery, healing, therapy--those things were my full-time job. Now, I feel like some of my old talents and skills have returned and I'm enjoying practicing those things. My undergraduate degree is in commercial art. From the beginning--as an art major in college--I wanted to be an illustrator.
But, I also knew I did not want to be a "starving artist." Therefore, I went to work in Chicago in advertising and corporate communications until all hell broke loose. I got married, got laid off, had a baby and started working on my recovery from child abuse.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm coming out of a long nightmare. It feels wonderful to be dreaming again. It feels even better to be working toward making my dream come true! What dreams do you have that you're working on to make reality?
Labels: healing, hope, journey, recovery, self-esteem, therapy
October 02, 2009
You Are Beautiful. Yes You!
I'm posting this collage, aka "set" of Chloe's, which is the reminder for me that started it all. Turns out, she was inspired by a campaign called Operation Beautiful. Through this campaign, people are leaving reminders--posty notes--all over the world to spread the "you are beautiful" love. Cool, huh? You can go to the Operation Beautiful website and get instructions on how to get involved and find out how to have your own posted note...er posted! ;)
And as a final reminder of your beauty, I will leave a copy of my poem, "Your Beauty" below for your reading enjoyment. Have a beautiful day!
Your Beauty
I see the beauty you can’t see
You’re unaware of what it does for me
It’s the light shining in your eyes
Lifting me up to brighter skies
Still you walk around
And you hang your head
Sometimes wishing
You were dead
But if you could see
What I see in you
There’d be nothing, love,
That you could not do.
Labels: awareness, beauty, community, healing, inspiration, poem, Poetry, self-esteem, therapy
March 18, 2009
Doormat No More!
Boundaries. Limits. Self-respect. Assertiveness. Confidence. Self-Esteem. They all seem quite interrelated. I'm sure these are all concepts that anyone who has felt like they have "victim" stamped on their forehead has struggled with. I know I have.
I remember it like it was yesterday: "Work on your self-esteem!" was the battle cry at the after-care program I was attending after my first big stint in the psych ward of a hospital. I guess they figured that anyone who had been suicidal needed to work on their self-confidence.
This was before the retrieval of most of my childhood sexual abuse memories. This was before the onslaught of PTSD, with its flashbacks, nightmares and terrifying moments spent huddled against a firm, safe wall in the fetal position. This was way before I knew about parts, "splintering," and my severe dissociative disorder. I guess I just wasn't ready yet for an overhaul of my self-esteem.
But it's an important topic and survivor issue. I don't think I did much--not right away, anyway--with the books I shelved and the notes I took on the topic. But, I do think I took a lot of baby steps toward assertiveness over the years. Those baby steps have added up and I can now look back and see that I have gotten quite far!
Just the other day I had a run-in with some fellow dog owners who were allowing their two large-breed canines to trample and urinate all over my flower garden. They were belligerent, rude and all up in my face with a "it's no big deal, lady" attitude. On top of it all, these folks were construction workers who were at my neighbor's new house to install some hardwood floors. Were they being paid to be rude to their customer's neighbor? Hell, no!
I stood my ground, stayed safe and immediately called my neighbor who came right over and told them to get those dogs out of there and never bring them back. Yay, little ol' assertive me!
Was it as simple as I've just described? No. Are you kidding? I have a bunch of wounded, inner parts, remember? Man, did I get some little part action!
This scared me at first. It seemed so over the top for the situation I had just encountered. But, as many of us child abuse survivors know, it's not always about the now, it's about the past...especially the unresolved, traumatic past.
I lost control and ended up hiding in the dark, safe closet for a while. Sometimes I just give in to this. After a while, when nobody ends up coming to drag us out of there by the hair, I can convince all myselves that we're safe now. But, that wasn't the end of it. There were a lot of tears; terrified sobs, really. As much as it scared me, I looked in the mirror during this time. What I saw was a desperate, terrorized little girl. Yeah, that wounded little one got triggered alright.
I spent the rest of the day validating the tears, fears, terror and despair while trying not to get "flooded" by the dug-up emotions. I interspersed feeling these feelings with lots of comfort techniques. I did anything I could think of to just comfort and soothe that scared, wounded part of me.
This is one of the few times I can think of when I was assertive and felt the feelings in an appropriate way. I think this is progress. My therapist thought so, too. I guess I have come a long way. I think my doormat status has evolved into something much healthier. I wrote a poem about it.
Doormat No More
I have always
been a doormat.
But, the dirt
that's been scraped
on me
from the throng
of careless boots
seems to have contained
a few viable seeds.
My once barren mat
now sprouts
seedlings of assertiveness.
At first, only
tentative, tender shoots
barely poke through
the trampled earth.
Then, saplings of self-respect
reach for the sun:
boundaries, affirmations and
the ability to say "no."
I am growing
firm, bold
hybrids of strength
into a mighty grove
of confidence.
Copyright 2009, Marj McCabe ~ All rights reserved.
Labels: aftermath, alters, assertiveness, child abuse, child parts, comfort, feelings, healing, poem, Poetry, PTSD, self-esteem, therapy, triggers
October 06, 2008
On Giving Up and Getting Up
Well, let's see. Would I rather be pathetic, or full of platitudes?
What's a platitude, anyway? My dictionary says this: plat-i-tude, noun
trite or commonplace remark, esp. one solemnly delivered.
- see CLICHE.
- platitudinous see BANAL.
Doesn't sound too good, does it?
What I'm about to tell you may not sound too good, either...at least at first. I'm about to be painfully honest here. Please use caution; there are words about not wanting--and then, wanting--to live ahead. This could be triggering for some! Or, you may want to scroll down to the good message--"Don't Give Up" and "Don't Quit"-- at the end of this post.
There was some very recent planning on the part (no pun intended) of at least one or two of my parts (I know! They are part of me; I'm responsible). It involved a possible suicide plan or what I call one of the many "running away" plans.
Now, before you send the white coats after me, because I'm a "danger to myself or others," please hear me out. I had a therapist back in Illinois--years ago--who said that "thoughts of suicide" had really become just a habit for me. At first, I was quite defensive about her comment. But, then I understood. What she meant was that suicide had become a type of "fail-safe" option for me, when it seemed I had no options left in life.
Doesn't that kinda make sense--albeit, in a morbid sort of way? If one has no options left in life, then "LIFE" no longer seems like an option, right?
When I was down at Timberlawn in Dallas, doing the Colin A. Ross program in outpatient mode a couple of years ago, one of the things they kept harping away at was: "You always have options!" They were also quite fond of saying things like, "Use your discernment; you always have options." They really liked the words, "discernment" and "options." At the time, I bit my tongue and kept from saying, "Yeah, I may have options, but all of them suck!"
Ever felt that way? I betcha you have. Well, I sure have plenty of times, I'll admit. I've felt that way quite a bit over the past two months. I told you about my recent, really big-time dissociative episode, didn't I? Well, after I finally, slowly came down out of that dark cloud, I realized that I had pissed a lot of people off. (This is IRL--in real life, folks.) Some still aren't talking to me. I was feeling like I was never going to be forgiven. Sound familiar? Yep, it reminded me of the many ways my mother aka "egg donor"--as my twin likes to refer to her--used to heap spiritual/religious abuse on me as a kid.
The thing that was really pretty crazy about it (my life crazy? naaahhhh!) was that this was one of the more "acceptable" dissociative periods I've had. Like I said before, I managed to stay out of the hospital this time...and most of the time, the part that was out was a part I have that I nicknamed, "The Professional." She's really quite efficient and "manages" things quite well most of the time she's allowed some freedom.
Gee whiz! I can only imagine how much people would hate me now if one of my "less functional," or "more rude," or "more crazy-acting" parts had been out a lot recently. I'd really be crucified then, I guess.
But, there's the rub: I didn't go into the hospital this time and a lot of people saw me acting nuts. So, I've spent a lot of time lately feeling even worse about myself than usual. I feel like, God forbid, I inconvenienced people. God forbid, I made people feel uncomfortable. God forbid, I annoyed people. God forbid, I should ever be a burden to anyone. Whatever...you get the picture. Sooo, then I felt like I was very much: judged, condemned, and crucified.
I guess, when you already feel condemned and crucified--um, ya know, like DEAD--that old familiar feeling of wanting-to-be-dead isn't too far behind, eh?
And that brings me to something I want to qualify here: I don't usually feel out-and-out suicidal.
Instead of having any desire to actually kill myself, I often feel like I simply don't want to live...here...alive...on this planet. I've talked before about feeling like an alien here, haven't I? Or maybe that was on my short-lived blog, "Silence The Shame!"
Anyway, I was just going about my business, trying to process this type of shitty self-esteem stuff with my therapist, when the PTSD symptoms returned big time. The nightmares were especially horrific. These led, of course--oh, goody!--to more, new torture-related memories.
This leads me to another thing I want to qualify about not always wanting to live. The feeling, or "logic," often goes something like this: The Universe, Divine, God, Goddess...whatever...has made a mistake. For some insane reason, my soul or some other powers-that-be, decided my spirit could take on this life of horrors. "Bring it on, Universe! I can handle it!" That musta been what my pre-human soul said to someone in charge. "The ultimate in child torture? No prob. The most hideous of the heinous? Got it covered! The most terrifying of the terror? I'm all over it! Whatever this life throws at me, I'm there!"
Uh. Hello? Somebody stop the world! I wanna get off! Who was it who decided I could handle all this crazy-ass shit in this lifetime? I'm sure it wasn't me. I want a re-do! "Do-Over!" Unfortunately, nobody seems to hear me. So, I start thinking of checking out...giving up...getting out. At the very least, I just stare off into space or play Solitaire or Mahjong on my computer for hours and hours.
I get down and give up because, now, I've decided instead: "I can't take this life. I've changed my mind."
So, here's what I just figured out. I allow my part(s)--at least the ones who are really revving to the above, "stinkin'-thinkin" credo--to brainstorm ideas for "a plan." It's usually not a suicide/death plan at my own hand at all. It's usually something more like, "Maybe I'll just wander off into the wilderness and Mother Nature, or God, will just take me." I have no strength left. Maybe I can just fade away.
Well, this is really a big clue that it's one of my parts scheming. Like that would ever happen, right? Like death--just as life--would ever be that easy! Oh, contraire!
But, the new-to-me point is that I allow the plans to be made to a certain extent. But, I only allow such scheming/planning for a set amount of time. AND--very important--I don't allow any consideration of any such plan to be scheduled to be put into place for at least one week. I tell my parts something like: "Okay. Now if we all agree that there's no other choice but to put this plan into play after one week has passed, we'll reconvene and discuss this 'option' some more."
Almost immediately--when I allow myself this mental/emotional exercise--I begin to feel much better. After all, I now have a plan. I now see an option, no matter how "negative" an option, or how you want to look at it.
Well, less than one week has passed since I went through this whole process last. And guess what? I'm glad I waited. Sounds crazy (no matter which way you may look at it), but it's true. Instead of giving up today, I decided to get up off my butt. I actually had more energy when I awoke this morning than I've had for weeks.
And, then, here's what happened: I pulled out a pad of paper to make a grocery list, and guess what I saw? A version of the "Don't Quit" poem printed there. I got to looking around on the Internet and saw lots of stuff on various versions of this poem (attributed to so many authors, I wouldn't even know where to begin--so I won't). There's a YouTube video montage with the "Don't Quit" poem that I'll paste up below. The poem is printed as a prayer on the back of St. Jude Holy Cards you can find at this site here. There's even a website called The Don't Quit Poem dot com. Many sites claim the poem is simply "anonymous."
Now, on my paper pad, the "Don't Quit" poem is quite different from the above-mentioned poem sources. The notepad doesn't have any author credited at all. But, this poem version is a lot shorter than the other one I've mentioned, so I'll stick it right here:
Don't Quit
When your luck is down
and your world goes wrong,
when life's all uphill
and the road is long--
keep your spirits high
for through thick and thin
you must carry on
if you are to win.
Never mind if things
slow you down a bit;
you'll come out on top--
but you mustn't quit.
So here's the deal. For today, anyway, I commit not to quit. Now I don't want to simply offer hollow platitudes here, but I hope that at least some morsel of this may inspire, motivate, help, comfort or in any other small way just show empathy for you out there...and what you are going through. Because I know, for many of you, it could be really shitty. And, I know, for at least some of you, all your options look like they suck right now.
But, at least for today, decide not to give up yet. Just for today, decide not to quit. That's what I did. At least for today. Who knows? Now, I'm not going to tell you, that if you just don't quit, you'll win the lottery tomorrow...or you'll meet your new best friend...or you'll find true love. But, if you just wait, there may be something good left in you that you will discover. If you just wait, there may be something sweet for you to yet taste in life. If you just wait, your child may do something so adorable, you decide you're glad you didn't miss it. If you just wait, you may be struck by some awesome beauty in the natural world around you.
If you just don't quit today...if you just wait...you never know...
Labels: child abuse, don't give up, don't quit, hope, inspiration, motivation, nightmares, poem, Poetry, PTSD, self-esteem, self-worth, suicide prevention, survivor, therapy, thriver, torture
July 12, 2006
The Many Faces of Abuse
***Trigger Warning: Be careful and stay safe while reading the following material.***
There was no talking (except for some brief begging from me) during my college rape. But, the abuse that I suffered as a child--sexual, physical and what I call spiritual--cannot be separated from the emotional and verbal abuse that went along with it.
My father could be described as many things, one being a rage addict. He would fly into out-of-control rages that always included verbal abuse toward anyone who happened to be in his way at the time. Some of his favorite terms to use on me were, "idiot," and "stupid moron." I still play these tapes in my mind when I hit a low spot. My work continues for improving my self-esteem and eliminating those terms from my self-talk vocabulary.
When I was growing up, my father was an avid tennis player. He prided himself on being able to easily defeat tennis opponents who were half his age. At one point, he decided that he was going to give his three young children tennis lessons. I remember that we were given these wooden "rackets" to use. I remember them looking homemade--my father may have crafted them himself. They looked like something one would use to play a giant game of ping pong.
I'll never forget my father's lack of patience and annoyance when attempting to teach us tennis. One of his favorite coaching techniques was to come up right behind me and yell in my ear, "What are you, an idiot?!"
He was also verbally abusive during the sexual abuse, of course. I think, however, that my mother's verbal and emotional abuse following sexual assaults was much more damaging to me. The betrayal, abandonment and rejection from my mother is still difficult for me to deal with. On numerous occasions, my mother would clean me up after my father had his way with me. I remember lying on the little bath rug in the middle of the bathroom floor while my mother dabbed and wiped.
The message was clear from her words to me during these clean-up sessions. It was a message of judgment and damnation and it was almost impossible for me to bear. My mother called me a "bad, dirty, evil girl." Then she would lament about how she seriously doubted that even God could forgive such a girl as me. She told me I would have to pray diligently to Jesus to intervene on my behalf. Perhaps, if I asked Jesus into my heart and prayed and prayed for his forgiveness and intervention, I would be able to avoid the fires of hell.
One of my mother's top priorities was to see to it that her children were raised in a strict Christian religious upbringing. I remember a lot of talk about the concept of original sin in these early teachings. Because I believed what I was told about original sin, I was sure that I was just born bad and evil. I was convinced that I deserved everything that both of my parents dished out with their abuse of me. I knew to my core that I deserved what I got and I would most likely never be forgiven for it.
This is the verbal abuse that leads to emotional damage of what I call spiritual abuse. I believe that it suited the interests of both of my parents to break my spirit. They attempted soul murder.
I no longer believe in hell. This spiritual shift has provided enormous relief for me. I now believe in a loving, compassionate and accepting God--not one who condemns tiny children to burn for eternity. The tapes that play "stupid moron" in my head have lost quite a bit of their potency. Yet, my self-esteem is still a work in progress.
Don't forget: The deadline for the second edition of our Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse is Monday, July 17, 2006. You can browse the carnivals in alpha order at www.blogcarnival.com or go directly to the submission form here.
Labels: abandonment, awareness, betrayal, Blog Against Sexual Violence, broken, child abuse, rejection, self-esteem, self-forgiveness
March 01, 2006
Sexual Abuse Survivors--Today is Self-Injury Awareness Day
I'm writing a new section of my survivor story. What a journey it has been. "What a long, strange trip it's been," the Grateful Dead sang. Indeed, it has been. I've started a new page on my website, www.survivorscanthrive.com, called "Strange Trip." You can find it under "My Story."
Since today is Self-Injury Awareness Day, I guess it's time to come clean about my own experience with SI. I have only indulged in this particular form of harming myself a handful of times. It's been the same every time. Always on the alert for any visible sign that might prove to others that I'm crazy, I've kept it well-hidden. I've always been afraid that someone's going to find out that I'm just as whacko as my father and lock me away. Therefore, I have never cut. I have always scratched and I've always done it somewhere that would not be very noticeable.
Hell, while we're discussing things that I'm ashamed of, I might as well weave my SI story into the time when I felt like I was abandoning my son. You see, during the most intense phases of my recovery work--when I was doing trauma processing with my therapist twice a week--I needed to have a safe place to get away and stay. I was sleeping at an extended stay suite at the time. I had my reasons for doing this.
My son, who has always been a very intense child, has sensory integration dysfunction. This leads to a lot of discomfort with strong reactions such as loud crying, screeching and yelling. During this period, this type of behavior from my son would launch me into full-blown flashbacks where I was witnessing the horror of my beloved, little twin sister being tortured and there was nothing I could do about it. At this time, my son's screams became the pleading, begging and whimpering of my sister. I just had to have a place of escape, where I could get grounded and keep safe.
During my time in the suite, I got a lot of therapy homework and exercises done, as well as much reading, research and writing of my book. (It will be published some day.) It was a productive time. It was also an excruciatingly lonely time for me.
One day, I felt particularly lonely and unloved. It happened to be my birthday. I was going to go to the house for a visit later on in the evening of my birthday anyway, so I decided to drive down a bit early. I remembered that my husband and my son had a play to go to or some such event. But, I reasoned, I could visit and play with my son and while they'd be gone, I could hang out, use the Internet access and celebrate when they returned.
When I arrived, I let myself into the house and announced, "Hey, I'm here!" No response. The house was very quiet, but I knew somebody was home. I peered into the kitchen. There were my husband and son sitting at the kitchen table. David appeared to be giving our son another lecture. They both looked up at me, but neither offered a greeting or got up to meet me. I could almost hear my heart drop, "Clunk!"
I glanced around the kitchen. There were no flowers, wrapped presents, balloons, or cute, little hand-made things from my young son. Nothing. I pretended I needed to go to the bathroom. I looked further around the house. I feigned thirst. I looked in the fridge. Nope. No cake in there either. There were no signs to indicate that they had any birthday celebrating planned. What?! Had they forgotten that it was my birthday? I felt lower than low. I felt completely unloved, alone and unlovable.
I went and hid in the bathroom (I did this a lot in my heavy dissociation days). I stayed there while the guys left for their event. Maybe they would grab some flowers and a little cake from the grocery store while they were out. No! I decided that would be too little, too late. I began to scream at myself while I hit myself in the head with the heel of my hand (another form of SI). "Stupid!" I yelled. "I am stupid and nobody loves me!" I decided I didn't want my son to see me go psycho. I also felt sure that he was better off without me.
I ran for the car and sped away. Luckily, this time, I did not run away; I didn't have to (my husband was paying for the hotel, my safe place). I went straight back to my little lonely suite. I did not bother to turn on any lights. I went into the bedroom and flung myself onto the floor in a dark, safe corner. There I stayed for a long time, curled up in the fetal position and rocking myself. I didn't want to feel anything. I wanted to disappear.
But, the negative self-talk that went on in my head was ruthless. The dark, the rocking, the safe corner, nothing could keep it at bay. It kept repeating mean things like, "Nobody loves you. You're not worth loving. You don't deserve to be happy."
After an unknown amount of time passed, I began to scratch. I found a place on my neck, under my hair and just below the hairline. I scratched rhythmically as I continued to rock myself. I scratched and scratched until I felt the warm, wet blood on my fingertips. "There, see?" I told myself. "I do bleed. I am alive. I matter...at least this much." This seemed to make the ruthless chatter subside.
After a while, I got up out of my corner to go to the bathroom. I turned on the light and saw the dried blood crusted under my fingernails. I immediately felt ashamed and shitty about myself. But, it was still better than how I had felt before I drew blood from my neck.
This was my last SI incident. It was over two years ago. This is my first detailed communication about it. I tried to tell someone about the SI once when I was hospitalized for my PTSD, but the person didn't take the time to listen. I looked at the note in my chart. It said, "Breaks her fingernails." I wanted to scream at this imbecile, "No! I use my fingernails to scratch my skin until I bleed!" I felt unheard and invalidated. I never attempted to broach the SI subject again.
Fortunately, the trauma processing I've done over the last couple of years seems to have targeted some of the old feelings of being worthless and invisible. I think that has carried over to my SI because I've had no temptation at all to do it. I hope that temptation never comes back.
Here are those SI links I promised. Two of the largest SI resources on the web are from the UK. The Self-Injury International Internet Service, www.siari.com.uk, says its the "largest self-injury resource on the web." Life SIGNS, www.lifesigns.org.uk, offers self-injury guidance and network support.
At the website www.psyke.org, you can find an SI forum with over 4,000 registered users. You can also post personal stories and poetry there. Recover Your Life, www.recoveryourlife.com, has an even larger forum, with over 7,000 members. This site offers live chat and live assistance and a first aid guide. You can also post biographies, artwork, photos, poetry and lyrics there.
I do not see self-injury as being the same thing as attempts at suicide. This suicide prevention site, however, has a large SI resource area. The organization is called Befrienders at www.befrienders.org. Their motto: "Reduce suicide worldwide with 31,000 volunteers in 40 countries." Suicide is an issue for survivors, whether they self-harm or not. So, I post this site here.
Copyright 2006 Marj McCabe ~ All Rights Reserved
Labels: aftermath, awareness, birthdays, comfort, dissociation, PTSD, self-esteem, self-injury, therapy, trance states
February 13, 2006
Do You Know That You Are Beautiful?
It just started pouring out of me when I was working on some abuse recovery issues. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with these weird word strings in my head. I was compelled to write them down. As it turns out, I have found my "poems" to be quite meditative and helpful in my healing. So, I continue to write, whether what I write is true poetry or not. (You can view some of my stuff at my survivor website: www.survivorscanthrive.com.)
I've got a poem here I want to share with you. It is not sophisticated at all. Heck, it even rhymes. That's totally lame in the real world of poetry these days, isn't it?
But I want to share this poem, and I'll tell you why. Lately, I've been reaching out over the Internet. I've been posting messages on boards and participating in forums. I'm also in the process of checking out a lot of other blogs and I'm going to include links here soon. What I've discovered during this process is this: A lot of folks out there feel like shit! And they feel like shit about themselves. Many seem to feel bad about themselves as a result of what other people have done to them--very abusive stuff.
I have felt this way myself. I have felt shitty about myself--for various reasons--many times. People! We've all got to stop this! I don't care what you've done; we've all made mistakes and have regrets. I don't care what's been done to you. I don't care where you're from or what color your skin is. It doesn't matter whether you're male or female, young or old. I'm telling you, you're beautiful. You have an inherent beauty that shines from within. No matter what happens, where you've been or where you're going, your beauty remains. No matter what. Here's my poem for you:
Your Beauty
I see the beauty you can't see
You're unaware of what it does for me
It's the light shining in your eyes
Lifting me up to brighter skies
Still you walk around
And you hang your head
Sometimes wishing
You were dead
But if you could see
What I see in you
There'd be nothing, love,
That you could not do.
Copyright 2005 Marj McCabe ~ All Rights Reserved
Labels: poem, Poetry, self-esteem, self-love, self-worth, shame
