I’m redecorating at home.  Actually, I’m taking the time decorate, rather than throwing up whatever is left lying around, which is what I’ve done for most of my life.  After staring at bare walls for a year and half and constantly making excuses of “I haven’t had time to get to it,” I am owning up to what has really been going on.  I didn’t think I deserved it.  I didn’t think I should spend the money on myself.  Also, I’m not used to having my comfort thought of on account that I didn’t have a nice room growing up.  When you spend the first 15 years of your life sleeping on two mattresses lying on the floor in an old dining room, you’re thankful to just have bedroom furniture.  I honestly don’t know what my parents were thinking with that.  When I turned 5, they ordered a nice bed frame for me and then when it arrived via UPS, the box was set in the basement where it remained for the rest of my childhood.  My mother wouldn’t let me take the store plastic covering off of the mattresses so every time I rolled over in bed, there was the distinct sound of “you don’t deserve a decent bed” plastic crinkling under my sheets.  Blame it on bad parenting or on thoughtlessness; the way my parents treated me when I was a child and teenager caused me to struggle with self-worth for the rest of my life.  Most people who know me and the extent of the emotional and physical abuse I incurred think I’m incredibly well adjusted, but I recognize I have so much farther left to grow as a person when I wake up to realize, “Oh, I deserve to buy nice pillows for my couch and bed and a little art for my walls” at age 34.

I thought I was doing fairly well with providing for myself.  I always vowed I’d have bedroom furniture that I liked and that I would have nice trunks to keep my possessions in.  When I lived in my parents’ house, I had cardboard boxes and old, broken laundry baskets to hold my clothes and toys.  Again, I don’t know what my parents were thinking with that.  It’s not like they couldn’t have afforded some decent bins.  My conception was an accident.  I was not wanted in their life and they basically punished me for being alive.  (We’ll get more into that another day.)  My brother and I once tried talking to our parents about the abuse and my mother didn’t seem to understand that what she had done was wrong.  After many years of trying to understand it and knowing that she grew up with very little, I no longer try to find the answers for why it happened.  I look to help myself in creating a better life for me in the present and hopefully one day for a family of my own.

Why am I talking about this on a blog and not with a therapist?  First of all, I have seen a therapist. It was a wonderful year of self-discovery and helped me free myself of many harmful patterns of behavior I had become accustomed to.  Second of all, I feel that many of us who lived through abuse hide it to our detriment.  We are fearful that if we talk about it, our friends won’t know what to say or worse, they will feel awkward and sorry for us.  It is always a frightening thing to admit to a partner.  Many people who didn’t grow up in abusive homes don’t understand that a person can break the cycle; it just takes mountains of work.  When we hide problems, we can’t overcome them.  Eventually the pain of it all builds up inside of us which can literally be lethal.

This holiday weekend, I’ll be working to improve my home and in return, that improves me.  I will love myself enough to know that I need to repaint and hang pictures.  Hopefully seeing what I’ve accomplished on a material level will be a daily reminder to me that I can continue my growth.  I deserve to have a space that is inspiring and cozy.  I am not going to be thoughtless in regards to my comfort.  I am worth new, fancy pillows and so are you.  Happy Memorial Day Sales, everyone.

Cheerful new additions.