A Collective of memoirs by J.S. about Trauma + Mental Health + Abuse + Healing.
I have a confession.
I HATE the word queen.
I have never had a good relationship with my parents.
My mother was hardly ever sober and she was my residential parent after the divorce.
Sometimes, between blackouts and rage, would come out a fragile voice and tenderness that scared me more than the anger I knew her for.
When someone is constantly abusive, tenderness or kindness feels wrong. Unnatural.
She would call me Queen. And talk about how how I was her Queen.
And I grew up hating it. That fake kindness that would come out to play. It almost felt supernatural when that persona met with me.
And that word, it felt foreign.
What did it even mean to her?
Surely there was not a "human" part of her soul hiding beneath the illness, the anger, the alcohol.....
I grew up around girls who had moms that were their best friends.
Mine tried attacking me while drunk on the regular. Mine did not talk to me about life or boys or behaviors or habits. Mine did not warn me about the bad people.
People like her.
Unstable. But calculated.
She was not abusive or bullying towards me out of lack of willpower.
She knew what she was causing, she would see it in my eyes and my body language.
She would gas light and manipulate.
Guilt me. Gift me things I didn't want or need, that she charged and we could not afford. Then lay all the stress and problems on me.
Many episodes of alcohol and anger went forgotten because she maintained a buzz constantly and then would get so drunk I saw a void in her eyes.
This was my home life for years. 16.
Until I became pregnant with my h.s. bf and she kicked me out. Threw me out with nothing. And then changed the locks.
The only texts and calls I got thereafter have been incoherent or angry or illegible.
I'll never forget when she texted me 5 years later telling me she had a baby cradle and baby items in my bedroom. My childhood bedroom that she was still "cleaning" every season and keeping as is for me to return home.
With "baby queen".
The child she told me to abort.
The pregnancy she shamed me and abandoned me with, not minding that a family member on my birth fathers side had to take me in.
I never did return.
Or so I told myself.
For 12 years I disassociated with a memory that I unblocked this summer.
After I began my healing journey in May of this year, I began to practice shadow work and sit with myself to unlock deep seeded issues that were giving me nightmares.
Every dream was the same.
I was an adult, with my daughter being a toddler again, and I was TRAPPED in my childhood bedroom. Trying to figure out how to escape and get my baby girl who she had locked somewhere else in the house.
Nightmares of my mother trying to kill me slowly with torture and mental games.
Nightmares of trying to run and getting out the front door with such elation, only to turn back GREEN faced realizing my toddler was still prisoner inside and I could no longer see a front door.
So I dove into my memories right on my couch. And I journeyed through memories, going back to after the birth of my daughter.
I then remembered a day I went to visit with the baby. And ended up being coehersed into sleeping over with my month old child.
I remembered drunk fist fighting at 1 am.
I remembered bugs in my bed and dust on the furniture.
I remembered breastfeeding my newborn and crying on the floor. Sleeping with her in my arms on hard wood.
I remembered calling my aunt [who'd taken me in] the next day to come get me.
I remembered stealing my social security card and other documents from her bedroom closet in secret while my aunt distracted her in the living room.
These were vital documents so I could as a minor apply for financial aid, a bank account, school, medical insurance, and have proper I.D. for my new life without parents. And I achieved it.
I blocked out that memory of sleeping over, of my child crying hard when she held her, of the sleepless night when I heard China breaking and cursing until after 3am.
But the worst pain was the mistake I had made right before leaving those doors for good.
I had left baby clothing behind that had spit up on it.
8 months later my mother had that clothing in a bag and photographs of it sprawled out in my room along with other baby things I'd never seen before.
I had brought her and my birth father, who'd abandoned me at 15 to drugs, to court. At 17 years old with a 9 month old baby, I testified against all 3 guardians: my mother, her husband, and my father.
And though Ieft with freedom legally from them all, I had a heavy heart. No abuse charges were founded. No proof on my end was substantial enough to hold the case.
On their end my mother presented photographs of my room all clean and a full fridge of food [which was never the case], baby items in various places of the room and fresh laundry folded.
The pictures were dated and used as valid evidence to prove they supplied a loving, safe home that I was welcome back to with my child any time I wanted.
I declined and thankfully, lawfully was not able to be forced.
THIS IS NOT THE CASE IN EVERY STATE.
I realized I had blocked those memories because of how painful and shameful it was to have my own parent put me in such a bad position, this time affecting my own child.
And i rejected the memory of putting my own baby in danger because I was so upset about it.
Our brains are that powerful. We can rewrite, rewire or erase memories all together just to protect ourselves.
Until we unlock the memories and suddenly connections are made.
And Pandora's box is unleashed.
I remembered that my boyfriend during college called me his Queen during a vulnerable moment he had, promising to propose and get an apartment with me. Something I had wanted to have because we were dating for years and I had a child already + a future to plan out.
One that would not wait for him.
So he pulled out what cards he could to keep me.
For another year and a half I believe I stayed, until he left me finally via text announcing his affair with someone else.
I realized that QUEEN again meant prisoner.
It did not mean royal or special or strong.
And it was bestowed upon me by a person close to me who had no intention of keeping me.
Instead, I was cut loose and ghosted thereafter.
4 years just gone.
We are not supposed to view experiences as wasted or unwanted.
We learn best through struggles and overcoming challenges.
Overcoming abuse is not a life obstacle.
It is a deterrent from living life.
It is a prison cell.
A nightmare in which you feel trapped over and over again.
Even long after you are safe.
Starting Jaded Savior blog taught me so much about myself.
My spiritual healing journey has taught me, through light and shadow work, that my duality of good and bad qualities come from abuse.
That I am inauthentic.
Or rather, void of identity and self esteem.
How could this have happened?
When women call eachother queen on the internet, it is the absolute best compliment.
It is a symbol of sisterhood and support.
When I am called queen, I shrivel.
It does not empower me.
But that trigger comes from abusers programming me to lose my identity.
To create one for me.
As it turns out, I have not known myself.
The traits I thought were me were symptoms of anxiety and depression.
The good news is, I AM NOT MY ANXIETY OR DEPRESSION.
I AM NOT TRAUMA.
I am also not lost or lacking of identity.
Beneath the layers of experiences is who I AM TO BECOME.
I once was a JADED SAVIOR.
Someone chronically wanting to save everybody but myself.
It wasn't until I left abuse through awareness and action that I was able to become something new.
Not a Queen.
Not a Savior of the Narcissists and Sociopaths.
A path forger.
A dark sorter.
A light bringer.
J.S. Jaded Savior
art by lindsayrappgallery.com
Some days I look in the mirror and as soon as I am about to say:
"I am a good person with a good heart"
, my mind imposter swoops in and says things like:
"No you're not. You manipulate. You pretend to be happy. You pretend to be good. You are the problem."
Growing up and living with my mother after the divorce, I was told almost daily how bad I was.
I "deserved" and I "earned" whatever I got.
I got sent to my room or punished for anything.
One time I could not find a dog spoon so I was grounded for 3 months to my room. Right before summer break. I watched everyone else run around outside on the block playing. I was 11. And my mother hid the spoon.
Growing up with a narcissist who had mental health issues and addictions made me think I was crazy for "imagining" abuse.
It took me years after moving out to justify it.
I remember as an adult with 2 kids, having her text me after years acting "calm and normal". She spelled correctly and she was asking me coherent questions like an old "friend" catching up. She even sent a picture to me of "us" from her "wallet" which was an awkward AF pic of me all skinny and pale, with the worst expression on my face.
The face of an abused kid. A broken kid.
And I remembered there how she would manipulate, taunt, and shove her fingers into my wounds.
She would yell to get me crying and then tell me all I do is cry. That babies cry.
I now know at 29 that, yes, it was abuse. Yes, she was and IS an addict. Actively still.
She was and IS mentally ill without medication or intervention.
She was and IS not in my life for those reasons.
I made it my boundary this past May to block her out of my life for good. 12 years post moving out. Which I still phrase it as such even though I was thrown out and she changed the locks within that week. I was 16 and pregnant. And "ruining her life".
It was ALWAYS my fault.
Projection. Gas lighting. Manipulation. Black outs. The rollercoaster of being in a relationship that is volatile and unstable for anyone, but especially a child.
I have had to reparent myself and educate my inner child as well as the adult I now am.
The adult body I feel trapped in when I stare into the mirror.
I cannot believe I am a good person.
Not because i think i am actually a liar.
But because her voice became louder than my own.
Her voice was built on irrationality, addictions, unhealthy expectations, violated boundaries, and chemical altering of each mood she slid smoothly into like a greased up mouse.
I have to teach myself the difference.
I do have rational thoughts.
I am powerful AF.
I have survived by making phone calls, doing research, making plans, executing them, creating solutions from nothing.
I have always grown on my own account. In my own way.
Every hardship ever has been tackled.
I have a strong spirit and I KNOW IT.
So did she.
I have realized over the years that I am hard to contain.
I have BIG ENERGY.
I love to play big when not held back.
But I've let abusive people sneak in and hold me back. "Because they needed me."
And every need, whether fulfilled or not, was ridiculed.
But that was all I knew about "love".
How to please and be hurt in return.
Now I have tools to accompany my strength.
And metaphorical scissors.
I am now a woman unbound.
No more being held back.
And self doubt also holds me back.
Irrational fears bind me from being more.
I will no longer entertain the notion that I am not good.
My truths are being told because so many of you have a voice inside telling you the bullshit that keeps you bound up by trauma.
Cut it loose now.
It is time.
Because now you have the ability to know better.
J.S. Jaded Savior
2012 wore a face like hell.
A face of a girl whose boyfriend had secret texts from his exs.
A face of a girl who cried between classes, alone in a cafeteria in college.
A face of a girl who mourned a loss she could not tell anyone about that ached her heart and soul.
A face of a girl who felt lost in her purpose + mission in life.
She was struck with depression often but did not know its name yet. So she just thought she had shitty outlooks on life.
This girl was riding on the aftermath of abuse and picking out people in her life that presented the treatment she had grown up with, but she called it all love.
She did not know what love actually looked like or sounded like.
Especially when all she heard constantly were the utterances from chronically negative people who thought future planning was pointless because the world was full of disappointments and did not provide joy without a cost.
A cost not worth paying.
This girl did not think her peaks of happiness and creativity were an answer to any questions she was begging between panic attacks as she planned her next schedule and semester.
She did not know creativity was worth something.
That people would pay in appreciation and validation, much less money to hear her thoughts.
She did not know that calling out an abuser or setting a boundary was a normal behavior.
Boundaries were just complaints told on deaf ears. And only b*tches complained.
I wish I could have met this girl in 2012.
I wish I could have told her that her spirit was actually empowerment and that her urge to read inspiring books would lead to a complete breakdown and reassessment of the things she had ever known.
That everything she knew was toxic and her intuitive urges to check those texts came from being around the wrong people, not being the wrong person.
I really want to tell her that she was worthy.
She was worthy of being someone's first choice.
She was worthy of that internship she self sabotaged.
She was worthy of the twirls and spins she did in dance class, wearing converse in a sea of heels because she could not afford dance shoes.
She was worthy of feeling like a good, no a great mom. Because at 21 she was holding keys to her own place and paying all her bills.
At 21, while peers complained about their moms calling too often and the toilet paper being crappy at their jobs, this girl was hustling to feed a toddler and taking public bus 6 times a day total to get the little one to and from daycare in between classes and work.
This girl had a home she attained on her own and a job she found on her first day of College.
This girl was ACTUALLY a go getter who just had anxiety and PTSD.
So the tears and overwhelm were totally acceptable.
The broken friendships and the takers who she surrounded herself with sometimes were ALSO products of abuse.
Because she attracted people who also dealt with hardships in life.
And that was not a burden AT ALL.
It was actually the start of her future career. An inkling that Social Work and Social Justice might actually be good fits.
Or at least her placement between healing and empowerment would be set, with the title "Jaded Savior" on the header of her future plans.
J.S. JADED SAVIOR
#christmas #joy #worthy #selfesteem #selflove #breakingbarriers
So this is what it feels like.
To pour into my own cup.
To slip on a silky dress that hugs my body and makes me feel held together like a warm hug.
This is what it feels like to wipe my face clean of the stress and the tears and the disappointments.
To paint on elegant eyes and vicious red lips.
To comb my hair out and feel my fingers through my scalp all the way out to the tips of my curls.
To look in the mirror and see a woman with star struck eyes and a million hopes stretched across a galaxy like bright burning motivation.
To feel a deep desire and passion for creation and new things.
To meet myself at my present day.
Its therapeutic to put on makeup.
To gaze into my own eyes and focus only on building lashes and shadows around the right angles.
I contour the parts out that I no longer feel anger towards but soft and gentle understanding.
And graze my hands across my skin as I exfoliate and lotion every inch.
I play music in the background of this tiny little closet spaced bathroom and I feel home here.
As I locked the door, I knew this was redemption time.
Time to reclaim the bathroom space.
Time to release tears of gratitude and appreciation for myself.
I usually hide here in these walls, caved around my sorrow as I hold myself through the aftermath of anxiety triggers.
The bathroom had become a place to get away from everyone and everything.
As a child, I had no where to really hide away. Every room had false windows that did not actually lead to help.
As an adult, when parenthood or work or just a bad day got to me, I ran refuge to the avocado green walls and purple shower curtain for some deep breathing.
Today I applied makeup and hair care and skincare as I told myself out loud "I deserve this."
And no, I did not earn it from a promotion or a contest or a very special gift bestowed by someone else.
I gave this time to myself.
And better yet, I did not time myself.
No clock or alarms. No places to be.
Just here to give myself love and joy.
And it feels DAMN good.
This year, Christmas has brought me the ability to see myself beyond my trauma.
To see a woman break free from a cage she kept herself in, as she was struggling too much with all the burdens of the past to see that the door had been wide open all along.
This year has been a year of great reflection and self awareness.
I have learned so much about my own identity and experiences through reliving them under my own control and methods.
By writing out my emotions and stories, I have taken the wheel back from a young girl who was too scared and too tired to let me live.
I now feel so ready to pour into myself.
To feed the woman I've grown up into.
Feed her heart.
Feed her spirit.
Feed her soul.
As I look up and around the walls that cage me, all turns monochromatic and cracks.
And I do not brace myself or hold my breathe as I hear the shatter.
It is the sound of a new beginning.
J.S. Jaded Savior
#selfproclamations #thirdeye #spirituality #mentalhealth #trauma #healing #poverty
Reflecting on my trauma has made me realize that I am the entire "package".
I'm a freaking gift set.
Better yet, I'm the gift that keeps on giving.
My DNA is unique in that I have not one but 2 bipolar parents with drug addictions and alcoholism. A mom with Wenicke-Korsakoff syndrome. A dad with Schizophrenia.
Both dropouts from high school [9th and 10th grade].
Both dropouts from rehab.
Both dropouts from parenthood.
I was an only child, who got pregnant at 16 and became a single mother before even graduating senior year. 2008, walking in my white robe and tassel, my baby being held by my Aunt in the sea of proud parents on the football field.
Most of the mental health issues my parents had came to existence in their teens. But other demons came out to play in their late twenties and thirties. Coinciding parenthood to me and their inevitable divorce.
I'm a gift that keeps on giving because I did not give my husband a mother or father in law.
No one to badger or judge or overbear him.
No need to split holidays or do visits.
We don't have to send our kids off on trips or weekends or spoiled afternoons with junk food and total annihilation of moms' and dads' rules.
I don't even cry about their absence. I don't want them to be around my children or in my life. Not when I never really had parents at all.
I have also disassociated with the awareness of these things.
Quite often I am steel faced and stone cold.
An appealing trait for the suffering and needy is silent resilience.
I'm a gift that keeps on giving when I am quiet about my problems.
Because who wants to read about problems on the internet?
Who wants to learn about rape or abuse?
I have always known the answer to that.
-----> Other survivors do.
Those who have also scored the perfect DNA recipe for disaster.
Those who were born into domestic violence, like me.
Those who were born into poverty, like me.
Those who were born into drug addiction and alcoholism, like me.
Those who were born into broken families, like me.
It does not feel like a gift to be different.
To only have known trauma growing up.
To have compared yourself to "normal people" and wished for a fighting chance to get out of the $hit you had come into this world with.
But it is a blessing to know your truths.
To intuitively know "right from wrong".
To sense and feel and have "knowing" prematurely.
To have hypervigilance or what I like to phrase as "seeing the needle in the haystack".
You can sense a prick, always.
It is a big gift to know how to survive.
But it does not mean much if we do not speak it.
If we do not take our knowing and strengths into the light to help others through their own struggles.
So if you are gift set of mental health issues + toxic relationships + saturated struggles, then use it to better the world.
When you talk about it from the point of view of knowing you are a warrior and not a victim, when you gain control of your situation and use your weaknesses as strengths ----> everything changes.
This year, turn your pain into power by knowing exactly how you were made for this world.
Know yourself entirely.
And then expand those gifts out into the world.
J.S. Jaded Savior
#christmas #joy #trauma #anxiety #depression #cptsd #healing
12 years ago, I had a 3 week old baby sick with what I feared might be pneumonia. I was 17 years old and on holiday break after giving birth the weekend of Thanksgiving.
I lived with my Aunt and Uncle [plus their four little kids + my nana] after being thrown out by my mother at 3 months pregnant that May.
I started my whole life from scratch.
Changed towns, homes, schools, friends, became single from my 2+ yr h.s. relationship.
Left the parents who'd abused me and neglected me for 16 years.
In my new High School I was treated HUMANELY.
The kids were all nice to me.
The teachers were so helpful and accommodating.
People looked me in the face and conversed with me about my pregnancy. My own gym teacher asked me to keep a pregnancy diary and log my nutrition as credit.
Even though I had no belongings from my parents' house, I had grown out of my size 00 pants and xs tshirts. My body had changed and adapted to my pregnancy coming in at 118 lbs by birth. Which was the healthiest my body had ever been.
I was badly malnourished while living with my mother and i had a horrible binge habit + sugar addiction.
FUN FACT: The body converts alcohol to sugar, which causes a spike in blood sugar levels. When alcoholics quit drinking, their blood sugar levels drop, and they develop sugar cravings.
My mother was an addict and alcoholic since her teen years. By the time I was born, there was no chance of her getting clean safely on her own. She barely cooked but we always had sugary foods in the house as well as a fully stocked globe bar next to her seat in the living room.
I am 29 and still have a sugar addiction.
I feel sick when I eat sweets and even more sick when I don't.
I am majorly addicted to drinking milk every single day, especially late at night.
All milk has sugar in it.
It took me until this year, when awakening from major disassociation, to realize my sugar cravings were due to my childhood.
To realize addiction did pass on to me in an unexpected way.
After I had my daughter, holding her felt like my whole world paused every time she stared back up at me.
I had FOUGHT to keep her.
I had sought out a pregnancy confirmation at Planned Parenthood, via bus I took after school with quarters from my moms coin bucket in the hall closet.
I had walked to the hospital clinic in our town to see a doctor for the heartbeat and first sonogram visit. Spoke with a social worker and applied for Medicaid under the precursor that I was now a medically emancipated minor due to carrying a child. I took care of it all discretely and responsibly because that was what I had to do in order to act like an adult.
Like a mother.
I had worn over sized shirts and unbuttoned by shorts, dove into the bathroom to puke between classes and once during an auditorium presentation for drug safety. I kept that expanding belly and my aching breasts a secret because I was afraid, with good reason, that my child would be taken from me.
She was my entire world from the moment I got those pink lines. Because love overpowers fear like the brightest light in the darkest galaxy.
So seeing her frail little 6lb body struggling to breathe and coughing felt like a tractor trailer was parked on my chest.
We went into the hospital Christmas eve.
I watched as SIX NURSES had to hold her body down to get a catheter and IV into her tiny body. While she cried like a tiny little blinded kitten looking for it's mommy.
We spent her first Christmas in there, me watching her receive medications intravenous and get breathing treatments.
I slept on the chair next to her, which really meant I sat perched watching her chest move up and down all night long. Listening to the emergency room peeps and alerts, watching nurses scuffle around and nervous parents get escorted into little beds and curtain spaces like ours.
It turned out to be a bad cold and was treated early enough to not develop into something more serious. Her lungs were clear and the fluids helped her tremendously.
At about 5 am, a jingling of bells startled some of us parents and the sound of HO, HO, HO, echoed through the children's wing.
Suddenly Santa emerged with 2 elves, carrying a HUGE red sack of beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts.
EVERY SINGLE PARENT AND CHILD RECEIVED A WARM HUG OR PAT AND A GIFT.
While the older children giggled and squealed at their gifts, I knew my baby would not know anything different. So I asked Santa to take ours back for someone else in need.
But he still hugged me and insisted i keep the gifts.
☆ A hand made quilt with stars and a crescent moon that smiled.
☆ A hand knit baby hat and booties.
☆ A talking puppy toy.
☆ A musical baby toy.
I wept as I held her presents and watched the nurses care for her in ways I couldn't.
And I felt so guilty receiving anything while sitting alone there with my baby.
But it was so beautiful that someone had decided to walk around doing this for the parents.
It was for us just as much as the kids. Maybe more.
I felt like we hadn't deserved anything.
I thought things like "she wasn't that sick".
"It isn't that bad". "She is taking from others".
But what I now know I felt...
I felt small.
Smaller than her.
Too small for joy or tradition.
To small for recognition or appreciation.
To small for that hug or that giddy excitement to see Santa.
I felt like a bad mom because I'd taken her out twice that week and then she was sick.
I felt bad because my family I was staying with were a REAL family with a mom + dad and their kids.
All preparing for Christmas.
All being a normal, married traditional family.
While I was a 17 year old abandoned by everyone including the partner I'd made her with.
At that time, his mother was MIA and angry about it all. His father had come to see us Christmas eve unexpectedly and with a few gifts. But realizing the baby was sick, decided to drop us and leave us at the hospital children's emergency center. My ex decided to leave us completely.
He had shown up at her birth thanks to his father after none of them were involved the entire pregnancy. After no one had helped me with anything.
The two guys, father and son, had peaked at my brand new baby and then left.
I realize now I felt completely broken.
Who was I to be able to care for this baby?
To do it all alone?
To be an adult already when I was just a kid.
I'd been an adult since the first time my mother trashed the kitchen and left to ride some guys motorcycle. I was in second grade.
In fact, when I'd gotten beaten up in kindergarten by a boy and stood up for myself ---> I think that was the first time I crossed over the child border and into something else entirely.
For 17 years I had been beaten and bullied and abandoned.
I felt it was only fitting for me to have a sick baby in the hospital on Christmas. That I deserved it.
And she didn't.
That guilt did not really leave me for years.
My mind just filed the report into a metal cabinet, marked "unfit" in the category "medical".
I filled those cabinets in that office for years.
I've heard people talk about having a mind mansion.
I have a mind office.
I've written about it before.
And I picture it so vividly, as I now visit it to retrieve old cases and documents.
All the dark shadows of my past and the harbored guilt.
Those swarming shadows are the keepers of that office.
And the reason I feel in the dark often.
I feel still this immense "not enoughness".
But I'm learning it was just the mistake of a young girl who was not taught any better.
Trauma gave me a cool, dry place to store my problems in.
But I'm ready to clean house.
To clear out all those cabinets and shelves that clutter my mind, body and soul.
I have emotional and physical pain because of my experiences.
The holidays reveal major triggers for me because I never knew how to process those bad experiences so I just tucked them away.
Micromanaged the clean sweep and put myself on autopilot.
12 years I've raised my baby girl and I still struggle with feeling worthy of her.
She is my whole world.
And now my world has expanded.
I have three beautiful babies that daily I cannot believe are mine.
That I'm so lucky I have a little family of my own now.
And I get to be Santa for them, along with my husband.
I have a HUSBAND.
And what that means to me, in the person I chose, is I have a best friend to care for this beautiful nest of babies with.
Together we get to make NEW memories.
I am reminded now that I have always done the best I could.
And I was every bit a good mom.
Because I never treated my daughter like a biological burden like my mother treated me.
I am grateful now that I can wake up Christmas morning with my kids and my partner.
Yesterday I just leaped and hugged him really tight mid conversation.
He is an anchor to the present.
When I spiral with flashbacks or get stuck in a deep emotional gust of self loathing, I quickly reach my arms out for the reminders close to me.
I hug my kids or my husband. And I instantly feel my soul + body come back into place.
My whole world, centered.
I remember that I am HERE in the NOW.
And that my memories do not define me.
The love and effort I show now DOES.
2019 has made me remember I am a survivor.
I have endured so much and still kept getting up.
Now it's time for me to Rise.
♡ J.S. Jaded Savior.
#christmas #joy #breakthecycle #catalyst #triggers #abuse
As the year draws to an end and the holidays come in like a rush of excitement and celebration, many families will enjoy abundance of all different means.
From comfort food and presents, to comforting family moments and fun traditions made once more.
Whether you have a large family or small one, are a single mom or a huge, loving family of 10 including your spouse ----> no matter how filled up your heart and home are this season, you will cherish most the love and joy you feel with one another.
That is what kids are to remember most as they grow.
18 Christmases with us until they are grown.
I've seen all sorts of ways people have celebrated. From over the TOP cheer to minimalist experience gifts and leisure.
From hosting the annual, traditional Christmas party to going away on vacation somewhere fun and sunny during the holiday week.
Some people have chosen to skip Christmas all together. Some have gone extremely minimalist. And that is great.
Whatever you choose to do during the holiday season, for all the holidays there are, do it with love.
Love. Gratitude. Joy. Appreciation.
Stripped of all the fluff, the core of celebrations are to celebrate the people in our lives. And the achievements we have.
I'd love to change the narrative of holiday celebrations.
I'd love to see families sit around talking about their goals in a positive way.
Feed positivity and encouragement into one another.
Hear about each others experiences and dreams.
One thing I have learned as a bystander in other peoples family celebrations for the past decade plus is that families do a whole lot of planning and fluff aligns the holiday but very little interaction with one another.
People go all out with food and activities, gifts and decor ---> and the aesthetic of the holidays can be quite spectacular.
Holiday movies depict heart warming moments of joy and laughter, in the same whimsical and magical setting of holiday decor and traditions.
But as dinner is getting prepared and everyone sits around the home, the small talk passed around is so empty of encouragement for the new year.
If your family DOES have deep, emotional, inspirational talks when getting together---> I would love to hear about it in the comments.
But what I'm referring to are the many families who's traditions are to numb through dinner, nod and smile through small talk and then make the focal point of the day on gifts.
For me, all of your bonds with your families are your gifts.
I would have done anything growing up to have REAL parents. Healthy parents. A family void of trauma.
In my childhood and adolescent years, I was convinced abuse and trauma were the norms for all.
My mission as an adult is to provide my own kids with toxic free holidays and a trauma free lifestyle.
Breaking the cycle is the gift that keeps on giving.
And many people wonder how they can break the cycle. Break a mold without shattering their relationships.
But how does it feel when year after year you feel bullied or discouraged by family?
When holidays feel stressful and getting together with family means preparing to be eye rolled and belittled by the people who brought you into this world....
When trauma seeps into the holidays, it looks something like "the drunk uncle", "the overworked mother", "the sit and do nothing father", "the not out and afraid sibling", "the college drop out", "the racist grandpa", "the overbearing and boundary slaying grandma".
And we break bread with, laugh with, comply with it all.
For the sake of the holidays.
For the sake of family.
For those of us who experience this, we grit and deal with it right? Just a few hours a year... just a few days a year...
The thing is, we are not sure how to change the tone of conversations or the way the evening goes.
We have not been taught how to dismantle trauma.
I want future generations as well as mine [90s baby] to learn how to and then actively do something during stressful, abusive situations.
Beyond that, I want us all to take the power we have and make the holidays something meaningful.
To introduce new traditions. New conversations.
To sit with our relatives and ask them intriguing questions. To encourage new reading and education. To open up their eyes. Inspire them.
I want YOU TO BE THE ONE to open your mouth and say "this is my big dream and I'd like to tell you about it".
Not a timid "if you'd listen, I'd like to..." or "I was hoping to tell you something".
Not a question.
Holidays are meant for gathering around and celebrating the year. The love in retrospect.
The joy of being together.
And while you may feel beaten down by past defeats, know that you always have the chance to step in. To take some control and make some new traditions that your younger family members will follow suit in after you have led.
Even more so, if you have an abusive or shitty relative, do not be quiet about it.
That does not mean you should:
●MAKE A SCENE
●SHOUT OR FLIP OUT
What it does mean is having a firm statement passed onto them.
About their behavior. About how uncool it is.
If you need to ask another adult to do so, then do that.
But make it known.
Trauma survivors often feel TRAPPED during the holidays.
Surrounded by people who are borderline or blatantly abusive ---> we tend to FREEZE.
Lastly, if you are unfortunately surrounded by abusive family and you have tried or believe it is impossible to make change happen...if you think speaking up will be a danger..
There is a new tradition you need to make.
Celebrate your own way.
Do something new.
Stop showing up.
It feels hard and like a betrayal because maybe they are all you have. Or maybe you feel like blood means never giving up.
It feels hard because you have tolerated it until now so why quit? It's one day right? Measly hours...
The thing is.. healing is a commitment.
Leading a healthy and happy life is a commitment.
So if you could trade a few hours of painful encounters for doing something that brings you joy ---> DO IT.
This is your reminder that HOLIDAYS are not synonymous with abuse.
You do not have to be a part of something you don't feel comfortable or safe in.
Next, if your family is just "used to" not being very deep or open ----> YOU can change that.
If you find yourself being a highly sensitive person or highly emotional person, then you are NOT AN OUTCAST.
In many ways, YOU ARE THE CATALYST.
You can start with games or conversations that you start with them. And you can teach them how to become open. Comfortable. safe.
You would be shocked to know how many of your family members have survived abuse and never told anyone.
How many were raised to tolerate things silently.
They are not silent to punish you.
They are silent to punish themselves.
That is what trauma looks like.
This holiday season, take control of tradition.
Integrate healthy things into the home.
Into each others hearts.
Teach the children how to have deeper conversation and play games of mindfulness.
Teach the children how to engage with the adults on a deeper level.
Use your awareness and emotional senses to make impact.
Or take It elsewhere for your own well being.
You do not have to suffer in your own story.
And you can define Merry in a whole new way.
♡ J.S. Jaded Savior
#christmas #joy #beauty #worth #selfesteem
This week I was given makeup, skincare products, a foot bath, and clothing that fits me perfectly.
I cannot tell you how much I have "needed" these things.
As a mom of 3 who stays home out of necessity, to raise my kids and cannot work because I'd have to way to get around [no car and no transportation], and would spend my whole check on daycare [for 2 toddlers].
So many women are struggling in the ways I am and i want to make these issues VISIBILE.
I AM IN NEED OF SELF WORTH AND APPRECIATION.
That is the Root of it.
Thank goodness we have a roof. And can just manage food expenses.
Without the support we have, we would have nothing at all.
And this "wont last forever" is the mantra I repeat as I cry in the shower, rocking myself and swirling around in defeat.
I used to stay silent about it all.
Don't tell anyone you struggle.
It is shameful.
It is "not classy to complain".
I am worthless.
Because everyone will ask me what I did to get this way.
I had a baby at 16 and was thrown out on my ass by my parents and ex, everyone but an Aunt I was close with were too shitty to step up.
My Aunt and Uncle were amazing to me and helped me for almost 4 yrs until I left to get my own apartment on campus of the 4 year college I got into after graduating at Community College.
I felt like a burden to her and her family. I still feel like I burdened anyone ever helped me.
Saying thank you is easy but calculating in my head what I'd have to do to pay people back is crippling.
I owe people my survival.
I owe people my life for saving it.
When I get help, it means I owe someone.
That is always how I saw it.
So when people complimented me for my work or my talents, i felt like I owed them.
It was uncomfortable to receive anything positive from anyone.
I was abused from birth til 16. Leaving my parents while pregnant DID NOT solve that. I stayed surrounded surrounded by trauma for years.
Because I was unaware of what it did to me, I gave my heart and trust to people who hurt me. Repeatedly. And without remorse.
As I worked hard in college and in a job to barely afford raising my daughter, I was also fighting depression and anxiety but had no idea.
I was so disassociated from my abuse and past that I had gaps in my memory and did not know the word "trigger" yet.
So i gravitated towards the things that kept me broken.
Having very little became habitual. I was not taught anything good about money, investing, or saving.
I was only taught, through experience, how to survive.
That mantra of survival of course stained my decisions and my goals. It stayed with me after marrying and having more kids.
It seeped into my marriage. My parenting.
My self esteem.
Devastatingly unaware, I made "the best" of everything.
I chronically thought small. Chose small.
I only convinced myself I was going big.
Just to keep my mind and body safe from a breakdown, small felt like a cozy hole to make a home in.
This week I realized that bigger feels better.
That going big and sharing my soul feels so freeing.
This year I am chasing JOY.
Joy of playing it big. Of putting myself out there.
I am poor.
And in the three months I have been writing about it, I have been releasing all shame.
The shame of being a stay at home mom ---> which is the hardest work I have ever done, sans paycheck.
The shame of taking time to heal ---> to bartering my way to affording it and using my talents in exchange for services.
The shame of being a "single mom" again because I said yes to supporting my husband working long distance --->when I'm lonely and sad dealing with my mental health and being mom alone.
I've said yes to things that don't bring me joy and I am tired of that.
As it turns out, I've just had a poor attitude.
Now I know I am whatever I choose to be.
And when someone tells me how low and broken they feel, I can tell them it is a choice.
But that is not all.
We have to change ourselves.
The things we want, we need to speak them.
Make them happen.
Do small tasks daily to work towards them.
This week I have been able to get dressed up in new items and put makeup on my face.
I have cried more times than I can count.
Not because makeup and sweaters were the answer.
But because I feel worthy as I slip into a sleek black sweater and put primer on before painting a face that looks new to me.
J.S. JADED SAVIOR
#christmas #poverty #trauma #equations #joy
Your worth is not a mathematical equation to figure out.
Yet here I am, a hypocrite with a calculator and a bag of snotty tissues.
Just crunching away the numbers.
I have been low income since I was born.
Born into a marriage of domestic violence, addictions, bad decisions, and poverty.
Every year for Christmas, god I have no idea what I ever received.
A knocked over tree by Godzilla herself after a wild night of undercooked meat for dinner, the stove top left unattended and my preteen self trying to figure out now to test for carbon monoxide poisoning.
A barren womb after the violent loss of 2 babies she had tried for and was unsuccessful in hosting after months of bed rest and nurse visits. Iv drips, barely eating, writhing from the pain of sobriety while carrying children.
Christmas meant uncomfortable visits with family and sly remarks about how she had a kid already from the inlaws.
About how she used the cleaners obsessively and that's why she suffered a loss.
I grew up around trauma.
As an only child, I suffered greatly at the hands of abuse because I was the only kid.
No one else to blame or fall back on. Not even the dog. Trust me, I'd tried.
My company was a tiny square TV that took VHS tapes and a notebook I used to draw in.
I was grounded so often to stay in my room, I should have been named rapunzel.
I dont know if I ever believed in santa or magic or joy.
But I did know a lot of adults tried real hard each year to pull it off for their kids.
I knew one day I'd want that to be me.
After countless years of losing the battle with my birthday candles and wishing for adoption, I surrendered to the fact that that was my life.
We never talked about money and it always seemed like we were strapped for it.
No food. Tons of bills.
Holiday meant family time.
What I learned about love and joy were that they were meant to be had by the people who could afford it.
Besides ordering random items from QVC and stocking the bar accordingly each month, Cathy did things that served herself.
Whatever santa left under a tree, she wrapped it herself. Whatever her miserable husband left her, was either metaphorically or literally burned.
On the tv down stairs i'd see commercials and classic old movies about Christmas. My favorite was Santa Claus is coming to town.
I loved watching Chris give the Winter Warlock a toy and his icy heart melting because of the love and joy felt in receiving.
Every year, some how, I was able to give my mother some kind of gift.
Years later I would discover a box with everything I ever have her in it. Shoved away behind the steve madden's and baby photo albums in the back corner of the closet.
I was not sure if I was being treasured or just neatly tucked away, out of sight and out of mind like all her other problems.
I knew when I became a mother I would do whatever I can to make Christmas magical. To make holidays and anniversaries and achievements all feel joyful.
So when I had my first child at 16, and was shunned by my parents, I knew I had a bargain to keep up.
A life of joy and fun. Security and stability.
As it seemed, life did not go that way in my twenties. From 17 with a newborn to 25 finishing up college with my little girl by my side.
I learned from being out on my own that I had to keep my child away from toxic people and dysfunction. We had to chase joy because it was not free.
Sometimes I felt like a failure.
Like joy was just unattainable.
No matter how hard i worked or how much i saved, it felt like i was just meant to be poor.
To make it "worse", i gravitated towards careers and passions that would be rewarding in many ways but in the bank account.
Math, again, was not on my side.
And I felt torn between wanting a career to help people OR finding something stable just to pay the bills and get by.
Still, I knew my worth enough to go to college on my own and make something of myself.
My parents had both dropped out in high school. Barely 10th grade before getting into drugs and alcohol. Something that would rob them of their lives and almost mine.
When I met my husband, I was just finishing up 6 years total of college and the sum of 2 degrees. I felt so empowered and ready to take on life with my passions.
But depression and anxiety began to get the best of me. Everything started to come undone.
A horrible breakup. Loss of friends. Doubt in my career choice. The end of my college financial aid. Fear. Insecurities. Regret.
And then I met someone.
Someone who I felt in my gut was my soulmate.
So I took a leap.
And that leap turned into 5 years, 2 more babies and marriage.
Void of career or passion. The price I paid for changing directions.
Instead I learned how to coparent and be a partner. I learned how to have a safe night in bed with someone who wanted to protect me, not be the thing I hid away from.
I learned how to have holidays with peace. Calmness. Love.
I watched as my heart expanded with each child we welcomed into the world and my expectations grew threw the roof.
Now that I finally built a little family of my own, had a best friend to navigate adulthood and life with---> I wanted it to be my soul mission to give them the world.
To be their rock, their everything. Their person to call "home".
But out came the calculator every single occasion. Crunching numbers on our oh so tiny budget.
Now both wearing shackles of shame as we realized the math did not equal the kind of parents we wanted to be.
Every Christmas, the theme of giving goes around and everyone feels so thankful for what they have.
As low income people, we are so thankful for everything we do have.
But looming over our heads constantly are the things we go without.
We've been taught, as poor people, not to talk about the poverty. Not to ask for things. Not to go for help.
It is not in the words but in the thoughts people have when we speak up.
The suffering always do so in silence.
As the social media bombardment of photos come in with Christmas wishes, Holiday decor and family photos, we stay scrolling for joy.
I scroll for joy.
I love to see photography sessions and milestone photos, santa photos and Christmas cards. It may seem silly to people but I feel envious of those.
An unhumble trait I picked up in my years of having less.
Then there is the comparison cold.
As I see and I know and I remember all the commercials for Christmas time shopping.
Big trees filled with presents and toys underneath so that Christmas morning the kids feel loved and like their wishes were received.
As a single mom I was always so terrified of doing santa letters because I may not be able to give what my kid hoped for. Many years I "helped give ideas" for her list after already shopping. .I was so scared to disappoint her.
In movies, Santa came to poor children with oranges in the stockings and toys by the tree.
I was so frozen with fear year after year at the chance my kid would feel like the math wasnt adding up and she was not worthy enough for santa.
Now that I am married with 3 and we struggle to feed the family + cannot afford to save, that fear has grown.
Into the size of an abominable snowman.
But recently I remembered something that carried me away in tears as a child.
That damn cheechoo train and the winter warlock.
His tears brought the resounding message of joy that I clung to for years.
Give joy. And hearts will be full.
So this year and the last 4 years prior, I have focused on joy.
How I could make every season, not just the date, feel GOOD.
I wanted to give my kids the excitement of each season because it meant all year felt good and mindful and purposeful.
Unlike when I would anticipate the 3 holi - days we left the house to see extended family and my parents would try to pass as normal.
Every year I still made the samemistake.
I took out income and replaced it with the measure of joy, just to reassemble the equation.
To finally have a shot at making myself worthy as a mother.
And I felt like I failed each time.
With each gift or craft or idea, I felt empty and sad after.
Like my kids just KNEW it was not enough.
Like I knew I was not enough.
This year I gained a beautiful gift.
The gift of an awakening.
A journey into my own healing from trauma.
Now I am discovering why I always reached for the calculator.
I always felt I needed tools to become more.
Being me never felt "enough".
That affected every single holiday or celebration.
Every single birthday wish.
Every single absent gift I thought I was too unworthy to receive.
I was taught that worth was measured by people who felt unworthy.
Sick, addicted, traumatized, irrational people taught me by example that worth is bought.
That self love is bought.
And that joy is bought.
That is just not true.
Money does mean something.
Being able to give my kids a dream Christmas, like a scene out of Miracle on 34th Street is THE GOAL.
I cannot seem to shake that childlike, tear struck face of wonder at the idea of driving up to a dream house that is wrapped in lights and festive decor. That has a wide staircase and open living room with 10 ft tall ceilings and a huge Christmas tree illuminating the house.
But this time, I am learning that should have actually written those wish lists. I should have talked out loud about my desires.
I should honor them and honor myself.
I want my kids to see a brave, strong woman who is not afraid to ask for what she wants. And happily receive it.
I want my kids to know joy, feel joy, give joy.
Because their childhood was not traumatic.
It was filled with magic and spirit and hope.
So now instead of just Santa, invoke my spirit and my soul to feel worthy.
To be the joy.
The smile and the warmth and the love that made my kids' Christmas special every single year.
J.S. Jaded Savior
#selfproclamations #identity #poverty #poormentality #trauma
I've written before about being poor and living in poverty, but consider this the Christmas edition.
For the past 3 days, my husband and I have stayed up in Utica in a place that he is renovating with his brother to turn into rental apartments. My husband has been learning all about real estate, flipping and renovation projects from scratch because we want to head down that path next after almost 5 years of struggling in previous businesses.
Today my husband and I had to treck to walmart, in the snow, with our kids so we could get more food + warm clothing for our two toddler boys. We packed for this trip with whatever groceries we had in the house before we left and what clothing fit the kids.
We left my inlaws and headed up here hoping to be alright and not need anymore. But, as all parents know, it happens.
Needing more outfits because the kids grow like weeds. Because hand me downs are starting to run low. Because kids get into everything and 7 outfits can run out in just a few days with these little whirlwinds.
So there we were, both feeling overwhelmed as we counted our budget and went over what 3 more days of food would cost + 4 more outfits. Seeing how far pasta can stretch and if the clearance section would be kind to us.
My husband stared at me as I picked out fleece pants for the boys, and asked "How can you stay so positive every day even though we are struggling?"
I saw love in his eyes as he watched me laugh at a joke I had just told. And I realized he was dead serious.
I also know what he partially meant was, "How can you love me even though we are poor?"
I thought about how triggering it is for him that we struggle. Because he wants to be the strength and the provider for our family. And he feels in so many ways like his hard work has still failed us. Meant nothing because we still struggle.
He does not realize what it means to me every time he feeds me and our kids. Every time he plays a board game with us. Every time we cuddle on the couch.
He does not realize that every single joke we have shared and the belly rolling laughing he has given me since the day we began talking [via dating app] that he has made me feel so rich and so full.
In that moment I do not "see" struggle, but an outing with my family. We look like every other family in walmart. 3 cheeky kids not using their indoor voices. A mom and dad asking what dinner should be. Dad shrugging and saying anything is fine.
We blend right in. And there is no need to feel triggered or sad.
So we walk, me pushing the kart filled with 2 fleece pairs of pants, 2 long sleeve shirts, 2 boys leggings and 2 hoodies. 4t, 5t. Hip colors. Golden dinosaur head. Silver monster truck.
I know I took 15 minutes to sift through the same 3 tables of clothing. Looking for the cheapest, while feeling around like a mad woman for the right textures and designs.
"I want my kids to feel cool, not poor", I think to myself as I search and have a big smile as I land on cool dinosaur geometric pants that my 4 yr old will go wild in excitement for.
Laughing as I tell my husband that our little guy will ROAR when he puts them on. And instead of being met with laughter, watching my husband lock eyes with me and smile in such a deep way at me that it touches my soul.
We walk past the pjs and Women's section, my eyes following the tops of racks and flirting gently with the fur lined hoods of cheetah print and rose gold puffer jackets. Oh to be young, and in style. But I don't linger long.
My husbands thick XL jacket feels good on me. Good enough for winter. Good enough to not need anything else.
Now we are coming up to the home section, rows of wood decor and industrial farmhouse table settings. Plate and serving sets.
I grip the wheel. Intoxicating, I think as I close my eyes and breathe deeply in. It smells like a home. Like a home well decorated and cared for during the coming holiday season.
I see Christmas mits and towels, "If you need me, I'll be watching Hallmark and baking cookies" which usually makes me laugh and nod in agreement.
But now all I can do is choke, force down a hard swallow and then begin panting.
These carts, these people are just not moving. I want to go faster or ditch down an isle but instead I am locked here between baking Betty and decorate it Debbie who are trying to decide if they should just get 2 of each and maybe some for their grown kids.
These are my triggers, I suddenly realize as I try to fight off a panic attack.
Almost 5 years in with the man of my dreams, both of us feeling beat TF up from entrepreneurship and parenthood. Us both feeling defeated by the mistakes, mishaps, breakdowns, blunders, and headaches our last business gave us.
The ways it showed us our best and worst selves. The way we were at our best AND worst simultaneously as business partners and marriage partners.
The way we both learned to "make the best" of everything as we slid hard down that mountain right into mud. No. Quicksand.
I finally get to dodge down bedding and catch up to my husband who is looking for the last thing he needed. My child is having sensory overload in the top seat of the cart, spotting every. Single. Thing. He. Wants. Santa. To.bring.
Me too, buddy, me too.
This christmas I want to ask Santa for that BIG BREAK.
That one we see in movies and sitcoms.
You know it, don't you?
That turn of fate after struggle that FINALLY gives the lead character what they DESERVE in the end.
You see, being poor looks like many things.
And though no one knows us here in walmart and we pass as any other family, we know weeks of pasta and beans. And we are hiding out because we should be SO LUCKY we have a roof and my inlaws. We are.
We are not poor enough or struggling enough to come out about it socially. That is a trigger for everybody.
We are struggling "light". Kinda like a "lite icetea".
But we are not just struggling because we have less than many and we are not doing "well" just because we have more than some.
Our struggle is layered.
We both have unhealed trauma. We have little kids that are being raised by 2 people with so much love and good intentions but a HUGE responsibility to start fresh [after ending the cycles of abuse we knew].
We both have passion and hard work being put into outlets that do not pay well yet.
For me, not at all.
As everyone talked about black Friday and cyber Monday, I spent my time OFF social media.
I could not handle all the triggers.
Because I have been taught, through poverty, to not want things that I cannot afford.
I am not supposed to view websites or deals or sales when I know I cannot afford them.
I am not supposed to think about beauty or fashion or fitting in when it is just a fantasy.
I enjoy the little things and I window shop. I get panic attacks and cry a little when I stroll home sections of stores and I feel FUCKING WEIRD FOR IT.
But you see, tears do not come from poverty. They come from trauma.
I come from a broken home.
I spent years fearing being in my room and sleeping with furniture infront of my door because the only worse thing than being grounded to my room for years was possibly being attacked by what dwelled in the living room, drunk and hazy.
I then lived with family for a short time and wanted so badly to feel like I had parents + safety. I know my family did so much for me but after I moved out to spread my wings for college it no longer felt the same.
In fact, my relationships have mostly dissolved over the last 10 years. I feel alone mostly.
Self sufficiency is my fashion. My style. That thing I choose to invest in. It's a lonely shade of rouge.
All I used to ask "Santa" for every year was my own home. Like on Miracle on 34th street.
Gah that movie makes me bawl like no other.
I feel the same swell of tears and build up of emotions from that movie, precisely when the little girl says "mommy, mommy it IS our home".
I get that same rush running my fingers through a shag carpet and matching throw pillows while my kids cry out "PIIIIZZZAAAAAA please mom???" And my husband breaks my daydream to tell me it's time to go.
As everyone checks out their karts, filled to the brim with decorations and stocking fillers, I am calculating our stock before we ring it all up because I am sweating literally at the idea of going over budget.
Even though we calculated 3 times already.
We go $10 over and he hugs me.
"Its ok. We will do better this year."
And with his embrace I want to melt like a tiny child and pause time.
In this moment, I force myself to remember what this all feels like. What STUFF can do to a person.
What Christmas shopping does to people.
And how much people take for granted what they have already.
Their home. Their tree. Their belongings.
The wishlists their kids make that they can easily fill, maybe even twice.
But none of that is even the point.
I realize poverty teaches us about gratitude. Sure.
It teaches us about love. And kindness.
But it also teaches us longing. Despair. Fear.
It teaches us compliance and defeat sometimes.
When we clutch those things that trigger us most, the material desires we crave.
And we say things like "I can't" or "this isn't for me".
When we feel utterly defeated by the woman on the line who is buying her kids toys for that moment, because 23 days is still far away.
Not because we hate her. Because we want to be her.
I want to be her.
I want to pull up the driveway of a lit up home that is MINE, knowing it has all the trimmings and perfection inside that I put together myself. Out of love and appreciation for the walls. The carpets. The hard wood floors. The high rise ceilings.
I want a train running round the tree and a crystal star so bright it shines rainbows off the ceiling.
Some day, I want things.
And I still want to be the same girl who laughs with ease as my husband stares adoringly. Unchanged. Just secure.
Because being poor my whole life, it is the stability and peace I crave more than the dollar amount in my account.
But this year I am no longer asking Santa for a home with the trimmings.
I decided though I still believe in his magic, this year I just want the gift of believing in myself.
And seeing what it feels like to walk around knowing the gift was inside me all along.
I want to do the things that my heart feels called to do.
I'm tired of the poor mindset of "I am not enough to be better. To have better. To give better."
Of "this is just my lot in life."
It's not. It is no ones' lot in life to just suffer.
Sometimes we just need help.
Sometimes we need to change our course.
Sometimes we just need to be reminded that we are capable AF and resourceful AF.
Let this be the last year we struggle.
And the first year ahead that we thrive.
J.S. Jaded Savior
Content mention of Rape, Abuse, Neglect, Addictions, Mental Illness, Kidnap, Molestation, Child abuse, Teen Pregnancy, Abortion, birth, body image, gender/identity dysphoria, sexuality, personal trauma, domestic violence and other extremely personal stories. Please practice caution. I am not a licensed physician or mental health professional. No medical prescribing is provided on this site, Only personal insights, experience stories, and advice; All stories published have had prior authorization. Questions? Contact Jean at: email@example.com
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