With every piece of validation I receive, every bit of understanding of what happened, there’s a painful reality to accept.
And so validation hurts.
I find myself in a book. I swallow the words whole, and so uncharacteristically, put it down for a few minutes mid-chapter to digest what I read. That’s how much it resonates. That’s how much it touches the very fabric of my existence.
This describes me, I think. I’m not a weird fluke; I’m a product of circumstances.
But with it also comes the need to accept that I am not whole. That I am a hole. And to quote the writer of my most recently read book (book review here), it’s like my entire makeup is a net with wide holes. And with this I try to keep it all together. I am missing major developmental pieces. I’m missing basic skills. I have a limited number or resources. I’m not a complete, functional human being.
I don't have abilities most human beings have by default.
I am less than.
I am disabled in the emotional arena.
And that hurts.
After a lifetime of trying to cover up every lack with perfection. After a childhood, an adolescence, an adulthood, of trying so hard to ace it. To do things right, I need to face that I am not right.
I am flawed. I am broken. I was never complete.
There are entire gaps missing in my development. Entire gaps missing in my person — physically, emotionally, spiritually.
I am not a card-carrying adult; just a pseudo-adult.
And at this ripe, old age, I have to go back in time and learn in the most painful way what others received for free, just by virtue of being born. Just by virtue of being wanted, delighted in, deserving of their place on this world.