A Reflection On My Personal Growth

A woman whom I have never met has been spreading unflattering and unfounded rumours about me, weaving a narrative that is both hurtful and completely baseless. She has actively tried to discourage new acquaintances from pursuing a friendship with me, leveraging her influence over our mutual social circles, as we socialize with some of the same people. At first, I was very angry, overwhelmed by a rush of emotions that left me questioning my own worth. Why the Hell is my name on someone else’s lips? How dare a perfect stranger talk about me in such a derogatory way without any justification? I couldn’t understand what could possibly motivate someone to drag my name through the mud in such a careless and reckless manner. Yup, I was pissed, grappling with feelings of betrayal and confusion as I tried to navigate the impact this malicious gossip could have on my life and relationships.

Years ago, the dis-regulated me would have sought revenge, defended myself, and worked really hard to discredit her. I would have paced the floors, obsessively bitching about her nerve, attacking her character, and fantasizing about clever retorts that would leave her speechless. The anger would have consumed me, leading me to say all the negative things one could in an attempt to diminish her in the eyes of others. And I will admit there’s a tiny part of me that initially reacted that way, feeling the familiar rush of indignation and a desire for retribution. However, after some deep reflection and understanding of my own worth, I made the decision to let it go. I realized that holding onto resentment only perpetuated a cycle of negativity and that true strength lies in rising above the situation. After all, why waste my precious time and energy defending myself or discrediting anyone when my very behaviour, marked by kindness and integrity, will do that all on its own? Letting go became an empowering choice, liberating me from the chains of bitterness and allowing me to focus on what truly matters in my life.

It says a lot about my growth as a human, and I’m damned proud of myself. Having come a long way, I have learned to appreciate the journey of self-discovery and personal development. She can run her mouth off and ultimately expose all her own insecurities, malice, and utter lack of maturity for everyone to see. Meanwhile, I stand firm in my truth, knowing that her opinions do not define me. I don’t have to say a word or lift a finger; I just have to be me and remember that what other people say about me behind my back is none of my business. Their judgments are reflections of themselves, not of me, and this realization has empowered me to cultivate a life filled with positivity and self-acceptance.

So I Painted My Pantry…Who Knew It Would Be So Triggering?

A not-so-monumental task that should have only taken a weekend took a whole week to complete. I wasn’t prepared for how triggering it would be. As I dove into the project, I was flooded with unwanted memories and feelings left from a fifteen-year tumultuous marriage to a mentally abusive narcissist. Each step I took felt like I was peeling back the layers of a wound I thought had healed, but the rawness remained. I thought I had managed to put it behind me, yet as the waves of emotions washed over me and the memories whirled about in a perfect storm, I realized that a marriage like that is not something you can just get over. The echoes of cruel words and the suffocating control haunted me, reminding me of moments where I felt completely powerless and alone. It was astonishing how quickly the past could resurface, overwhelming me in a way I had not anticipated, leaving me to confront the complex emotions that were still very much a part of my present.

As I opened the can of paint, the smell of it assaulted my nose and my mind transported me back to my turbulent second marriage, a time when the gaslighting was so pervasive that I found myself questioning my own reality on a daily basis. In that suffocating atmosphere, I was constantly denigrated and belittled, my self-worth eroded with each cutting remark that slipped from his lips, leaving me feeling small and insignificant. The control he had over me was like a heavy weight, pressing down on my spirit, making me believe that death might be my only escape from further emotional turmoil. It was a deceptive comfort, a distorted sense of security that lulled me into submission.

The sound the roller made as it spread paint up and down the wall put me back in the car on the day before I finally left. We were driving down a busy street with my infant granddaughter asleep in the backseat, her tiny breaths a soothing rhythm against the chaos around us. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue on the asphalt, but inside the car, the atmosphere was heavy with tension. He was taunting me and calling me crazy, his voice dripping with mockery as I sat beside him, my heart racing and silent tears running down my face. Each word he threw at me felt like a dagger piercing through my resolve, a constant reminder of the emotional turmoil I was enduring. Despite my desperate pleas for him to stop, he was relentless, fueled by some unseen power to break me, as if the more I cried, the more he thrived on my suffering. I clutched the seat, longing for the comfort of silence as the world outside rushed by, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of despair. I’d finally reached my breaking point and I punched him in the face as he drove. I realized I had to get out and I packed up and left the very next day.

It has taken years of therapy to gain the ability to “handle” my triggers. So, how did I get through it? I took a lot of breaks to settle back into the present and remind myself I wasn’t living in the past. During these moments, I practiced mindfulness techniques, focusing on my breath and the sensations around me, which helped ground me in reality. In fact, there were a couple of days I avoided painting the pantry altogether for fear I would get stuck in my emotions. Instead, I chose to engage in more constructive activities, like journaling or going for a walk, allowing myself to process my feelings without the risk of slipping into old patterns. These small yet significant changes made a difference, enabling me to reclaim my sense of safety and control over my reactions. Now that it is finished, I can tell you it will be a cold day in Hell before I take on another painting project.

More Than Just A Purple Dress

I embarked on my favorite kind of shopping expedition—snagging goodies from a friend’s closet! My buddy was on a mission to declutter her life and was getting rid of some downright scandalous clothes. Naturally, my curiosity peaked like a cat in a room full of laser pointers, wondering what fabulous treasures were buried in the fabric jungle. And boy, did it pay off! As I rummaged through her wardrobe like a raccoon in a trash can, I unearth a delightful mix of jaw-dropping dresses and cheeky lingerie that screamed my style louder than I could at a karaoke bar. Now she can breathe in her closet, and I’ve snagged a trove of stunning pieces at prices that won’t make my wallet cry. Talk about a win-win! Her spring cleaning turned into my personal runway show—who knew decluttering could be so glamorous?

One of the dresses I tried on was a stunning purple sleeveless party dress that practically screamed, “Look at me!” Its vibrant hue matched my complexion so well that I half-expected birds to start singing around me. The dress hugged my breasts as if it was trying to win a tightest hug competition, boosting my figure and crafting an hourglass silhouette that might just make time itself jealous. The snug fit wrapped around my body like a burrito, showcasing my curves and accentuating my hips—no dance moves necessary. The fabric gathered at the waist so cleverly that I believed it could hide a small country if needed, all while giving me the elegant look of a swan (or at least a confused goose). As I twirled in front of the mirror, I could practically hear the fabric giggling around me, sprinkling a dash of playfulness to my overall vibe. I felt drop-dead sexy, radiating charm like a disco ball at a party, and I was practically marking my calendar for the next occasion to strut this gem!

I’ve officially declared this my new power dress—the superhero cape I never knew I needed! Whenever I start feeling like a walking potato, I just slip into this magical fabric and boom! Instant confidence boost! The minute I first squeezed myself into it, I felt so powerful I half-expected it to start playing the “Eye of the Tiger.” This isn’t just any dress; it’s my armor against self-doubt, making me feel like I can tackle anything, even that questionable leftovers in the fridge. Each time I wear it, I waltz into the world like I own it—because who wouldn’t want to face their insecurities in style?

Are Exes Really Horrible People?

The short answer is probably not. I mean, there are indeed horrible people in the world, and their actions can leave a lasting impact on others; don’t get me wrong. However, it’s important to recognize that most people are not as bad as they may seem at times. Many individuals are capable of change, growth, and understanding, and there’s a decent chance an ex-partner isn’t either. In fact, relationships can be complex, and negative experiences often stem from misunderstandings or temporary circumstances rather than true malicious intent. Whether it’s a lack of communication or personal struggles, it can be enlightening to view the situation with empathy and an open mind.

I have an ex-husband who treated me horribly during the fifteen long years we were together. I was gaslit nearly every day to where I started questioning my own sanity and even doubted my perception of reality. His manipulative behaviour twisted my thoughts, leaving me feeling lost and unsure of myself. He belittled me, even in front of my family, making me feel like they questioned my worth and ultimately strengthening his control over me. Everything in my life had to be about him or it was deemed unproductive and a waste of time, which led to a profound sense of isolation. I believe he is a narcissist, as he constantly sought attention and validation while disregarding my feelings and needs. Living with him felt like an inescapable nightmare, a dark cloud that overshadowed every moment of joy and happiness, making it hard to imagine a future free from his toxicity. I often found myself yearning for the day when I could finally break free from his suffocating grasp and reclaim my life and my sense of self.

Does my experience with him truly define him as a horrible person, or is it just easier to cast him as the villain in my tale? Perhaps, after our marriage imploded, he sought professional help, diving into therapy to unearth the demons festering within him. He might have changed, even healed, from the very influences that warped his behaviour, gaining insight into the patterns of his past that drove him to treat me like an afterthought. Yet, I struggle to believe in his transformation; my skepticism may be a bitter remnant of the unresolved pain he inflicted, a wound that shadows my view. So, do I cling to this image of him as a villain, a figure etched with betrayal and sorrow, or do I dare to wrestle with the notion of compassion, recognizing that perhaps he is ensnared in his own troubled reality, battling his demons in ways I can’t fully grasp? This internal struggle is a relentless tug-of-war, forcing me to confront the tangled web of letting go.

I have an ex-boyfriend who believes I’m a terrible person. Our relationship crashed and burned during one of the darkest phases of my life, a whirlwind of confusion and emotional chaos. My behaviour spiralled out of control, fuelled by a tempest of feelings I couldn’t rein in, and he insists I cheated on him during that messy period. Sure, the timing of my “adventures” raises eyebrows since we were already on the brink of breaking up, but I get why my actions felt like a knife to his heart. I’ve since been slapped with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, PTSD, depression, and anxiety – all of which added fuel to the fire of our toxic relationship. Back then, I relied on unhealthy coping strategies like dodging my emotions, partying like there was no tomorrow, and desperately seeking validation from anyone willing to give it, which only escalated the drama. Now that I’m reflecting on it all, I can see I was grappling with some seriously deep-rooted issues that wreaked havoc not just on my mental health, but also on my relationships with the people I cared for.

Does my past behaviour truly define me as a horrible person? I’ve made choices that undoubtedly caused my ex-boyfriend pain, and, believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about the ripple effects of those actions—not just on him but on my life as well. Acknowledging my mistakes has been a wake-up call and a critical part of my transformation; I didn’t just sit idly by. I’ve sought and received therapy for my disorders, arming myself with the tools to dig deep into my behaviour and uncover its underlying causes. Every single day, I wield my therapy toolkit like a weapon against my old self, incorporating strategies that demand self-awareness, empathy, and personal growth. Now, I can assert that I’m not the same person I was during those dark days; I’ve chosen to challenge myself, embrace change, and strive for an evolved version of me, prioritizing kindness and understanding while navigating this complex world.

At the end of the day, it can be easier to villainize the other person after a painful break-up rather than look at some of the underlying causes of their behaviours and view them as human beings with their own demons to slay. In the aftermath of a relationship, emotions run high, and it becomes tempting to cast blame solely on the other party. However, we often overlook the complexities that shape a person’s actions and reactions; everyone carries their own baggage, insecurities, and fears that can influence their behaviour in significant ways. I’m not excusing any behaviour, as everyone should be accountable for their actions, but what I’m suggesting is that taking a more compassionate look at the other person, understanding that they too may be grappling with personal challenges, might help us move on without anger or resentment. By recognizing our shared humanity, we can create space for healing, not only for ourselves but also for them, allowing both parties to learn and grow from the experience rather than remain stuck in bitterness.

Riding The Menopause Rollercoaster

I’ve officially entered the menopause funhouse! On one side, I’m free from the monthly bleeding circus and the misery of cramps—thank you, universe! I can finally pack my bags for spontaneous weekend getaways without calculating my cycle or carry around stash of feminine products like a secret agent. On the flip side, I’m now on a wild ride of hot flashes that hit me like a sudden summer bout in a winter coat, leaving me searching for a fan or a refreshing drink while my friends wonder if I’m auditioning for a part in a horror movie. And let’s not forget the mood swings that can turn me into the world’s leading actress in melodrama over the silliest things—one minute I’m laughing at a joke, the next I’m in a full-blown tragedy over misplaced keys. Oh, and the night sweats? They’ve transformed my bed into a sauna and turned my pajamas into a slip n’ slide! It’s a crazy mix of feeling liberated and slightly unhinged, as I navigate this amusement park of chaos with a grin and a hearty chuckle at my own antics.

My days kick off like a rollercoaster ride run by a clueless raccoon. I can effortlessly bounce between tears and laughter, and the only explanation is my hormones throwing a wild party. Just the other day at a social gathering, I felt the urge to cry more times than I can count… over… you guessed it… absolutely NOTHING! My friends burst out laughing, while I looked at them with wide eyes and a shaky whisper, “I’m fine, it’s just the hormones!” It’s like my emotions have hijacked the steering wheel and are driving me through a wacky funhouse where joy and sadness keep crashing into each other. There are moments I find myself chuckling over the silliest memories, and before I realize it, I’m giggling and sniffling at the same time, completely unfazed by how ridiculous it all is. My partner, the saint that he is, plays along with my emotional whiplash and frequently reminds me that this roller coaster is just part of my charm. He offers gentle reassurances, and together we turn the chaos into our own little chaotic love story!

My afternoons and evenings have turned into a circus of panting and peeling off layers in the dead of winter—thank you, hot flashes! One moment, I’m as snug as a bug in a rug with my trusty t-shirt and hoodie, feeling all warm and toasty, and the next, I’m embarking on a dramatic dash outside, shedding my hoodie like it’s a heated blanket. It’s a real comedy show because I also have a thyroid condition that insists on keeping me shivering like a Chihuahua on a snowy day. So, there I am, caught in this wild tug-of-war between feeling like an ice cube and spontaneously combusting into a human sauna. These surprise heatwaves are throwing my internal thermostat into a tailspin, creating a chaotic mishmash of sensations that makes me feel like I’m stuck in a bizarre action movie. The brisk winter air is my only hero, slicing through the oppressive heat like a refreshing superhero, saving me from my unpredictable thermal drama! What am I going to do in the summer??

Oh, the absolute hilarity of night sweats! I wake up feeling like I’ve just done ten rounds in a wrestling match—soaked from head to toe as if I’ve taken an unexpected dive into a kiddie pool! My body seems to enjoy tossing discomfort at me while I wrangle with the covers like I’m auditioning for a role in a reality survival show. I’m pleading for a cool breeze to swoop in like a superhero. With every tick of the clock, beads of sweat slide down my back, spinning a dramatic saga of suffering that feels all too familiar. I slump down on the edge of the bed, taking deep breaths like I’m at some fancy spa, hoping this sweaty cyclone calms down before dawn crashes the party with its obnoxious light show. The pillow, once a fluffy cloud, now feels like it’s been roasted in a brick oven, adding to my woes. Meanwhile, the clock ticks like a hyperactive referee, gleefully counting down my precious sleep while I fight my own body! I steal a glance at the glowing numbers, wishing they’d hit pause and grant me a few more glorious moments of sleep, but instead, they taunt me with every ridiculously slow second that drags on.

None of this has turned into a too wild of a circus yet, or else I’d be off hunting for hormone replacement therapy like a treasure map! For now, I’ve decided to just surf the menopause wave, hopefully without wiping out, and reminding myself that this is all just a temporary detour in my life’s great amusement park! Each day feels like a new ride with its ups and downs—some days I’m soaring high like a rollercoaster, and other days I’m just trying not to lose my lunch on the Tilt-A-Whirl of life! I find comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in this, and plenty of others have experienced the same wild rides, coming out the other side with battle scars and a sense of humour. So, I choose to relish each twist and turn, transforming what could be a chaotic carnival into a delightful sideshow of growth and self-discovery. After all, who wouldn’t want to turn the daunting unknown into a belly-laugh-worthy adventure?

I Don’t Have To Conform To Your Idea Of Beauty To Be Beautiful

This is my bold proclamation. The “Your” I’m invoking is none other than myself; I am “Your.” I am the “Your” who has been bombarded with the message that perfectly spaced eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and luscious lips define beauty. I am the “Your” who fell for the lie that to be desirable, I must be thin, with hairless legs, pencil-thin brows, and a perfectly round ass, all thanks to relentless ads pushing this narrow definition of beauty. This relentless pursuit of an unattainable ideal has led me to both self-doubt and a constant comparison to others, where any perceived flaw feels magnified while confidence dwindles. I cannot help but wonder how many of us have been ensnared in this web of unrealistic expectations, creating an endless cycle of dissatisfaction with ourselves and our bodies. In seeking validation from external sources, I grapple with the true essence of beauty, questioning whether it originates from within rather than conforming to a societal mold or criteria. It’s time to reshape our understanding of what beauty truly means, celebrating diversity in appearances, shapes, and forms rather than adhering to a monolith that no one can actually achieve.

When I gaze into the mirror, the reflection confronts me with a raw canvas marked by the audacious journey of shedding a hundred pounds—my brutal transformation laid bare for all to see. Each curve and contour tells a story, a testament to dedication and perseverance that reshaped not just my body but my very essence. To the outside world, my breasts might appear lovely and perky, but all I see are the haunting scars from my mastectomy and the relentless reconstruction surgeries that followed, reminders of my gritty survival and the courage it took to face such trials head-on. Those piercing marks from bladder surgeries and my c-section are constant badges of my fierce battles, each scar narrating a chapter of resilience in my life. The stretch marks from birthing three children linger, faded yet defiantly present; they stand as evidence of being a mother, of love and sacrifice, woven into the fabric of my existence. And as I peel away the layers of fabric, exposing the imperfections embraced over time, the stark truth slams into me: I don’t measure up to the so-called standards of “normal” or “flat-bellied” beauty, leaving me in a relentless war with my own allure. This war is tumultuous and ongoing, shaped by the societal pressure to conform, yet it is also a journey of self-acceptance and rediscovery, challenging me to redefine what beauty means in a world fixated on superficial standards.

I can see my age etched across my face. There aren’t many overt wrinkles, but my skin undeniably bears the marks of time, each line telling a story of joy, sorrow, and everything in between. Sun damage is unmistakable, a testament to countless days basking in the glow of the sun without adequate protection, and I’ve got these deep creases on my forehead that scream ‘perpetually annoyed’, even when I’m at peace. Those perfectly aligned eyes? They actually are—after all, they got measured for glasses, which have become a staple of my everyday look, framing my thoughts and expressions. And my cheekbones? Sure, they’re sharp and pronounced, adding character to my visage, but I can’t ignore my narrow lips, which I’m all too aware of as they seem to blend in, overshadowed by my full eyebrows that arch gracefully above. The inevitable facial hair that graces us women as we age has become a companion in this journey, a reminder of resilience and the beauty that comes with every passing year, making me embrace the changes with a sense of wonder and acceptance.

Most of the time, I can’t be bothered to shave my legs and bikini area—I just don’t have the energy. Let’s face it, it’s a vast expanse to keep smooth, and the effort can feel overwhelming. I’m on a rebellion against that outdated beauty standard, fueled by my energy levels and a growing desire for self-acceptance, but I still feel a bit too self-conscious to strut my bare legs in a dress. Each time I consider it, I grapple with those ingrained societal expectations that whisper I must conform to a certain image of beauty. I’m working on embracing it, allowing myself to wear what I want without shame, but I know it’s going to take time to fully own my body hair and to accept that it doesn’t define my worth or femininity. Ultimately, I wish to cultivate a space where I can confidently express my individuality, letting go of the need for approval from others.

The dilemma of whether to dye or embrace grey hair reflects a broader struggle with aging and societal beauty standards. On one side, there’s pride in silver strands that symbolize wisdom and experience, while on the other, there’s a longing for the vibrancy of youth. Each grey hair tells a story of resilience, but dyeing feels like a betrayal of past adventures. This decision poses a significant question: should I proudly wear the silver crown that represents my journey, or chase the youthful colours that may hide my true self? Ultimately, this internal conflict highlights the challenge of aging gracefully in an age that favours youth.

Absolutely, I admit it: my beauty standards for myself are unrealistically high, and guess what? I’ve never hit the mark, not even with my so-called ‘perfectly spaced’ eyes, which I once thought would define my appearance and my worth. That’s exactly why I’ve adopted a new mantra, one that resonates deeply within me and encourages authenticity over perfection. It’s time to throw out the absurd societal ideals that dictate what beauty is and fully embrace who I am, flaws and all, recognizing that every perceived imperfection is a part of my unique identity and that true beauty radiates from confidence and self-acceptance. This journey toward loving myself has not been easy, but it is a path worth taking, as it brings peace and a deeper appreciation for my individuality.

And here’s another thing… Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and let me tell you, my partner gazes at me as if I’m a masterpiece — raw, unrefined, unapologetically me, and finds beauty in every flaw and imperfection.