The ghost voices in my head

Permission to be me

~ Permission to be me ~

A personal exploration written in response to this month’s writing prompt for The Kaleidoscope Project

Permission to be me…

When I was 25 years old, I was living in Brazil. From the outside, it would seem like I was doing my thing, living life on my own terms, not needing permission from anyone to be me.

But on the inside, I was trapped in a box not of my own making (that’s how it felt anyway). I did not feel free. I most certainly did NOT feel like I was living life on my own terms. I felt small and stuck and miserable.

Even though I didn’t quite realize it then, the ghost voices in my head ran the show.

Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash

No one gives me permission to be me

As a child (and into young adulthood), I was considered quite the picky eater. My food could not be touching on my plate- and if it did touch by chance, I would not eat the parts that had been contaminated touched. Tastes and textures had to be just right. My chocolate milk had to be smoothly mixed and not have little pockets of unmixed powder.

God, child, stop being such a picky pain! Stop being yourself. It’s weird, annoying, and inconvenient. Your needs are so bothersome. Pathetic. Ridiculous. No one ever actually said such things in those words to me, but that was what I heard.

Permission to be anything but me

When I was 8, we moved from Brazil to the US. I barely remember details at this point, but my body knows the culture shock was intense.

My first American teacher was mean to me because I was “a know it all.” I already knew how to write in cursive- in Brazil, you learn to write in cursive from the very start - and I guess I probably got bored during class. Or tried to correct the teacher… or maybe explain to her why I did it my way… something that made her dislike me. That year was awful. (They were all awful years, to be honest.)

I would also say and do weird things… had weird habits… as foreigners might… not sure my classmates knew what to do with me? Why is she such a weirdo? Jeez, she should really stop talking so much. Nobody wants to hear what she has to say. Who cares if it’s different where she comes from?! She should just go back there then, she doesn’t belong here! If I try to imagine what I understood at the time, this is what I hear.

Maybe if I take up as little space as possible I will get permission to be me

When I was in elementary school, we had assigned seats on the school bus. I sat next to Amelia… who apparently really disliked me for some reason.

She sat in the window seat and would spread herself and her backpack out, taking up most of the double seater. I had nowhere else to sit, so I often sat on the tippy edge, basically falling out into aisle. Amelia would get mad if I said anything, but would sit with a devious grin on her face as I hung off the edge… leaning on the seat across the aisle to steady myself. The bus aide didn’t care. She let it happen.

How DARE you take up any space, you annoying weirdo. You should feel lucky you even get the edge of the seat to hang off of. Why are you here?! Go away. At least you didn’t get punched. I really can’t remember if either Amelia or the bus aide ever spoke directly to me, but boy did I hear this.

Why would anyone give me permission to be me?

In middle school, I was painfully shy. I would sit at lunch with my best friend and her other friends… I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I rarely spoke even though the cute, popular boy sat at that table too. I desperately wanted to be liked and included, but they would probably hate me if I opened my mouth and said The Wrong Things.

I wished I could be a fly on the wall… close but unseen. At least I would not seem like such a weird loser. God, does she ever speak?? Must be stupid or something. Nobody said that, but I was sure I could hear it anyway. It would have been worse if I did speak and actually sounded stupid for real.

Never permission to be me

In high school, I never managed to get projects and schoolwork done until the very last minute. The teachers could give us months to do it, yet I would always wait until the due date was upon me. No amount of willpower could override my “laziness.”

Group projects were the absolute worst. I was perfectly capable of managing myself and doing whatever work needed to get done, but put me in a group and I get nothing done. I was probably considered dead weight and an undesirable group member. No motivation or leadership abilities. This kid’s not going places. Again, not what anyone actually said to me, but what I heard.

How could I possibly ever want to be me?! Permission decidedly NOT granted!

Permission to be me?

At 25, living in Brazil, cracks began to form in the box.

For the first time, I began to notice this box which kept me bound and contained was made up nothing more than the ghost-voices of my past pain rattling around in my head… denying me permission to be me…

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It has been quite a journey since then.

17 years later, at 42¹, I am still unraveling the ways in which I deny myself the permission to be me.

I have made massive progress.

And I still have more to learn unlearn!!

Earlier today, on this very day that I write these words, I came face to face with more ways that I deny myself the permission to me. Does it ever end? Do I ever actually get to a place where I truly give myself all the permission I need to be me??

I wept… sobbed… ugly cried… (and there were strange sounds too…)

I am still learning what it means to be me… to embody all that I am… and not try to be what I am not.

It is a deep process. It hurts. And sometimes I have to walk head-on into abyss after abyss.

But it is priceless and worth every ounce of difficulty…

Because 👉 I 👈 am on the other side.

PERMISSION. FUCKING. GRANTED.

(fuck that box)

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"Your writing is trash"

Pulling my bricks out of quicksand

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1. The age where I will understand life, the universe, and everything perhaps?? How fitting, huh?! 😉 Please tell me someone -ANYONE- gets the reference?!?