Recently discovering that my ideology was wrong, was such a harsh blow to my ego. The sense of being wrong is a wound that bruises something deep within, it almost leaves me in a shocked stupor, almost. Swallowing that lump that forms, preventing me from admitting responsibility. Opening myself up to rejection and inspection through the mere utterance of “perhaps I was wrong” is a cruel joke.

My foundation of beliefs were not once cracked, they were ruined, like the havoc of a hurricane or tsunami, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. It was as if I was doomed to not recover from this tragedy, like the lies falling down like walls I built around myself to keep me safe.

The joke was on me, because I had no idea what safe felt like, I was never taught what it meant to be safe. I was taught anger, hostility, rage, and abuse. I was taught not to trust, I grew up hearing “I hate you” rather than “I love you”. I believed the lies that I was no good, had nothing to offer, no hope of escape. I believed the lies that I was better off alone. I had no idea how much I was missing out on. I need community, I need to be surrounded with love, care, and compassion. I need to be challenged, I need the room to grow. I am admitting my ideology has been completely wrong.


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