Digging in the bag is metaphoric for Digging in the soul. What I discovered as I was scavenging through old photos was how different I was “back then.” Of course, as time progresses the hope is to grow. But sadly, some folks don’t. They stay stuck, stagnant.

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I want to take the time to celebrate growth…and healing by sharing the head space I was in during the time of the photos compared to where I am now. We are who we are for a reason. We behave in the manner we do due to our upbringing, pre-disposition (genetics), experiences, what we’ve been exposed to, etc.

I knew I had serious issues shortly into my marriage. At a time when I should’ve been happy (especially since 3 of the men I dated previously got married after our breakup), I wasn’t. I didn’t know it then, but that took a toll on my self-esteem. Subconsciously, I didn’t feel worthy.

Prior to getting married, I blamed all of my exes for my failed relationships. I was absolutely, positively NOT the blame. They were all liars & cheaters and had issues, NOT ME. I was good.

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My childhood wasn’t traumatic like some of my friends’ was. My mom wasn’t on drugs. A relative didn’t penetrate me with his penis; he used his fingers instead. That didn’t count as molestation, right?

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I was good & grown when I learned that inserting your fingers inside an 8 to 10 year old’s vagina is a violation, and that a parent can live in the home & be just as absent as the drug-addicted parent in the streets.

Because my experiences weren’t “as bad” as those I saw in the movies or that of some of my relatives & friends, I minimized them, until they got too big for me to ignore.

I talk about patterns a lot. Mine was:

Meet. Sex. Relationship. Cheat. Break up. Get back together. Cheat. Break up.

I didn’t take the time to get to know anyone. In hindsight, that was because I didn’t care to. I didn’t even know who I was. Didn’t know what to look for. I was winging it and doing a bad job at it. All I knew was that I liked attention…from any & everybody. But baybeeeeeee…all attention ain’t good attention.

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I said it before –>HERE<– and –>HERE<– annndddddddd –>RIGHT HERE<– , I grew up in a non-affectionate family. So, I sought it elsewhere.

I lost my virginity to a 15-year-old. Though I didn’t look 11 (almost 12), that doesn’t negate the fact that I was a child.

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On the left: Ponytail w/bangs in the front & back. On the right: Farrah Fawcett feathered do w/the satin blouse AND brooch #iMgrown

Will you look at the transformation. Can you see it? The pic on the left, I had a little bit of innocence left. On the right…it’s GONE!

30+ years later and it still saddens me because I blame my mom for dropping the ball. My grandma, too.

Being a parent myself, I understand that we (parents) cannot be with our kids 24/7 & know their every move. So when I say they dropped the ball, I mean they gave up on me, for whatever reason.

I’m convinced that when I turned 13, my grandmother stopped liking me. I could surmise that maybe my attitude had something to do with it. But, shit, don’t all teenagers got a bad attitude?

My mom allowed me to come & go as I pleased, for the most part. She didn’t follow-up with parents to ensure I was over such & such house like I “alleged” to be. She was preoccupied. With what? I don’t know. She was a very private person. I knew very little about her life, but the little bit I do know speaks volumes.

She was still that wounded, hurt little girl who never healed. So, she felt all she had to do was make sure I was fed, clothed, and had shelter. Dassit. She could not pour into me because she was empty, which made her emotionally unavailable.

So she didn’t notice my bloodied clothes after a 15-year-old boy just popped my cherry. I came in the house and she didn’t even bother to look up, which I knew she wouldn’t. I just slid on upstairs and camouflaged my clothes in the garbage.

2 weeks later, I was happy to celebrate my 12th birthday AND my menstrual cycle.

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I didn’t know much about the birds & the bees, but I knew a period was a good sign. So, when I didn’t get one for 5 months, I knew that was a bad sign. My mom finally noticed and took me to the dr. I was 5 months pregnant and forced to get an abortion on June 2, 1990 –2 days after my 15th birthday. Because I was so far along, the procedure took 2 days. This still affects me.

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Afterwards, the dr. advised my mom & I that I rest for a couple of days. I did some crossword puzzles then got bored. I asked my mom if I could go around the corner over a friend’s house, the same house where I lost my virginity 3 yrs prior. Against the doctor’s orders, she let me go. Again, preoccupied. Unfazed.

I would go on to get pregnant again at 17 years old. On purpose. While kids were filling out college applications, I was planning to have a baby. Not because I was trying to “trap” a dude. Nope, nothing like that. But because I wanted someone to love & to love me back. I knew by the time I had the baby I’d be 18 and couldn’t be made to get rid of her.

For the next 25+ years I would engage in unhealthy relationships with men & women because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Now that I’ve gotten to the root of my issues and have been doing the work, I am clear about what I want & will no longer attract strays (those who have no place to go), cheaters (those who are married or in a committed relationship), or abandoners (those who are emotionally unavailable).

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Stories connect & heal us. Let’s get unstuck together. 😊😊😊

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