There is an art to losing yourself. Childhood for some was one long minefield, and losing yourself was essential for survival. It was a blind necessity in a hostile and chaotic environment. And you were almost completely oblivious that it happened at all. But a part of you remained… in complete isolation, the loneliest part of you: your buried, true identity. Like a sacrificial lamb, your true self had to be repressed, hidden or silenced for you to survive.

For some, the opportunity to venture within and connect with the hidden true self presents itself in some form of rupture. It can be a mental breakdown or a physical one or a financial one, but be sure that you have set yourself up, perhaps subconsciously, to ensure that who you really are gets to see some daylight at some point in your life. It may appear to the outside world that you are falling apart or hell-bent on self-destruction, but it is that part of you that will not quit, that keeps on fighting, that can no longer keep quiet… She is livid and lonely, and desperate.

You may have lost yourself because you are gay and your family was homophobic. Or maybe your parents were too busy hating each other to notice that you were taking that hatred on and blaming yourself for it by just being there. Perhaps it was loyalty to someone; an uncle, an aunt or a neighbour who did unspeakable things to you. Or maybe you were too busy or curious to sit still and be quiet. Perhaps you were too wild, too red-haired, too short, too fat, or too something else. Whatever it was, it happened, and you changed yourself to suit your abusers. The real you was gradually eroded and replaced by a more suitable you for the circumstances. You buried your true self and her pain because she did not serve you well there. You were smart enough to know you were not cherished and found a way to be, if not cherished, then less visible. You found a way to survive. And the new you got by. You got on with pretending to be that person and pretending to be happy. You got married, maybe, had kids, dyed your hair or lost weight, and you got on with refining and artfully polishing your other, more suitable self.

Until the pretend happiness began to crumble. You sabotaged those things your fake self needed. More and more often, you were drinking too much or drugging too much and found that you couldn’t remember what you did while you were out of it. But you heard what you did from those who weren’t to blame, and suddenly, you realised that you had now become the abuser. But addiction was just a symptom of the pain you had been living with.

Things became so bad that you could no longer avoid trying to unravel the mystery of who you really are. Slowly, you began to relearn the language that is far beyond words; you retraced your steps back to the language your body remembers, the language of your own true voice. And each courageous step back required you to review the terrible things that happened, acknowledge them, and, slowly and tenderly, replace the hurt with compassion. The knots and the mystery of who you really are have been carefully unravelled. And all those loosened strands form a beautiful work of art… the excruciating art of finding yourself. 

Bernie x

A Moodscope member