One Wee Spark

On Monday, I wrote about the lie I grew up with in my HP's home: The belief that if I hadn't been born/such a burden, my mother and her home would have been normal. Obviously, this is a major lie, but I believed this with such a deep-rooted passion that it destroyed me internally for years. There are quite a few lies that are pervasive in the hoarded home. Another biggie: If I can't do it perfectly and complete it right now, I should wait until I can. I hate to admit this, but this is one of those lies that I took with me. I battle with it daily. Every single project I undertake is determined by my thought process on finishing it now and doing it perfectly. Even writing, though I find it very cathartic, is sometimes difficult for me to do because I know that I can't sit and write a book in one sitting, and the first draft will be less than perfect. But I can't do it perfectly, so I'd better wait...

Growing up, I was taught to believe many lies that surrounded the situation in which we lived. There are many of them, but I want to give each one a little time separately. I'm going to start with the lie that I believed for the longest, and my last post in this series will be a truth I've stumbled upon recently that set me free from the lies my mother sold me. Today, I want to focus on the lie that haunted me long after I'd left home, long after it could possibly be true. Yet, I believed it. If it weren't for me [the child], our house would be normal.