Speak up, a poem

I find myself being quiet to avoid confrontation because my parents were scary when I was small and there was not allowance for my expression. Funny though, because last night at work I got written up for speaking my opinion. I have fought hard for the healing of my internal system and many parts have come out of hiding. Yet, I wonder what my place is in this world because I feel silenced on all fronts.

Being politically correct is often another way the enemy of our soul scapegoats those of us who do share our beliefs, as being the problem for speaking up. I am not responsible for anyone else’s actions but todays terms don’t adhere to personal responsibility, most are too fragile to grow through difficult conversation. Imagine living through hardship and wanting to commiserate with others, only to be met with re-coil from those who feel uncomfortable talking about it.

That says more about society shutting down than speaking up for the true justice of anyone who has suffered abuse, and all of us have been neglected in one form or another. If the truth hurts and is also silenced or scapegoated, freedom will fall away.

I think families are intensified ecosystems of dysfunction that taught outside worldly demands how to isolate us even more because the lack of diplomatic parenting, shapes suffering built on internal shaming that silences. How depleted we are inside our natural homes reflects how we get along in society which snuffs out anyone who rebuttals the group think. If we go out into the world from familial views and find the world reflects similar dysfunction, could it be a systemic problem with authority?

The childhood we lost still has us running amuck to grab onto people for preservation, yet the battle of the mind prevails. We are only as healthy as the grace we use toward our inside critics because then the Self can carry calm into personal connection. Seeing someone else’s emotions would draw out our compassion. Understanding every individual has many un-healed parts within where conflict is really made, might have us stop performing to be heard.

We are not our thoughts. We are not defined by our mistakes, and neither is the next guy. If we re-parent the little one’s inside, maybe the world wouldn’t be such a scary place. Maybe we wouldn’t cower when the boss labels our behavior through his fearful part. Maybe we would speak up. But this stint is short on earth and anyone who is willing to let us be different and still love us is a taste of what heaven will be like.

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