You have such a big heart, baby.

I’m struck by something on my Instagram page. It’s a post that reads:

repeating yourself to an emotionally immature person doesn’t work. They are only willing to see what’s helpful for them. Invoking self-awareness can be harmful to a person who thrives on blaming others.
Emotionally immature people struggle to see how they impact others. Instead they focus on what others have done to them without recognizing how they’ve contributed.

Below in the comments section, a woman describes how she used to be this person. We’ve had a nice conversation where she’s been able to articulate beautifully why she behaved the way she did. She states:

Basically what I hear when someone says I hurt them is that I’m a bad person. I get defensive to protect the image I have of myself. I had to see it as an opportunity to repair the hurt instead of just the other person criticizing me.

The reason this stands out to me is because I’ve just naturally always been the type of person who would hurt myself before I hurt others. I’ve always wanted to know if I hurt someone and how. I’ve never been afraid of that, because I know that I never had any intention of hurt, but because everyone has their own outlook on life, that doesn’t mean I’m not capable of hurting someone inadvertently.

To me, this is just inherent knowledge. I didn’t have to learn this. So the idea that some people do have to learn it is very eye-opening for me.

That’s why I’ve always been so baffled when my mother breaks down and becomes so vicious when I try to tell her that she’s hurt me. I truly cannot understand why she wouldn’t want to know that information. Why would she tell me I’m misremembering or I have a problem with my mind? Why would she chose to damage me further? Furthermore, this is all based on the assumption that she hurt me on accident. Because I don’t have this capacity on my own, it’s almost impossible for me to entertain the idea that my mother did these things knowingly and with the intention of hurt.

I had a vision of my Mama crying in my arms when I was just 7 and me comforting her. It’s okay mama. It’s okay. I love you. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it better.

I had something the other girls (my sisters) didn’t: deep compassion.

And what a shame that my mother chose to exploit such a beautiful, beautiful trait for a child to have. She used it against me.

My papa used to say, “You have such a big heart, baby.” He understood my tenderness because he had it too.