I am 58 years old, married, have two teenage children and a Ph.D. in clinical psychology. Yet there is a simmering part of me that feels worthless – someone to be tolerated.
Someone deserving of being thought of as “deformed.” While I know these terms are eschewed in contemporary nomenclature, this is the language I was raised with – along with other equally toxic terms that I have internalized and have contributed to my confusing jumble of assertive militancy and self-sabotaging acceptance of mean-spirited or clueless comments.
When it all boils down, I remain vulnerable to defining myself as someone who has managed to be “successful” despite being born with a birth defect called Goldenhar syndrome.
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