When I started writing I fell into a judgemental phase, which in retrospect, was not so unusual for me.
I judge myself harshly. I can make all the excuses in the world for family and friends when they screw up. I will encourage them to try again, I will support their thoughts and dreams. I will listen with a sympathetic ear when they have made mistakes. I will feel dreadful when they feel unhappy and feel elated when they are on top of the world.
I suppose I could say I am an empath. Feeling what others feel so acutely, that it is like I am living it myself.
However, when it came to myself, I was never such a nice person. I would continually batter myself for not looking or acting a certain way; if I felt nervous or anxious, I would berate myself asking repeatedly ‘What is wrong with you? Why can’t you be like other people”?
As well, being an introvert, who behaves like an extrovert, is a tough job. It’s exhausting frankly. All of that judgmental, empathetic, introverty/extroverty bullshit.
I would like to apologize to myself. Apologize for all those years of self abuse of not thinking I was good enough or smart enough. Apologize for thinking I had to behave a certain way and say just the right, clever things…Apologize for not allowing myself to enjoy life more, laugh often and to smile even though I think it’s a lopsided one. I would like to say I’m sorry for not listening when I was hurting so much that it was leaking through my pores and yet refusing to talk to anyone about it.
I’m sorry for not forgiving myself for so many, many things. Poor decisions. Bad judgement. Terrible money management. Not doing enough. Not communicating enough. Living in fear of so many things. Hammering myself when I wouldn’t get it right or didn’t understand.
I never would have treated my family that way. I never would have judged my friends that way. But myself? Yes. I did that. I constantly chastised myself. It wasn’t only a habit-it was who I had become after years of living in abusive situations.
There came a time, not so long ago, that I was able to recognize ‘little Margaret’….
Who I had become and who I used to be.
I almost mourned the loss of me. I certainly grieved at the senseless, internal verbal abuse I put myself through.
I began to write again. At first it was almost impossible to have one sheet of paper that would even come close to what I felt was accomplished -in the sense that if it was read by anyone, what would they think?.
I ripped up countless sheets-hundreds for sure. Writing. Ripping. Writing. Ripping.
Until one day, I had an epiphany. I realized that it really didn’t matter what others thought. It didn’t matter if they judged me; I judged myself more harshly than they ever could.
And that…this was my truth. To myself. Finally.
It didn’t matter if they understood my feelings or the words I had chosen; what mattered was that I wrote. I didn’t care if they thought it was true or if they mused to themselves that I was too sensitive or on a more fearful spectrum (to me)-dramatic.
So I wrote, and in doing so I have been able to carefully peel away the outer layers of who I was and who I am. I look forward to finding out who this kinda nice, kinda kooky, kinda lovable person possibly could be…
Because…I am finding out that I have a really good friend. A very close friend. One that is smart and funny, warm hearted and always melancholy. One that needs reassurance but will never ask for it. A person who has lived a hundred lives and is on her next chapter.
She strives to be kind. She adores very close relationships but pushes so many away. She can be off the wall and then very matter of fact…She carries hurts that will never truly go away. She loves to care for others and in doing so, she feels complete. She is spiritual but doesn’t judge others. She sings her own song; a tune that only a mother could love. She cries when she’s happy, sad or mad and sees the future with every memory made.
She adores all the little things…and she knows, they make up everything.
I really like…maybe love, my new friend.
Her name is Margaret.