Stop telling me I can be “more” when more isn’t an option you’re willing to explore with me. Stop telling me I can do anything or I can be anything when it must fit within your parameters. Stop telling me I am the smartest woman you know, or the brightest, or the prettiest or the most loving or the kindest.
I am selfish, self-centered, egotistical, prideful, shameful, easy to blame others for things that don’t turn out good, angry, hostile, mean, arrogant, lazy, apparently not vain enough, self loathing, unbending in certain beliefs, no backbone at all in things that matter, unstructured, torn, mad, sad, unconventional, scathing, rude, abrasive and aloof.
This is what I am: a conformist to everyone and everything. I want and try to see the best in people and am usually disappointed to see that they are not like me. I do what I am told, though it may not be without struggle and animosity. I am loyal even when it means sacrificing my most precious asset, me. I am sincere when I say I love you because that means I will give up everything to be with you. I will work stupid hours at a job I am extremely over-qualified to do because I give up my dreams to be with you to make you happy and because the money I earn makes your left eye stop twitching. I work ignorant hours in the hope that when I retire I will have enough money and time then to be with you. I ignore my personal compass to take your compass and your values as my own. I ignore being me so I can be with you.
I self sabotage my diet and exercise as punishment on myself for not being strong enough to be me. These are the only things I truly control: my body and what goes into my body. I let it have the freedom and free reign to do as it wishes because no other part of me has that freedom.
My heart does not have freedom from you, my family, my friends, coworkers, even the people I don’t know.
My mind does not have the freedom from social customs and norms.
So my body is all I have and I’m sorry that it is not what the world thinks it should be.
I am not a slave but I live a life of servitude. I serve society. I serve love. I serve work. I serve you. Coming to grips with the concept that “me” does not really exist is hard to grasp and even harder to come to terms with in my own mind. In essence, there is no “me”. There is no individuality. I am the collection and product of all that is surrounding my “me”. I am the product of every man who has loved me and not loved me, every child I have borne, every job I have had and every person who has interacted with “me” in some way.
I am the dirty house that I should be cleaning.
I am the dirty truck that I drive.
I am the unkempt yard.
I am the rotting wall.
I am the unmade bed.
I am the disheveled mess that is my office.
I am the unfinished workout.
I am the uncooked healthy meal.
I am the mismatched collage of furniture from a college career and dorm life that never existed.
I am the untested boundaries.
I am a slave to the life I dreamed and will never have.
Hell: You are either going through it, coming out of it or it’s lurking just around the corner.
If I had any self esteem whatsoever, I’d quit my job. – K. Burchfield