leftunspoken's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Confessions of Conceit (or...you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake) I think I must have long lived with the ridiculous belief that I was somehow special. That there was something unique or lovely about my spirit. I hold no illusions about being brilliant or beautiful or strong or talented or any other thing that would prove that my life had a purpose. But I guess I always though I was a success for simply surviving. Surviving child abuse, poverty, rape, beatings by boyfriends, suicide attempts, temporary homelessness, and people who's sole purpose in my life seems to have been to use, deceive, or discourage me. And through all of it, I told myself that I was special. That any suffering had just made me a better person (loving, compassionate, etc.) That my pain had served a higher purpose. And I thought it somehow showed. That people could see it. See my soul. See that I had lived through all of this and not become bitter, or a drug addict, or a whore. That it would make them love or admire me. How vain, no? To think anyone would even care. How did I not notice the insanity of my subconscious awaiting the day that someone would appear at my door and tell me they saw me shine and they loved me for it. That I had somehow earned acceptance and true love by not giving up. But I built the little glass house, my belief that I shine, and assumed that someone, anyone, someday would see it and would confirm it for me. That I was amazing. And then it would all be okay. All of it would have been worth it. I was so wrong. The foolishness and childish conceit of it amazes me. I am not special. I am not unique. I do not shine. (Or if I do, it's apparently some small bizarre glow visible only to animals and small children who seem to flock to my sides. How useful.) I am nothing more than anyone else and am less if you count man's measure by the standard, acceptable means. I am not deserving of any recognition. Nobody will think I am wonderful. Nobody will think I'm even enough. People will still think I am less; still ask why I never went to college, why I'm somber when everyone's having fun or laughing when everyone's serious, why I don't buy a house, why I'm not married, why I don't dream. There is nothing special about me. I didn't know. I wish I'd known. I would have worked harder at being normal. I wouldn't have waited so patiently for my gift. I would have just been the drug addict or the whore. I would have been the mess I have every right to be. Because what difference does it make anyway. I should have given up a long time ago; it would have been so much easier. 11:30 a.m. - October 20, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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