Realizing truth about yourself is liberating. It's like shaking hands with someone new, and seeing in their eyes an understanding, an acceptance, and a genuine love.
I met myself today.
The introduction was brief, but heartfelt. Reviewing my past can be painful. There are many memories that weigh me down like a fetter. Looking back on these memories makes me dizzy. My equilibrium is skewed, and I feel upside-down in a white void, with a black vignette haze around the edges of my mind. I feel alone, confused, and burdened.
The way she spoke to me, I know in my heart she was just worried about me, about my future and probably rightfully so. But the way she spoke to me, I know in my heart left a lasting scar--a tattoo of the words, "stupid," "naive" and "incompetent" in thick black script on the left side of my chest. My choices were causing her pain, and so she felt the need to share it?
And he. He was a beacon to me. A light on a pillar I could always look up to for guidance. He called her evil, said she was trying to control me. He was right, she was trying to direct me and mold me, but then again so was he.
He too, left a scar.
A different tattoo, but very near to the other one. The words in this one formed a circle, as if they never ended, and the message burned my skin. Whether he said my upbringing held me back, or my habits held him back, or my needs were suffocating him, or I had such potential, or would I just leave him alone! I only heard one thing: "You're never good enough. You never were and you never will be."
So where was I during all this, you may ask? While I was being drawn in two different directions, I was drowning in the sea of self-doubt, trying to please everyone--treading water but still choking on the choppy waves.
I didn't exist. I couldn't find myself. Like Plato's shadows, I was only a reflection. There was a faint outline of me when the light hit just right on the side of the buildings. I was a stocky wavy image in the puddles after rain. I was distorted by the ripple in the glass, shattered by the cracks, and I disappeared in the steam of hot water. I was insubstantial. I scrambled to reflect everything I thought the viewer would want to see. I only existed as I was seen, lost in the negative space behind the mirrored lead.
Enough time has passed, enough water has tumbled on under the bridge that is my existence. I've grown up. I've begun to see life differently. Sometimes, life can feel like a carnival Funhouse. The mirrors are wacky, you are different in every one, there are myriad sides to you, and everyone else. You can see yourself in every one around you, but it's all disorienting and all untrue. It's insubstantial reflections, and not who you are, or who anyone really is.
I like to think of life as more of a museum. A grand hall where countless masterpieces are hung, each lit to perfection by overhead track lighting. Each of us is an artist, and we work our whole lives on one painting. Our blood, our tears, our memories, our dreams, and our desires all become the medium to create the master work. Only we can paint our own work, we have no worldly help. At times the colors may be brilliant, and in places we may have the muted shades that convey depth and pain, but in the end the work will be magnificent.
Someday, I will find that person, that quiet thoughtful man who sits on the bench in front of my masterpiece and sighs with contentment, who weeps a single tear when he sees the dark parts, who is enthralled and overwhelmed by my work and says nothing but "thank you for painting this."
I am not a mere reflection; I am who I am.
I met myself today,
and I'm a beautiful piece of art.
