How is it I am a sarcastic asshole, but also terribly afraid on the inside?
How is it I’m excellent at my job, but my skin crawls when someone says I’m good at my job?
Why do I spend so much time trying to get my family to laugh, but panic if they tell me I make them laugh?
How can I go a little insane in the membrane when I don’t journal or write stories, but consider the activity frivolous and not worthwhile because I doubt my ability?
I know that tons of people have these inner conflicts and that tons of us are constantly contrasting what is good and what is bad about ourselves.
But what if this idea of good and bad are what is making us crazy? I’m not saying that I want to run amok doing morally questionable things everywhere I go. I’m just saying that this idea of good and bad as a judgement of self doesn’t really seem to be working.
For me at the very least.
I am not bad simply because I eat a cupcake. I am not good if I don’t eat a cupcake. Fundamentally, I am still Me, no matter what happens with the cupcake. Although this could also go to that idea of what feels good and what is part of the pre-conceived notion of what is right. I am a big fat lady, so many people tell me to not eat the cupcake because it is bad for me.
But what does that mean? Bad for me. Bad for me? Bad for me seems ridiculous as a statement. The cupcake does not have as much nutritional worth as say a sandwich. Unless it is a cupcake sandwich, which I’m sure is a thing somewhere.
Bad is the word I’m getting hung up on. The cupcake has no ill will. The truth of the matter is simple, I make choices and they all have consequences. Unless I make the choice to start pushing little old ladies over or stabbing frogs with sticks, the choices will almost exclusively have consequences on me. Almost.
But my food isn’t good or bad. I am not inherently good or bad. I don’t have to feel guilty over a cupcake, and I don’t have to worry that I’m bad as a person if I want to skip the gym for a day. This all seems simple, but for me there are these moments where I am shocked that I have the power to rule my life. I haven’t been bossed into being under someone else’s rules, but there are tiny voices that tell me that I have to care what other people think about everything in my life.
I am always going to care. But I’m not going to let that fear of opinions, I’m not going to let that fear that I’m doing something good or bad freeze me up any more. I’m not going to instantly change into a bohemian free wheeling broad, but I’m giving myself permission to not feel miserable about something because I’ve been told that it is bad or good based on some rules that I don’t even understand.
I’m allowed to be a contrast, and I’m allowed to make choices, and I’m allowed to just breathe. As long as I loosen up just a bit I can be lighter of heart. I can be the me that cares about others because I do not wish to harm someone, but doesn’t care when others don’t understand me and my ideas.
I’m allowed to be me, the contrasting and contradictory me.