At what point do we get mad? When do we as humans stand from the mountaintops and shout, "Who gives anybody the right to tell me what I should weigh, how I should dress, what I should eat? How dare you tell me I shouldn't be happy because I do not look like someone in an advertisement? How dare anyone draw me down into their own insecurities. You don't like the way you look and feel, fine. Take it up with your shrink. But don't bring the rest of us into your dysfunction. What if what I am is enough?"
My friend Mars has long had this figured out. She's always been comfortable with who she is -- and never seemed to believe anyone who would try to tell her differently. I have always admired her for this -- and wished I could be more like her, but thought it couldn't be for me.
I have this weird perfection thing. I'm assuming it's the result of something in my childhood. Maybe I thought I had to perfect to be loved. As an adult, I know intellectually that's not the case, but emotionally it's another matter.
I wonder if I think I deserve to be healthy and happy. I wonder if I get so much pleasure out of being a victim that I will never let down my guard and just be me. I know I have all these people in in my life that love me unconditionally -- the only one that doesn't, really, is me.
I am the one who always looks in the mirror and says, "I love you, but..." Now, if someone did that to my children I'd be furious, but somehow I allow myself to do it to me. What gives me the right to judge myself so critically? Who am I to know what's perfection and what is not?
When will I stop this insanity and just be comfortable in my skin -- celebrate me?