How long ago? How long ago that I hopefully extended my arms to welcome this world, this adventure? How endlessly brave of me. How endlessly kind of me to grant you to welcome me into this world. What endlessly innocent gift I gave you, but you did not want it. It was not good enough. And I hoped I could fix it. But it was never my fault. It was you who could not accept the gift. That endlessly precious gift of my life that I gave to you.
I offered you my openness and you set out to control me. You did not take and love me as I was while I embraced you.
What an unforgivable insult!
You do not deserve one piece of me. You are lower than scum for rejecting me. You pathetic, sad creature. Pathetic for questioning my perfection, my kinship to god. Pathetic for thinking you could improve on his canvas.
Oh, you pathetic sad creature.
My courageous little arms reached out for nothing. Nothing there to love, nothing less pathetic and helpless than myself. Nothing to embrace but my own futile existence in the void. No one to fall in love with but myself, my self to whom I look for answers, just as you did – but of course find none. So I learned to despise my self, for it was all I had and yet it held no answers. But you said it should! So I kept digging, kept fabricating meaning.
All that, because you gave up your responsibility.
Myself, stranded. Left alone where I should have been picked up. 26 years. 26 years of suffering, of hiding, of pretending, of surviving.
For what, mother? What did you win through my suffering? A few moments of the illusion that it was all about you? How dare you bring your conflict with god into my unspoiled life. How dare you try to take his place.
Mother. Think that being a mother is a status symbol? You pathetic, sad fool. No, it is an obligation. A function. The word mother is not meant to replace the word god. The mother is meant to be in god’s service. Was meant, for the task of nurturing me. Teaching me. And others.
But tell me god, where were you when I was floating through blackness? Where was your guidance? How did you let me know truth while she was posturing in your image, laying evil words into your mouth? But no, that is not true. I was the one who let her deceive me, lured by her comfort and pleasures. Finally, it was I who rejected you, father, she was the accomplice. Oh, I am sorry, endlessly sorry for not knowing truth from her lies. Please forgive. But had I not abandoned you, she would have made me suffer only so much more for it.
But maybe it is a lie that you did not guide me. Maybe it was your guidance that brought me here. That finally saved me. But was it? Should I really attribute that to you? No.
I need to hate you. Now. You better be able to take it. You better be.
On the other hand, I rejected as many of your gifts just like she rejected the gift of my life. I insulted you as much as she insulted me. Because I was as vengeful as she, perhaps.
Are we even? Is life a zero sum game, perhaps, where I inevitably become as evil as the evil that took my goodness? Zero sum, so that the system is foolproof? So that I can never end up demanding more than was given, for metaphysical reality could not tolerate a debt towards me? For whenever I set out to be compensated for the evil that was done to me, I take the shape of evil itself? A snake biting its own tail?
Maybe the final, most cruel but also freeing lesson of all is: I am not better. Maybe that is the ultimate narcissistic injury. To be badly, badly wounded and then to look into the mirror to see the same evil that destroyed you, out to prey on others. The most cruel lesson, that no matter how much I want to, I can not justify holding a grudge forever. For it would mean that I could forgive myself just as little as her. The most cruel lesson, that neither I nor anybody else can ever claim the throne of the perfect victim. No one can claim the pride of having been hurt without the guilt of having hurt equally. For no real human could endure so much without hurting others equally. Hubris is a zero-sum game. You can not become hurt without becoming vile. Jesus is a myth.
So growing up might mean: To accept my imperfection, in the moral sense as in any other. And possibly the capacity to accept it in others, too.
On the other hand, it may simply mean that I can not elevate myself above the baseline by virtue of being hurt by the lowliest. That I can not expect the lowly to elevate me by virtue of being lower than me. That I have to choose to stand up on my own. That bad people hurting me does not automatically make me a good one. That I have to choose to stop playing in the mud, where we throw insults at each other. That I have to commit to good, instead of against evil. So that my perspective is always one of looking up, instead of down. That my point of orientation may become god, not scum.
The ultimate narcissistic injury: You are not better.
And me having nothing frank to counter.
I do not have to forgive. But withholding forgiveness does not make me better. Which is good. Because I do not want to need to be. How could I be? No one taught me how to. But somehow I needed to be. Maybe it is time I asked to be taught.