In the course of trying to Guilt and shame overwhelmed me during the course of that endeavor. I insulted girls who had hurt me, making the bill even. I told my false friends that I despised them. I got into trouble for it. It was freeing., I figured I would , telling them what I really thought of them.
And yet I could not stop. The satisfaction was temporary. And that made one thing obvious to me: It was not those girls I really had a beef with. It was the one woman I saw in all those girls, the one woman I was fighting through the proxy of other girls. The one woman to whom I was really pretending. The one woman whom I really feared to know me.
I showed my true self to all the women who had hurt me. But I realized that there is only one woman who has to know me. Realized that all the other women do not matter. Realized that there is one woman to whom I never dared to show my true self. Never dared to speak up to earnestly. That woman is my mother.
The thought of writing all these important andthings filled me with shame and guilt and fear. It took me three weeks to finally sit down and write this letter. Now, the letter is on its way. Now, my mother must know me, whether she wants to or not.
Now that my mother will know who I am, there is no one I must ever feel ashamed of myself towards again. The next time somebody accuses me of being an asshole, pathetic, not nice or impolite, my mother will not be watching over my shoulder.
I will say: Yes, that is me. And shrug.
The voices in my head always and mercilessly competed, because I had not yet spoken up to the one big source of voices in my head. Had assignedto it. To her. My failure to speak my mind robbed me of . Now I have spoken my mind.
Next time, the mother in my mind will have been put in her place, her looming expectations of me finally fought off with the courage to put myself first, no matter how miserable that self.
Maybe this is too optimistic. Who knows. But I know one thing: I hope to never see her again.