Big Bully

I am so good at pointing out my flaws and shortcomings. I know the magnifying glass I’ve acquired started as an intentional task–we have to call out our traumas (and their origin stories) to heal and move past them. I, however, call them out and amplify their existence. There is a fine line between honesty, acknowledgement, and reopening wounds under the guise of self-love. I realize I may have been doing the latter. I do not hide from my life’s past experiences–many of you know how open I am about an impoverished childhood, a diminished self-esteem, homelessness, neglect, sexual assault, and so on. These are my battle scars. I am not proud that they exist, but I am proud to confirm that they are directly linked to my mental space and capacity. 

I bled with honor as I learned to clean and bandage life’s lashings. I worked to stop the bleeding through therapy, mental health diagnoses, and intentional time with myself. But it is not honorable to continuously speak life into my flaws when I have so much goodness inside of me–the good parts and the flaws coexist in a beautiful cocktail mix underneath my skin. 

At the time of writing this, a full moon just passed. I was too tired to do my usual full moon ritual, so I honored my body and got some rest. But my mind was not resting. I was very mean to myself that night, and it was triggered by something silly in hindsight. That night, I felt unseen and misjudged by someone I had one conversation with. Yes, a practical stranger. That manifested into thinking about why I was so misjudged all the time, dissecting my actions and demeanor. I was picking apart the way I speak and the way I act. I was rehashing my trauma, telling myself they were the reasons why I seldom fit in. I was angry about everything I’d passed through. I wasn’t bringing light to the dark; I was simply engulfing myself in it. That’s how I fell asleep: dissecting the parts of me I wish didn’t exist; wishing I was different; wishing I was (whatever my mind defined as) normal. And when I woke up for work the next morning, I felt small. I felt displaced. I felt unloved. I ended up calling out of work because of it.

That’s how easy it is to become your own bully. 

I allowed someone else’s action–and a small action at that–to define how I felt about myself. I gave something else power over my self-talk and general confidence. I didn’t catch it this time. A part of me is embarrassed–the last few years have been dedicated to reclaiming and rebuilding the confidence inside of me. But all I’ve been doing lately is establishing a list of everything that’s wrong with me that I wish I could change. I’ve been notating what I’m doing wrong instead of acknowledging everything I’m doing right. I had unchecked mental illnesses for most of my life, and it wasn’t until 2020 that I decided to finally understand those parts of me. I started therapy under the protection of pandemic isolation and focus. Mind you, my daughter was already 2 years old by that point–she was a major reason I decided I no longer wanted to exist in a space of mental dysfunction. I wanted to be a better person so I could be a better mom. My daughter is currently 7 years old, and I’m always reminding her how young she is in this life. I am constantly teaching her, molding her, shaping her very malleable brain because she is so young. 

It’s about time I realized my self-love journey is just as young.

I am quite literally still new to this shit, and 5 years of unpacking trauma is not even a remarkable dent in my 28 years of living. Yes, I’ve made amazing progress–there are people I’ve grown up with whom I am completely unrecognizable to. There are things I say now that I wouldn’t have thought years ago. There are parts of my thinking that reflect just how much I’ve grown and reconstructed my brain patterns. The brain rewiring is very real and very evident, but for some reason, this massive amount of progress feels insufficient. The only reason I feel this way is because I am too hard on myself. I diminish my successes by amplifying my failures. I lessen my progress by looking at the road ahead instead of remembering the distance I’ve travelled. 

I am the girl who pushed through.

It was me who survived becoming homeless 1-week after c-section birth. It was me who was always able to find a job within a week. It was me who learned financial literacy and saved money for an apartment for my daughter and I. It was me who produced an e-book and sold enough copies to buy a car. It was me who sought therapy and put my trauma on display. It was me who gave a name to the monster in my mind and learned to tame it. It was me who sat in court and spoke my rapist’s name. It was me who made a way out of no way every single time I was without. It was me who persevered. It was me who wanted to change and grow for my daughter. It was me who survived loving the wrong people openly and honestly. And yes, the path ahead is long as hell, but my feet have blisters and scars from the journey so far. I have growth to show for it. And I’m doing just fine. I cannot expect myself to be perfect because who is? I hold myself to standards that shouldn’t even exist. I hold myself to standards I wouldn’t dare place on someone else with the same story I carry. I was given a terrible hand of cards, and look at me, still at the table. I am still in the game. 

I am proud of myself. 

I am tired of being my biggest bully. I am tired of magnifying my shortcomings without acknowledging the places I excel. I am genuine, wise, ambitious, and unique. I create magic every day. I am breaking cycles and outgrowing pots, constantly trying to face the sun. And if someone else with my life story stood before me, telling me everything they passed through, I wouldn’t dare tell them their progress isn’t enough. I would hug the shit out of them, reminding them how strong they are. I’d tell them they should be proud of their journey so far. I’d tell them they were brave for wanting to change and making progress toward that. I’d tell them their future is bright because of their willingness to grow. I’d call them a bad bitch. I’d call them my friend. 

With a world as chaotic as this one, we have limited choices. We can succumb to the chaos, existing under its crushing weight. We can panic and self-blame ourselves into progress and productivity, or we can love ourselves to the point of finding peace and inner happiness. I don’t know how long I existed in the space of the former, and I don’t even want to figure it out. I want to look ahead.

I want to extend grace and compassion to myself, even in my flawed existence. I want to hold myself accountable in love. I want to be better for the sake of being better, not to outrun parts of me I’m ashamed of. This world already beats us down.

Why would I add another bully to the mix?

And why would that bully be me? 

B*tch, please.

-Z