I’d really like to think that the thoughts of others don’t affect me – but they do. The idea of someone talking shit about me genuinely makes me sad. It makes me sad for a couple of reasons.
The first reason I think is obvious: nobody likes when people don’t like them. Except for psychopaths, I don’t think they really care. It’s people who I’ve given my time and attention to, felt comfortable enough to provide details about me, enjoy libations with, and be free with. People I’ve invested in – when they speak ill of me, or of people with the same propensities that I have, it’s those that hurt.
I wear my past like a badge of honor. I am proud of who I am today, but I don’t speak of my trials and tribulations to exalt or condone them. In fact, I don’t want people to respect what I’ve done or what I’ve been through but I DO hope people respect the person I am now and what I went through getting here.
And the second reason is a tougher one to swallow: to be aware of the fact that I feel this way because I spent the majority of my formative years seeking the approval of individuals who I was made to believe should love me unconditionally.
There were conditions to the love I could receive (and still DO receive) from my mom & dad. That was taught to me. I’ve spent the better part of the last year trying to learn to grant myself forgiveness and caring without those conditions.
It’s a bitch to unravel. And I hate that I can recognize where it comes from, why it makes me feel that way, and STILL let it make me feel that way.
At the end of the day – fuck ’em.