Yesterday I watched a woman sitting in front of the bank
across the street. She caught my eye because she was rubbing her legs
furiously, wincing as her fingers moved up and down her shins. When she dipped
a plate in water and poured it over her legs I thought perhaps she was washing
her body, but when she started talking to people who were not there, I knew the
truth. She was mentally ill.
I sat on the floor of the balcony and hid behind a chair as
best I could, but it wasn't because I was afraid she would see me. My presence
would not interrupt the party she was having with her imaginary companions. She
was perfectly content pouring water over her legs, picking leaves off the
hedges, and handing both to the figments of her imagination. I was just awed…and
a little jealous of her ability to be completely ambivalent to others.
You see, I spend a lot of time worrying about what other
people think. I have an idea of the person I want to be and how I want others
to see me. Sometimes these ideas match. Sometimes they don't. The problem is
that when we are constantly trying to maintain an image, we lose the ability to
make the best decisions for ourselves.
I spent far too many years in a bad marriage because I was
taught that marriage is a lifetime commitment. I didn't want people to see me
as a failure because I couldn't hold together the commitment of two people. I
didn't want to be judged as a bad wife who couldn't meet the needs of her
husband. I didn't want people to think I was flaky. Anyone who did not live in
my house might think that because they never saw the complete picture. My
ex-husband was a master at pretending everything was okay and living a lie like
it was the truth.
The problem with this is that it also left me isolated on an island of marital despair. I could never really share with anyone what was going on because when I tried, they judged me. They told me to pray more, dress more provocatively, learn to cook his favorite foods, do everything I could to meet his needs. And like any good, obedient child, I did.
But it didn't work. The people around me concluded that I
wasn't really trying hard enough. By the time we finally divorced, I was a façade
of a person. And still judged.
I guess I just don't understand the judgment. I get that we want the best for the people who matter most to us, but life is not a paint-by-the-numbers project for all of us. You don't have to agree with my decisions, but you also don't have to judge me for them because you don't have to live with the consequences of my decisions. I do.
I'm human. I screw up…sometimes in big ways. I may never
figure it all out before I die. Yet, I cannot do what I need to do if I'm
constantly worried about what you think of me. That's how the messages in my
head get confused. What I need—what you need—is acceptance. I need to know that
when the world around me blows up, someone will be there with me to watch the
fireworks.
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