It really is me.

I really am the problem.  I am my irritation.  I am my anger.  I am my paralysis by analysis.  I am my fear.  I am the only version of the truth as I can see it, and all of the formerly mentioned are simply extended versions of that truth, in the moment.

Me being the problem doesn’t become obvious through any normal set of events: I split my pants the other day- like, from the back of my knees to my fucking belt loop split.  It was demoralizing, and nobody was in my room with me.  It sent me, at first, into disbelief.  Then it sent me directly into shame, unworthiness, and sadness.  I was exposed- my bare ass was literally exposed, and that’s what I needed to acknowledge that I really haven’t been doing the best job I can do for myself.  I didn’t know that until I split my pants and slowed down to acknowledge not only the cool air on my toosh, but the feelings that immediately flooded me as a result.

I didn’t know that I wasn’t treating myself the way I deserve to be treated.  I didn’t know that I wasn’t being as kind to myself as I could be, or as loving as I have learned how to be.  I didn’t know that I wasn’t doing these things because I am in a place of rawness and newness and frankly, enormous magnitude.  I didn’t know, what I didn’t know.  So I was pointing the finger.  And the other three fingers were happily pointing back at me in judgment. 

The judgement is real.  The judgement is harsh.  The judgement does not serve me anymore, yet I keep it around just in case.  That judgement deprives me of joy in the moment and gratitude in how far I’ve come, because my fear and ego bind me.  The judgement keeps me on the ground, in the dirt, rolling around with the voice in my head that says “see, I told you you weren’t good enough.”  The same voice that keeps trying to get me to go to a formal Yoga class so I can be a picturesque and perfect human that does all the things right to take care of herself, and as a result never gets injured (emotionally or physically), never gets rattled and never gets upset about the smaller things in life- like ripped pants.

Except it’s not the pants.  It’s not the lack of a formal Yoga class.  It’s not him, or his punk friend, or my family, or my boss, or anyone or anything other than me.  It is me, and how I relate and react and respond to what I perceive to be the truth in the moment.

That part of me, that voice- the judgement, does not serve me anymore.  And I can probably guess that it doesn’t serve you either.  Maybe it did at one point.  Maybe it coated our delicate insides to external circumstances we weren’t quite prepared to handle yet.  Maybe it nursed our hearts along so that one day they would open again.  Maybe it got us that extra degree, that extra mile, that difficult phone call.  But maybe now it’s time to take a look, grab a seat, and ask what it wants.  Maybe it’s time to slow down, lean in, and relax.  Maybe it’s time to stop struggling, to stop suffering, to stop being so mean.  Maybe it’s time to learn how to talk in a new voice, with a new story, with a new tone.

Because when I’m nice to me, I am really nice to you.  And I think the world deserves to have some nicer people in it, along with fresh pants that fit.

Don’t you?