I realized, moments after making a judgemental comment about a brand, that a coworker was wearing exactly that brand.
To be honest, I still think what I said was funny, but I have reservations about the young woman who said it. I should have seen the red flags before I’d taken a wrong turn because I know better than that. Evidently this is newer territory, something you think I might have gotten over circa the year 2001 when I left 4th grade.
Spoiler alert: the level of anxiety I remember having would have encouraged me to talk about someone behind their back rather than to their face because the conflict was too much and I was afraid to be disliked.
I’m still afraid, that hasn’t changed; my sense of how to conduct myself has evolved though, and I know how to move from mask to mask.
When I’m paying attention, that is.
I’m struck by how unaware I was and probably still am. I still can’t believe I said something like that without thinking about who might be listening.
I haven’t done that since I gave a shit what other people thought about me. I could write a table of contents of the events I still care about, in terms of others’ opinions.
Sixth grade when I had to wear a bra because I had to and others didn’t. Seventh grade when I used my mom as an excuse to stop being friends with girls who made me feel excluded. I still can’t believe I told one of them my mom didn’t like her so I couldn’t hang out with her anymore.
Measure my fear of conflict with that reaction as your metric — I actually told a friend my mom didn’t like them so I could get out of having the conflict of realizing I didn’t actually like them.
I guess I should put forth just how independent I purport to be. I like to think I don’t need anyone until I convince myself I do. There’s a lot of dichotomous behavior I display … if that isn’t already self evident. Then again, the black and white perspective I’ve always looked at the world through really does have a gradient variety of colors — from just-nearly-black to a soft shade of gray that would look sweet wrapped in a pink border.
I don’t quite understand why I conflict with myself. I am, however, willing to bet it has to do with my sense of self and the sense of self I feel pressured into by the world around me. My venmo account doesn’t really work though, so I can’t stand behind this bet.
Eighth grade was a dark time. It was the first time I said my dreams out loud instead of thinking about them and working towards them quietly. I remember talking to a boy I sat next to in an arbitrary block class, telling him I wrote about a character inspired by him. At that point in time I just felt like a stupid liar. In all actuality though, here I am, talking about him. I unfollowed this same boy (now man) on Instagram the other day.
The posts were lackluster and I realized he was from a version of my past I wanted to archive.
Or maybe that was seventh grade. I don’t really remember, as funny as that is now. If I told my 12 year old self I wouldn’t really remember what she’d done or said (spoiler alert: I sort of do — hence the anxiety — but the point remains), she wouldn’t have believed me.
It would have been a crock of shit, pardon her language.
I have always wrestled with my sense of self. I didn’t know I had one until some of the earlier years of my 20s. Safe to say, much of my younger years were spent worrying and wondering what was wrong with me. I come from a good family, from a good town. The only thing in my hand of cards I might have been dealt that’s a little off are a few of the wires in my brain.
Everyone grows up with some kind of childhood trauma, according to my therapist. And according to my husband, I’m not special.
Though I haven’t really won the wrestling match for most of my life so far, I’ve gotten better at participating and throwing punches for the winning team. Usually that’s me, but sometimes it isn’t and when I said something about the brand the girl I work with was wearing — I was throwing punches for the wrong team.
When did I stop being the nice girl?
After spending an hour on the phone with my mom, complaining and crying about the situation I’ve found myself in lately, I’ve come away with this: I stopped being the nice girl when being included mattered more.
This is how we circle back to that independence thing. I’m authentically independent. I follow my passions and I do love the ride I’ve given myself. It’s just that sometimes I want someone alongside me in the driver’s seat and only one person fits there. Inevitably if you have two people in the driver’s seat, someone is going to grab the wheel. Either that, or you’ll crash. Both are probable, maybe even more so together.
I stopped being the nice girl when things that didn’t matter started mattering more than the ones that did matter. Still do.
One of the things I wish I could have told my eighth grade (or seventh grade) self is to remember that only you know what you know.
Life will out — essentially, the proof is in the pudding. And the cards speak for themselves.
