For as long as I can remember, I have always been more concerned with how you wanted me to be than with how I wanted me to be.
And not just you. You. And you. And the you behind the other you.
You you you you you.
Criticism.
Instead of serving as motivation, wound up serving as another helping of whatever I could use to numb the negative self-talk that would just twirl inside around my head like a merry-go-round. Minus the fun and the laughter and the feeling of flying.
Ashamed.
Feeling that no matter what I did, you would always find a fault somewhere. This never ending checklist of things I felt I had to do to feel worthy in your eyes. The items that would suddenly make an appearance without warning ... acting as if they'd always been there. As if they belonged.
Time.
What it takes to finally realize that I'm not the one with the problem.
I'm not the problem.
What it takes to realize that I call the shots. I've always called the shots even when you made me believe I had no other choice.
Mad.
That I gave you permission to make me feel small. I let you do that. I gave you the upper-hand. I was always in control. I let you.
No more.
Done. No more.
FINITO.
