Blaming Myself

Blaming Myself

There is no man . . . however wise, who has not at some period of his youth said things, or lived a life, the memory of which is so unpleasant to him that he would gladly expunge it. And yet he ought not entirely to regret it, because he cannot be certain that he has indeed become a wise man-so far as it is possible for any of us to be wise-unless he has passed through all the fatuous or unwholesome incarnations by which that ultimate stage must be preceded. -Marcel Proust

I accept my life experiences as making me who I am today

When someone is angry at me, I can't get it out of my mind. I worry that they have seen something awful about me-something dark is showing that I want to hide. Secretly, I am ashamed. I plug into a place inside of me where I feel bad about myself. I don't know how to let go. Immediately, their anger towards me becomes my anger towards myself, or my litany of self-justifications or defenses all designed to keep me from feeling down on myself. But in this way, their anger becomes my problem because somewhere inside of me I accept what they say as true, more real than my own interpretation. I defend myself because I think I need defending. I accept their idea that I am in the wrong. Today I will pull myself out of the dark hole one foot at a time until I am in the light. Today I will imagine that all may not be my fault-I will let a window open in my assumption that I am in the wrong.