Sometimes people say they’re not perfect, and it’s a light-hearted realisation. But it hit me hard the other day to see where I was failing and how far from perfect or even human I really am.
I sit behind my desk in my air-conditioned office typing away. Outside is my new (to me) car that I can afford and on my left hand is a diamond ring that sparkles in any lighting. I think to myself, I’ve come a long way. From the outside looking in, everything is perfect.
It wasn’t always that way. My life was far from where I am now.
I forget there are young girls (and boys) that are struggling with the same things I once struggled with; things I overcame. And I look pridefully at myself on my high horse calling to those who are in the pits of their lives, just look at me, look what I’ve done; as if that should be some inspiration to them to change their lives and just grow up.
How stupid. How hypocritical. To think all it takes is a different mindset, or to just stop hanging out with those people, or if only you would surround yourself with people that are a good influence. Like me.
I forget what it was like to crave attention. To need it, like a drug. What it was like to be on drugs and feel like you need to be drunk to have friends. To go home and coward out of killing myself and cut the insides of my legs and wrists instead. I forget there are still young people cutting themselves and young men and women, boys and girls who are not cowards like I was. Who will be spending the next years of their lives in therapy. Just because it got better for me doesn’t make me perfect. I’m constantly living in a state of conviction because I should try and help these young people, but shouldn’t my testament of turning my life around be enough?
No. It’s not, how could I be so blind to the needs of people around me.
This seems unfinished to me, but that’s because it is. This is where I am at in realising my own cowardice.