Years ago, I blamed everyone for my misfortunes. My parents were at fault when I was younger. My boyfriends were at fault when I grew older. I always had someone to point the finger at to ensure that it was never me to blame.
By doing this, I always found a way to throw myself the most lavish pity parties. They lasted for days, if not weeks. I felt sorry for myself and the life I was thrown into. I wallowed. And anger followed any attempt to point out that my life wasn’t that bad.
I’d like to say I just got smarter, grew up and realized I was being my own worst enemy, but that’s not the full truth. I did get smarter. And I did grow up. And I did realize I was being my own worst enemy. But it took being cheated on for any of that to happen.
Days after the realization of what occurred hit me, I wallowed more than ever. It was the most extravagant, and the most depressing, pity party I had to date. And maybe some of it was acceptable. Maybe some of the tears shed were worth it and maybe some of the agonizing anxiety-filled nights were my own way of grieving.
But most of it was just me, looking to play the victim.
And while this post isn’t about what happened years ago, that moment defined who I am today. Because after a few weeks of spending far too much time at my parents house and closing myself off to the world that surrounded me, I broke.
A million little pieces type of break. I saw myself, the miserable shadow of a scorned woman who felt betrayed and alone, for what I was. I saw who I had become and the pieces of me that were every which way but right. And instead of wallowing more, shaming myself for what I was and who I had become, I held my head high.
I accepted my mistakes. My downfalls. My tormented patterns. I accepted my flaws and misfortunes. I accepted those around me for what they were and moved on from what I felt they should be. I accepted my sadness, my anger, and my uncertainty. I accepted the fate that had fallen on me through the actions of my ex as a blessing, no longer a curse.
And in those moments, I lost my need to pity myself. And with it, my want to pity anyone else. While my intention isn’t to brag, this has been one of the most rewarding and most challenging experiences I have ever gone through. It allowed me to respect myself for who I was – hell, who I am today – with no strings attached.
And while I feel so successful, and so proud from that moment, it’s left a constant struggle in my life. An inability to open up. An inability to share. Especially here. Not because I worry about what you may think or the nasty things people may say. Not because I need acceptance from my peers or because I want to be liked by everyone.
Merely because the idea of someone feeling sorry for me in any form is a battle that leaves me conflicted every time I write, or even speak. Every word I speak that isn’t positive and encouraging leaves me with a lingering idea that someone may pity me, or my life, or the situation I’m in – and I want nothing to do with it. I cringe at people seeing what I have to say or how I feel and feeling a twinge of sympathy for me. Perhaps apathy suits me better – I don’t know.
But I struggle with being real here sometimes because I want you to know that I like when life gets hard because it helps me appreciate the good/easy times. I’m okay that life isn’t always sunshine and rainbows. And that I wasn’t dealt a perfect hand when I was born. I know in my heart that I’m going to be alright in the end and that’s enough to remind me each and every day that any second spent pitying myself is one second wasted. And for me, that’s not okay.
Have you crashed your pity parties? How do you keep pity from affecting how you live every day?