I’m so done with questioning my behavior. Following myself around with a clip board, checking off indiscretions. Relapses. Slips. Oops. You fucked up there. Ugg. And there. There too. If I read one more self-help book on “normal behavior,” I’ll shoot somebody. There’s the paradox. I know too much. I know how to be perfect. 

Rather, I now know how others define normal and perfect. I see the world define it. And I see how poorly I stack up. According to Dale Carnegie and Anthony Robbins and all those other, happy, perfect self-help freaks, I have failed. I am an example of what not to be.

I am ugly.

Well. I don’t want to be ugly anymore. I don’t want to be labeled anything anymore. I don’t want to identify myself with any certain group of people anymore. I don’t want to believe any longer that my thoughts are “diseased,” or distorted or that I can only be validated through a set of patterns that classify me as addict; borderline; obsessive; freak. That only God can make me right.

I am right. Just this way.

I am a girl. Just that. Filled with shame and love and weakness and strength. Bitterness, happiness, hurt, regret, joy, lust, hope, anger, need, peace, fear, curiosity, pain, pleasure.

I am unique. Not too unique. 

Proud. Narcissistic. Shy. Submissive. Good. Real. 

I can take the world on my knees. Lying on my back. On all fours. Standing up. 

I can take it like a man.  I can swallow.

I can take it with bowed head and out stretched arms. 

I can beg. And still have dignity.

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