The meanest person I know – 89/100

I am, oftentimes, my favorite person in the whole world.

I have a lot of fun with and by myself. I’m never bored with myself. I think my journey has been so much fun. I’m constantly learning and growing. The world is my playground and everyone is my friend. I have pretty much no fear when it comes to connecting with people and I can see I receive so much in everyday interactions and encounters. I love making people laugh and smile. And I’m so easy to make laugh and smile.

I’m in love with the person I am, the person I’m becoming. I’m delighted by my womanhood the more I learn about it. I can honestly say, so far I’ve become the person I’ve always wanted to be, since middle and high school.

I know, all of this sounds ludicrous. All of this sounds hyperbolically arrogant, conceited, narcissistic. And I don’t defend myself. I have no need to.

But there are times, when I am the meanest person I know.

There are times when nothing I do is good enough for me.

There are times when I’m afraid to move because I’m so sure the next step is going to plunge me into failure.

There are time when I feel so so so so stuck. And I don’t know how to get out.

And in those times, I’m my worst nightmare.

In those times, I judge myself to no end. I measure what I did during the day. I scrutinize the quality of work. I hold up my productivity to the light to see how I could have squeezed out more, more, always more. I plan out my day ahead, promising the gods I would leave no room for waste and idleness.

In those times, I become both the most ruthless enforcer and the most disheartened and weak-hearted workhorse.

And sadistically, this dichotomy sometimes serves as my prize. It’s my trophy. Because at least if I’m beating on myself, if I can show my own repentance under the harshest whip-cracking, I can evade the judgment of others. Basically, I beat my critics to the punch. The critics that don’t exist.

It’s a war zone in my mind sometimes.

I’ve heard again and again and again from people that I’m hard on myself. Too hard on myself.

I was actually surprised the first time I heard it. But then I kept hearing it – that I need to back off myself.

And they’re right. I’m hurting. In the back of my head, I’m forever running from the nagging that I’m sure is coming from the universe. I’m clenching my fists, gritting my teeth, and squeezing my eyes tight to brace myself for the onslaught of judgment. And it never comes.

I just sit in my version of hell. A hell where I long to belong but never do, a hell where everything I am, everything I do is exactly wrong, where I just never get ahead.

No one shakes a finger at me. No one chastises. No one punishes me.

They don’t need to. My self-criticism is punishment enough.

In these moments, I am the meanest person I know.

The compassion I’ve deeply learned to extend to others doesn’t reach this person. I don’t give up. Because I live with this person damn it.

And because mean people get annoying at some point.

And because I deserve better. After all, I am, oftentimes, my favorite person in the whole world.