Proud Little Monkey

I was reminded of someone I once knew yesterday. Or perhaps that should read, someone slapped me with the truth of what I used to be, compared to the person I've become. Now, usually when you slap the beaten, they recoil, but this slap was like a hug. Refreshing, inspiring. I needed it.

I'd like to believe there is a natural evolution of character in a soul, a maturity of sorts. It should be, that the person one becomes at any age, is different from the one they were 5 years ago, 10 years ago, 15 years ago.........but enhanced, better if I may. A smart person would build off the best pieces of their interior and proudly carry those qualities into their future self. Protect those traits, shape them, paint them into new light. It should happen that way, and in some people, the ones I admire, I witness that beautiful truth.

But what if, the person you were those years ago, was the better person? That the person one became as they aged, turns out to be the absence of character. The shell of what was. A piece of flesh swirling in a void of silence and cowering trepidation. What if, that person has become the one who smiles into a crowd and glares at herself in the mirror. Can she go back. Would she seek out the aspects of her that she once proudly roared at the world.

The old frisky fighter in me says, yes, everything is possible, anything is opportunity and with a flick of reaction, change becomes movement. That woman would have kicked any ones ass if they tried to get in her way and wouldn't have apologized for it. But, the absence of character in me, protests, slumps her shoulders and reminds the desperado she made her bed and must sleep in the stale sheets. It's a clash of little young David and the big fat squatting Goliath. Two mentalities always at odds, throwing stones and delivering sucker punches.

When I look back over the minutes, the months, the years and try to pinpoint how in the fuck I allowed almost every admirable trait about me to be washed away, I see it play out like any chapter book. She started life on the Mercy streets, but as I continue to read, page by page, I witness the main character make terrible choices, accept the unacceptable. I hold my breath and turn the page knowing damn well that if she succumbs to this, or that, dire results will befall our girl. As the reader I can see what the villain on the page is thinking, manipulating, but in hindsight I'm powerless to knock some sense into her. I watch her go down dangerous paths, the wicked streets and observe the fight in her become weaker, and accepting of all the things that hit below the chin. Because I am the reader today, I know what she's thinking, the fraudulent image she's portrayed to those around her. The smiles hiding a truth she is too embarrassed to admit. Such a silly girl.

For me, admission is an obstacle of gigantic proportion. If there is one trait I've never lost, it's the tenacity to be absurdly protective of the things that are wrong in me or my life. Admission feels like the ultimate betrayal of an optimistic desire to fix everything on my own accord. A control freak stripped of effective power? That's a delightful oxymoron to admit. A pathetic fall from grace.

So what do I do. Today. Tomorrow. I can't retract the past, but I know I can do something about my future. I've placed a call for self help, in it's purest form. In the absence of Character I have a lot of space to remodel, redesign. The old self in me feels a bit rowdy and wants to walk across the room and take one on the chin for old times sake. If such behavior inspires a flicker of light through closed windows, then I'm ready and seeking the action that inspires the climatic turn of events in her book.

I really do miss her.........

~~~~

I hope the people who come to these pages, or discovered this hole of mine, understand this zone.

It's entirely
Self indulgent.
Self exposing.
Self help.
Self decapitating.
Self pity.
Self assuring.
Self embracing.
Self proclaiming.

Selfish.

Self.