Be Better

Better than what?

I would like to be better. But it’s not that easy. An old friend often responds to my snarky Twitter posts with that very tag; #Be Better. I suppose he means to be kinder, but he is a kind of snarky person himself, so maybe he means be even better at being snarky. I’ll try. 

For as long as I can remember I have felt a nagging undercurrent to all my other feelings, a feeling that I needed to be better, or more pointedly, that what I was at any given moment was not good enough. No matter how many messages I read, signs on my mirrors, or screen savers on my iPad I posted stating you are enough, I never quite believe it.

You want proof?

If you believe you’re not good enough, the world will generously provide all the proof you need. There is always someone smarter, funnier, prettier, thinner, or just better. If you want proof that you are indeed good enough, it can be risky business. It takes effort and a willingness to embrace your imperfections, to truly see what makes you unique and special and to believe what you see.

Getting better at self-acceptance is a journey, and like most journies is not a straight line. The more I write, the better I get. Even I can see that. When my daughter was learning to read she struggled a great deal. She was eventually diagnosed with reading issues, and learned helpful techniques and got better. When she was ten, she cried and said it wasn’t fair that reading was so hard for her and so easy for her friends. I agreed, it wasn’t fair, nor was her ability to out-run everyone in her class. 

It still hurts

Feeling less-than is a lousy feeling and is annoyingly self-perpetuating. As much as I detest the phrase “fake it ’til you make it” there is some reason to it. We are who we are, so we might as well believe in our flawed, standard-issue selves because there are no refunds or returns. No matter what my body looks like, I still need to dress it and take it with me when I leave the house.

Even tougher, I need to bring my inner self with me everywhere. I want you to think I’m nice and kind and caring. It would be even better if you find me smart and funny. And I am those things, and also petty, resentful, snarky, and sometimes, angry. The harder I try to hide those less adorable parts of myself, like wearing a pair of too-tight pants, the more those bulges stand out.

I want to be better

What I truly want to be better at, is being a human. It’s tough work. It’s ugly work. It means that I strip down and look in the mirror to see what I’m really doing or saying, and why. I must ask myself ‘what’s my desired outcome?’ and check who that outcome serves, and who it may harm. Especially if it’s me.

At this very moment, I am feeling angry at my daughter. You might wonder why, as do I. It’s been bubbling up for a few days, and as hard as I try to untangle the mess of why, I can’t quite do it. She hasn’t done anything or said anything, but I am locked away in the room where I write wanting to cry instead of write, to make her seek me out and ask me what’s wrong, but hoping she won’t notice I’m missing. I am eight years old and hiding under the piano. 

Feel better

When we’re sick people say “feel better” which I understand means they are hoping we will feel better soon but is an odd admonition. If we could feel better, wouldn’t we? If I could just shake off this feeling that is making me hide in a room why wouldn’t I do that? Wouldn’t anyone? I don’t like how I feel, and worse, I don’t like who I am when I feel this way. 

Being smarter or thinner or funnier will not help me through my feelings. I want to be better because a better person would be able to parse out what’s bothering me. If I was a better mom I would be more open-hearted and not get stuck in my petty and nameless grievances. A better me would face whatever is at the bottom of my anger and feel better soon.