The bad self

It’s garbage day, and as I head into the final days of this year of sobriety, solitude, and self-exploration, I’m sending away so many memories. 

When I think of the year(s) nearly behind me, I am haunted by memories that I would change. Who are these people with no regrets? I’m full of regrets. 

I have made terrible decisions most of my life, not exclusively, but I’ve been one to see what would happen rather than doing what was considered the beaten path. This leads me to some excellent decisions, too, but that’s another garbage day. 

Today I’m focusing on all of the bad choices that have stayed with me, that make me feel yucky. Just as I’ve often wondered whether the best photos or the worst photos are the best representation of oneself, I now turn to memories and ask the same thing. It’s all in the lens.

I’m very photogenic, and so frustratingly beautiful in photos that I can’t participate in dating apps because I feel like I’d only be a let down in real life. A natural catfish. I’ll never be as pretty as my pictures. 

The photos I don’t post are horrible. I can also look really bad. Hopefully worse than I actually look. Cameras are dishonest, for better or for worse.

What if memories are the same way? What if my recollections of self are warped to make me better and worse than I really am?

Maybe it’s somewhere in the middle, the truth. Years ago I saw a friend’s photo album and she said, “I hate this picture of myself.” She looked pained, so I told her to throw it away. She argued that she had to keep it. I argued that we are under no obligation to keep photos of ourselves that we don’t like. 

Maybe the same rule applies to memories, too. Wouldn’t I be crazy to throw out all the best photos and make an album of the worst? An album that made me cringe to look at it. I’d be crazy to treat myself that way. 

So why do I cling to my worst behavior and experiences, my worst memories, as if they are the real me? The answer is lack of self-compassion. I’m unwilling to forgive my bad behavior, poor choices, and moments of ugliness. I refuse to throw away the bad photos. 

Most of the time I clean up after my dog. Occasionally, in my thirty years of owning dogs, I’ve failed to clean up after my dog. I’m not one to look at the 99% good (desired) behavior. Instead, I focus on the 1% of times I have strayed. When I’m at the checkout counter I see the poop bags and I feel bad for the times I’ve failed to have one, and I always buy more. I don’t want to ever be that person again. 

After a year of sobriety, it’s easy to look back on unflattering drunken moments. Was I drunk for most of my life? Not even close. Did I drink too much sometimes? Absolutely. Do I think drinking is bad? Not at all. Do I think drinking can be bad? Absolutely. 

I’ve had an extra son since we started sheltering in place. His view of me is unique. He’s witness to my daily life, as my children always have been, but he has a unique perspective. An outside view of the inside.

Last night we were watching a movie together and there was a character portrayed as not giving up. He said to my son, “that’s your mom, she never gives up- she just keeps going.” He also confided in me that when he first met me he was terrified because I “looked like a Bond villain in all black with red lipstick and a glass of champagne.“

He’s super nice to me, and having lost his own mother to cancer, he values my role as mother. He sees me as a magical creature. He sees only the best photos of me. Spending time with him, and seeing myself through his eyes, helps me love myself.

So here I am at the end of the year, looking backward, inward, under and through, and I want to see myself the way he sees me. I really do. But I’m dragged down by the bad version. The times I forgot to make the phone call, the times I missed the deadline, the bad times, the poor choices, the memories that compare to that image we see when we accidentally turn on our camera when we’re looking at our phones. 

Ugly self exists, but so does a beautiful version. In these last few days of 2020, the last garbage day of the year, I’m going to send away the memories that hurt me. I don’t need them anymore and feeling horrible about the time six years ago when I didn’t have a poop bag, or the time I married someone after he’d thrown a coffee table at me, or the time I got sick in public, the time I wore my pants inside out all day, the bad hairstyles, the terrible things I’ve said, feeling bad about all of it doesn’t help me, and it definitely doesn’t define me.

I’m stripping my memory album of these horrible snapshots. I give myself permission to set them aside. I’m safe now, and I trust myself to make good choices most of the time. I don’t need to carry this album of the worst memories around with me, nor does it have a place reserved in the new year. 

So goodbye most ugly self, I don’t need you anymore. I may not forget you entirely, but I don’t have to carry you around with me. You aren’t invited to the New Year. I may not ever see myself the way my kids see me, but I don’t have to see myself the way my ex-husband sees me either. I’m somewhere in the middle, and that’s okay.