The more I engage with others, the clearer becomes my view of my own dysfunction. Surviving abuse at so many levels across such a broad spectrum of my life while still maintaining my sanity comes at a cost. Only, the cost is rarely discernible by any around me, and often, not even me.
I could write volumes about my coping mechanisms and my insane ability to still believe in people and having hope in humanity, but it will make me vomit. And if that is the response it will elicit from me, I’d hardly want to put anyone else through a similar trial.
People will disappoint and betray as long as there’s stars in the sky and a sunrise tomorrow morning. We’re designed to collide in our needs versus the expectations of others. The more we need, the greater our disappointment. The more we expect, the greater our pain.
A selfless life is impossible, because by design, everything we do is motivated by a selfish desire. While those desires may be honourable, noble, or commendable, they’re nonetheless selfish. Altruism is a lie, and philanthropists are just people that trade wealth for respect and appreciation. So it stands to reason that our value must be judged not by our apparent intent, nor our vested interest, but instead it should be judged by the impact we have on others. Regardless of what my selfish motives may have been, if the outcome is positive, it makes no difference what drove me to achieve it.
I’ve often realised that even my conscious efforts at maintaining a specific focus in intent or motivation later revealed a less honourable desire lurking beneath. And so I abandon my self-hate and self-loathing so that I can one day be judged more fairly by the one Who created me. Until then, everyone else is just wasting good oxygen offering their opinions about who I am and why I do what I do. They’ll forever be wrong, even more wrong than I.