Lesson in three parts.

One.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of watching a production I co-wrote for a recovery roundup. It was awesome, but I had some trouble watching myself. That’s an understatement. I went home and wrote a blog post in which I attacked myself pretty viciously. I posted it, but then quickly took it down. I know at least one person saw it. 

Two.

A few weeks later on Instagram I saw that someone had posted a meme saying, hey, you’re not perfect, but you’re better than you were, so acknowledge your progress. It was a really lovely post.

Here was one of the responses:

Just_more_shit This makes me so sad and ashamed. If past me knew I would become this worthless disgusting filthy parasitic trash she would have done everything to stop it, she would have killed herself rather than let this monster free.

And there it was. I was looking in the mirror, face to face with myself. Because what I wrote in my post was, well, close.

It's almost seductive.  I lay out a gleaming set of serrated verbal knives and cut myself over and over and over again with words, watching -- feeling -- myself bleed out. A slice for how I look. Then my finances. A few cuts comparing myself to others. Then my singing, my acting, my weight, how I dress, how I walk. Nothing is off limits. Then several deep, long cuts for my failings as a parent. There are never enough cuts for that one. The deeper the cut, the truer it feels, and I don't quit until nothing is left but shredded meat.

Do I believe the stuff I'm saying? Yes, at least when I'm saying it. Does it serve any purpose other than creating more hurt? No. But maybe the pain is the point.

And when I post this stuff, I am asking you to witness the carnage too. In that sense, I'm treating you as badly as I treat myself.

But then there’s this woman’s post, and I see its effect. It’s all very tidy, isn’t it? I hurt for her, I see myself, and I learn my lesson.

Or maybe I don’t.

Three.

I was looking at old emails a few nights ago and found something unsettling. Ten years ago, I was in another show -- the first in which I acted.  It was fun, it was life-changing, it turned out great overall, and we watched it at the cast party. But watching myself was nearly unbearable. So ten years ago, I went right home and wrote the very same invective I wrote just a few weeks ago. Some of it was even word for word.

Ten years and not a bit of progress. What the fuck is wrong with me?  

I feel great compassion for that other woman. I know I should feel it for myself, but I don’t know how. Needless to say, my therapist and I are getting lots of mileage out of this set of facts.

There is no promise in this post. I’m not even sure there’s a prayer. I just know that the other woman’s post broke my heart, and she is me.