Sunday, 25 August 2013


She will always be far more appreciative of others than  she is of herself. In fact, most of the things she likes about herself she credits to her parents, either genetically or for encouraging her when she was growing up. She never takes full responsibility for things she thinks she might be good at, though she accepts as her own any and all failures, weaknesses and troubles in her life. 
She has always accepted others much more readily than she accepts herself. She tend to rarely be critical of others, even though she notices the flaws in others almost as much as she notes them in herself. She forgives those imperfections, irritations and issues much more readily in people who aren't, well, her. 
She doesn't have a reason why. She knows most of us are more critical of ourselves, but she is pretty much exclusively critical of herself, which is perhaps why it can be so vehement. She just assumes that everyone judges her as harshly as she judges herself and if they don't that they are simply being overly kind.
She can always think of dozens of things wrong with herself, yet struggles to think of things she is genuinely bad at. She punishes herself for mediocrity and refuses to reward herself even for things approaching impressive.
 I wonder sometimes why I am the first to praise, support and nurture everyone but myself. Even now I am criticising myself for writing this where people will have to read it only to discover I'm a boring, self-deprecating fool with a laptop. I'm also criticising the lack of literary flair in this destruction of my character, I should really have made it a poem, or a tale or woe worthy of pity. But it isn't sad, simply true. It is no dreadful thing, only something I cannot reconcile with the logical part of my brain.

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