The Devil On My Shoulder

The last couple of days have been self-image nightmares.  I know, I know.  I said I wouldn't gripe about it.  The devil on my shoulder is rubbing his hands with glee at my infantile behavior.

We were talking about a mutual friend.  She has soft blondish hair, sapphire blue eyes and an infectious smile.  She doesn't see herself that way.  She sees a  woman who is depressed, lonely, fat and unlovable.  That's too bad.  She is a rarity, beautiful and sweet, with a wicked sense of humor.  She needs to get out more, have some fun and stand tall.  She lights up a room just by being in it.

We were discussing a man we know.  He is average in looks and build.  His eyes are a faded blue, his thinning hair a nondescript grey.  His smile is nice enough when he chooses to share it.  If he doesn't think you worthy, he will ignore you.  If you ask a direct question, he may answer it, or he may not.  The sweet shyness you see at first rapidly shows itself as arrogance.  Yet this man will put on his airs of confidence, striding into every room as if he owns it.

The difference between her and him is palpable.  Is it gender?  How they were raised?  Was it a failed relationship or something deeper?

Today my confidence is at ebb tide.  I wore the red blouse Hubby hates and the big butterfly earrings I love.  It was windy, so I wore my well-fitting dress pants.  I looked OK.  But my too-short hair still bugs me.  The flashy earrings may be a bit overkill.  My lashes look too thick.  I feel old and foolish.  I need outside validation of my worth.  I need coffee with a friend.  The devil on my shoulder is enjoying this.  He is feeding off my insecurity.

I don't have as many of these days of worthlessness as I used to, but when they come it is with a vengeance.  I put on an act of cheerfulness, pull back my shoulders and spritz perfume on my throat.  I take more ibuprofen for my back, go about my business, take my lunch to one of my hidey-holes hoping a friend will appear...By the time this day ends, I may feel better.  I don't like myself today;  I don't expect anyone else to, either.  The devil on my shoulder is grinning.  He likes me just fine.

Time is flying.  Here it is nearly May.  Two things I had planned on doing by the end of April are left undone.  I concentrate on those; on days like this, I fail to see how far I have come.  I don't much like this side of me.  The devil on my shoulder perks up.  He thinks he is winning.

My writing accomplishes many things.  It helps me to organize thoughts and feelings that were long buried.  It gives me a chance to pay a tribute to a friend's husband or my own.  It helps me to remember the things I believe and the things I love.  It gives me a chance to tell a few people about my struggles in an effort to be re-born.  It gives me a forum to profess my faith.  As I put these into print, they seem smaller.  Someone will read this, or another essay, and it will touch them in some small way.  I know this because they tell me.

Today I lack confidence.  I won't ask anyone to join me in my hiding place because I couldn't stand rejection today.  I feel like the woman in the beginning of this script.  Tomorrow I may feel more like that man. Today I will settle for the crying jag.

As I look over my shoulder, I see the devil is gone.  I must be stronger than I thought.