Learned Lesson Number Fourteen: Be Fiercely Yourself

Who among us really knows who we are? Even when looking in a mirror, what we see is not exactly what others see. The mirror-image is a slightly altered one from the actual image. And then that whole complicated subject of perception comes into play. Two people can view the same person, thing, or situation, and give completely different descriptions, when both are seeing supposedly the very same visual. It’s enough to make your head spin. I recently turned 50, and since I am shooting for the century mark, this means I am only halfway through this earthly journey, and the older I get, the more I realize how little I actually know. Even about myself. Having said this, I also am reasonably certain about the things that I DO know. Thus this “Blog’o’Stuff” that I think I know for sure.

So. Here is what I know about who I am. I believe that God created me with certain basic elements that make up my soul in its original, barest form. In my mind, this original form of Peg is a little girl who looks something like Pippi Longstocking. She is unique and I love her. She is the last version of myself that I remember in her purest form. Before the floods and fires of life began to alter my view. She wears braids and has a pet monkey and keeps a horse in her kitchen, and nobody tells her what to do. She is a grand storyteller, and she does not suffer condescension or those who would be cruel to children. She has superhuman strength, and she is fiercely herself.

This original child is the part of ourselves that God has charged us with protecting and preserving as we bounce through this mortal existence. Each of us is subject to the buffetings of negative circumstances and difficult people. These things alter us, sometimes harshly. It can be scary and lonely. But we are given people who recognize us, along the way. These are our soul mates, and they come in many forms. We need to value and keep them close. They are the ones who love us most and know us best; who retain the ability to see only that original soul when they look at us. I am fortunate to have a number of these people in my life. The ones who have always seen me, no matter how deeply hidden I was.

When I was 20 years old and just getting to know the man I would marry, I found myself wanting him so much that I kept mostly silent. Letting him do the talking, subconsciously hiding the parts of myself that I feared he would not like. Hiding Pippi, who I loved the most. Making her disappear. I cannot blame him for this, I chose to suppress myself, and I must be accountable for that. But the consequences of that choice have been far-reaching and painful. I remember going out for a burger with one of my aforementioned “soul mates” while trying to decide whether to get married. He told me I had changed, and that I even “blinked my eyes differently.” I asked if this was good or bad, and he said, “Just different. Not like you”.

In the movie “Runaway Bride”, a woman becomes somewhat infamous for continually bolting from the altar, and a reporter attempts to discover why this is. He interviews each of the jilted grooms, and asks them all “how does she like her eggs?” Every man’s answer is different, all followed by “She likes them just like I like them.” Ultimately this woman needed to figure out how she really liked her eggs. I should have been bold about how I liked my eggs. It might have saved me a lot of grief. Once you are married and living with a person, it is pretty much impossible to hide your real self. And once the guard came down, my fears that he would not much care for the uncensored, raw version of me were realized. I tried for 23 years to correct this. Decided to start truly being myself and hoping I would grow on him. But alas, he was not a fan of Pippi.

I am not interested in recounting the sad tale of divorce yet again, nor am I interested in placing blame. Part of learning who I am is taking responsibility for my part in how it all played out. I struggle far more with the forgiving of myself than with the forgiving of him. And as far as I think I have come in recent years, there is still a big part of me that is terrified of being me. It is risky to be fiercely oneself, but the alternative is far worse. Trust me.

In finally letting people see who I really am, I risk rejection, and recently I have felt some of that. It is not fun. But in the holding back of my raw self, I assure rejection. Maybe not right away, but eventually. It is far better to put yourself out there and know you have been honest. As the Good Doctor Geisel says, “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

A wise bit of advice my mother used to offer me in the rapids of my marriage was to “pray to see him through the Lord’s eyes”, and that always helped. It is a practice I still use, any time I struggle with anyone. If I can see them as I think God sees them, then there is no judgment on my part. It is while trying to see myself through that lens that I often lose my footing, and sometimes I stumble. In fact, lately it has felt like I am face-planting into the pavement on a regular basis. My view of myself is still somewhat skewed, and those pavement-bonding moments do not help with that. But my approach is to actively strengthen my personal relationship with God, in order to better see myself through His eyes. It is a tedious process, but I think it is working. When I look in the mirror, I am recognizing at least an outline of myself again. Because the way that God sees us all is as His children.

One of my assignments while in post-divorce therapy was to write a letter to my childhood self. It was an excruciating task, because I could not find her. At that point, even superhuman strength could not help poor Pippi dig out from under what I had piled on top of her. Finally getting the dirt to loosen has taken coming to Utah and moving into a bedroom in my parents’ house. It has taken getting sick and letting them take care of me. And it has taken going back to the beginning. To elementary school. Where, in my job as a teacher’s aide, I have been blessed with a group of vivacious 4^th-graders who somehow recognize me.

They “high-five” me in the halls and they call me “Pegster” and “Pegasus”. These were my nicknames when I was their age. They figured this out without my having told them. Lately they have taken to pounding on the desks or the lunch tables and singing “We Will Rock You” when they see me coming. I did not instigate this, and while I find it amusing and somewhat gratifying, I am sure the teachers do not. It’s a good thing school is almost out. But I will miss those kids who recognized Pippi in me, enough to help me dig her out. I need her. She is my ticket Home.

The Savior Himself said, “Unless ye become as a little child, ye can in nowise enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” So if you have lost touch with who you really are, find a way to go back to the 4^th grade. Hang out with some 9-year-olds for a while. Find a way to get back there and retrieve your childhood self. Then defend that kid. Fiercely.