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I am an imperfect person. I know this, and yet sometimes how my imperfections manifest are incredibly uncomfortable for me to experience.

It was Christmas today. I was with my family. I should have been happy. This should have been enough for me. It shouldn’t have mattered what I did or did not receive, what I did or did not give to others. And yet it mattered it to me. I feel terribly about this. I feel terribly that I allowed such seemingly trivial things to effect my mood. And yet it did, and I did. I was disappointed, and ashamed of being so.

I wish I was a happier person today. I wish I was more full of gratitude for what I do have and for what I do get to share. Love, if nothing else, ought to be enough for me.

My mood today was worsened by how much time I spent feeling badly about myself for feeling badly. Telling myself that a better, more mature, healthier, more grateful person would have been content. Telling myself that I should have been content. Regardless of my discontent.

I wish I could say I had a great Christmas, but I can’t and still tell the truth. I was disappointed and saddened. I spent much of my day and night struggling with this and trying very hard not to be. I wish I had just allowed myself to be disappointed and saddened. I wish I had practiced a bit more honesty, if with no one else, then with me. But I was so ashamed of what I was feeling. So ashamed to be feeling it. The truth is, I still am.

I am afraid these less than perfect parts of me are less deserving of love. I am afraid they make me less deserving. I am afraid they make me not very like-able. And I desperately want to be liked. So much so, that at times I still pretend to be someone I’m not or somewhere I’m not for the sake of being acceptable. Like I did today.

Only then it’s not really me who is being accepted. Rather than gaining acceptance, what I’m actually doing is reinforcing the old story that my truth is unacceptable. And, I am the one who has made it so.