The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [69]
As I meditated about my past, I realized that I was seething with anger and that it was all directed toward myself. I was responsible for everything and to blame for everything. Whatever happened in my world, internally or externally, was my fault. Repeatedly I had failed to keep everyone content, and for that I condemned myself. This hanging judge was so much a part of me that, like breathing, I didn’t notice until I slowed down and really paid attention. When I did, it alarmed me. I had always seen myself as loving and gentle. Who knew how filled with venom I had become?
I had made myself my own grand inquisitor. If I had a weird nightmare about a reptile or a house fire, I would tell myself it was because I was nutty. If I dropped an egg on the counter and broke it, I would tell myself I was clumsy and careless. Of course, I knew other people had nightmares or broke things from time to time. While I could exempt them from judgment, I could not absolve myself.
With practice, I became more mindful of the rules I had made for myself. For example, if I woke up in a sour and surly mood, I would give myself a hard time. I’d ask myself, “What is wrong with you?” As I learned to observe my thought sequences carefully, I had a realization so simple that it is embarrassing to share. I thought, “Who does wake up sunny every morning?” I gave myself permission to join my fellow humans who don’t arise from their beds smiling.
When my father was deeply critical of someone, he said, “He’s no damn good.” I realized that, at core, that is what I believed about myself. I constantly questioned my own thoughts, feelings, and behavior. My answer to the “why” questions was always either “I’m no damn good” or “I’m screwed up.”
Perhaps my core belief about myself was that I was not worthy. My deepest pain came from not seeing my own goodness. I felt so damn broken. I didn’t trust myself just to be who I was. I felt I deserved my misery, even that I caused it. I could not see all the love and joy that I held within myself.
These ideas stemmed from my early years with absent parents. At the time, I couldn’t blame them for being gone because I needed to love them. So instead, I blamed myself. Somehow I deserved to be lonely. I told myself that what I didn’t get, I didn’t need. By becoming the universal donor, I relinquished my rights to have needs.
Most of my life, I could dish out compassion, but I couldn’t take it. I was extremely embarrassed by gifts or compliments. When people offered to help me, I almost always said, “No, I can handle it.” “Don’t worry about me.” “No, I don’t need any presents.” “I like the leftovers.” “I’ll wear the hand-me-downs.” Or, “I’ll sit in the back middle seat.” In my emerging life, I yearned to find ways to both accept love from others and extend it to myself.
Over time, through meditation, I acquired some ability to acknowledge whatever was happening. Sometimes I could smile at my intensity. I would have a thought sequence like this: I am aware of how hard it is to break through my own denial system. I feel heavy and I have goose bumps. I want to believe I am flawless and that the world is made of spun sugar. I don’t believe it, though. My heart is racing. My mouth is dry. I am filled with flaws too awful to admit. What are my flaws? What can I confess to? I am often fearful and wary. I don’t trust others as much as I think I should. I think I know everything. I think I know nothing. I am clumsy with others. I don’t appreciate every moment to its fullest.
I would accept all those thoughts and then say a prayer for everyone who could turn drinking a cup of cider into a metaphysical event. All my life I had been told that I thought too much. I now learned to pray for humans who think too much. All things considered, we weren’t such a bad lot.
Meditation helped me stay with my own experience and not censor or censure upsetting information. Instead of being utterly entangled in my thoughts and feelings, I learned to note them without judging