Lady Macbeth

So it's funny, and/or ironic or utterly heartbreaking, whichever you deem most suitable... Our insecurities dictate the extent to which we are self-centred. It scares me that the more I doubt about myself, the more time I spend making myself better, or trying to. I would liken my struggles and attempts to fix them as cumbersome as having cut and bleeding fingers and trying dryly to attend to myself and bandage my own. It becomes a pathetic and stupid plight where the wounds we try to heal are the same pains making it impossibly inconvenient to self bandage.

Strategy seems to be lacking whenever it comes to dealing with ourselves. Because we try to do it in the dark. Or I do. So that when I'm in public light there are no scratches or bruises or severed parts of me; there are minimal imperfections and less to be judged by. I've recently been horrified by an epiphany of how addicted I am to myself.

Everything is about: me.

I naively believed that because I was becoming increasingly insecure, the reasons to be self-absorbed would be inversely so. Apparently not. The more streaks of imperfection I would find on my skin, the more I would try to scrub it off with a ferocious focus that ensures my eyes hardly stray from that which disgusts me. Likewise, I suppose, was the case with Lady Macbeth, whose hands seemed never clean of the blood shed by them (remember how it drove her mad? I want not to suffer the same fate, yet find myself halfway there). Little did I know that my hands also were stained, and trying to clean dirty skin with dirty hands makes for a very unsuccessful, exhausting activity.

I love that my Savior, my lover, my creator wants this tiresome job and simply asks (over and over) for me to relinquish the ownership and whatever of wanting perfection, because he achieves better results via majestic methods.

There will be no end to this- save Kingdom Come- til then, allow yourself to be scrubbed frequently!