Brian comes down and asks how my day has been, as he puts away his tools and gets ready to go home.  So-so, I say.  I’m trying not to complain.

I’m learning to set limits, I explain.  I help people as much as I can and then don’t know what to do when my limits upset them.  Brian tells me that he likes to teach people to help themselves.  He tells me, There’s two kinds of people:  People who need a little help but are willing to help themselves; and people who just want you to do everything for them.  Brian thinks a minute, and then says he doesn’t help people much, he shows them how to do things.

I laugh.  That’s so not true, Brian! I tell him.  You help me all the time.  Brian laughs.  Oh I do little things for you but you mostly try to help yourself.

I don’t know if Brian’s assessment is accurate.  But my focus stays on those who get upset with me.   I tell him, I feel like I meet a lot of people who want me to do stuff for them, and I try so hard to do what they want.  Then I get to the end and I feel like they have no use for me any more.

Brian studies me intently.  I think he senses this conversation has left the casual realm.  Well, that sounds like you might have a self-esteem issue.  I have no problem with self-esteem.

Brian has hit the nail squarely on the head.  I explain that; I tell him that I’m still trying to learn to accept the person that my life has molded.  I mention that I try to accept the effect of everything that has happened to me.  He asks, Do you mean overcome? but no:  I mean accept.  I definitely see that the events which I experienced, good, bad, neutral, hammered my neurons and neuro-pathways and fashioned the woman whom I see in the mirror.

Today, I’ve been called manipulative and I’ve been labeled difficult.  I understand that these words of judgment tell me something about the speakers — about the limits of what they can tolerate.  I know my heart.  I know my values and I try to conform my behavior to reflect those values.  That I fail to please everyone does not indicate malice on my part; only a decision on theirs that whatever I am, whatever I have done, whatever I can or cannot do, whatever I need, falls outside of what they can endure.

I get that.  At least:  my brain does.  The heart — not so much.  I find it difficult to protect myself when judgment rains on me.

Earlier today, I came upon Timothy Pettet in the waiting room of my office.  He sprang up, and said I’ve come to see you, and now that I’ve seen you, I see how beautiful you are!  He tells me that he’s come to find out when he should arrive to remove his wife’s paintings which currently grace the walls in our suite.  We talk about that for a few minutes.  We end our conversation on the sidewalk by my car, where Tim interrupts me to remark upon the distracting quality of my blue earrings, and my turquoise sweater, and my new glasses.

I sputter.  I’m not good at accepting compliments, even from someone whose heart I firmly believe harbors not one trace of ill will, someone whom I’ve known for more than fifteen years, and about whom my view has swung from side to side before settling quite comfortably in the middle.  But on this day, after the experiences through which I’ve tried to navigate, after being condemned and rejected and measured and found wanting, Tim’s arrow finds a soft spot in the ice that I’m packed around my heart, and melts me ever so slightly.

I drive home smiling, willing to believe, if only for the twelve minutes between Westport and Brookside, that I am actually beautiful.