The Courage to Be Selfish

Choosing to allow ourselves to become the best possible version, regardless of why, when, or how, is often slandered as a selfish act. Those doing the slandering aren’t wrong. It is selfish. Far be it from me to understand why “they” feel worth of criticizing or berating “us” for choices that do not involve them I do not understand. That’s what happens when we decide to live boldly and authentically. Us vs Them.

Us are the people who support, encourage, uplift. We know the discomfort of growth and embrace it. We make the choice to go where we have never gone before knowing what faces us with each step. Knowing that it means that there is a lifetime of guilt, fears, frustrations, and other painful events that we, who are committing said selfish act, have endured before daring to find something else.

They are not us. They are the people who believe that their opinion in how we live our life matters. They are limited. They think small. They think with lack and so they live with lack. They look at their lifetime of guilt, fears, frustrations, and other painful events and say, “I can’t so neither can you.” They are wrong.

I’ve spent the last year being selfish. In doing so I have also been experiencing the consequences that come with it. My closest friend, members of my family, lifestyle, comforts, and even alcohol are gone. In my reflection of their absence, I see that more than heartache I have experienced growth. I am not the first in my family to lose in order to gain.

I think about my mother leaving when I was 14. My parents made the foolish decision to give me a “normal” life by staying together. They had a preplanned divorce for when it was time for me to leave the dysfunctional nest. As a child, I spent endless nights praying for their divorce. These prayers were laced among the frequent nights of my mother in a manic episode and my father inebriated. Inevitably, my mom would leave the house in a fury, leaving my father with me crying hysterically until I vomited into his hands. My dad really liked things to be tidy and my bedroom floor was carpet so I assume, reflecting on this now, it was as much a gesture of love as it was to prevent my carpet from needing to be cleaned.

Throughout my childhood, my mother would isolate herself from any goings-on with my dad’s family. When she would participate, there would always be a scene. She thought they were trying to change her. She truly believed they were locking doors and setting alarms to intentionally prevent her from escaping. Her perception was that they were passively attacking her. As an adult, I think about all of these episodes in a way far different than I did when they were happening and even as I reflected on them as a teenager or as a younger adult. Now, I see her isolation as an act of protection for her mental health.

My mom’s isolation meant that I spent more time with my dad. This time ultimately put me on his team. I learned all of my inherited birthrights that came with being a Martin. We are of a superior breed, unlike my mother. She was not like us and so she was lesser than. This belief, along with her frequent absence and episodes, created a very fragile relationship between us and a very unified force with my dad.

In the grand scheme of how short our lifespans are, giving ourselves the opportunity to become our best version is worth the risk

One morning in the Summer of 2001, I woke up from an afternoon nap and looked out of my window to see my mom and a family friend moving her out of the house. My dad was out of town on a fishing trip. My only thought was, “Thank God.” I remained hidden in my room and waited for her departure. My father returned to find her note and his only response was, “This isn’t the fucking plan.” His disappointment was more a reflection of his pride being bruised than the prospect of the pain of his early divorce. My dad very quickly adopted a narrative that made us victims. We were abandoned and he was a struggling single parent raising a “child”. Our reality outside of the story was totally ignored because the story was good and it made him seem to be somewhat the hero. Every story has to have a villain and that villain was, “my selfish mother.”

They assumed, that I, the one perceivably most affected by the act, would be unable to interpret the experience on my own and grow from it positively. I was and I have.

My dad’s version of this story has not changed in almost 20 years. Mine, on the other hand, has evolved greatly. Now in my 30’s, I think about my mom and the toxic environment that she was living in. I think of how scared she must have been when she decided to leave and how brave she was for doing it. She gambled to escape the toxic life she was living for the chance that there could be an option of happiness for her existence. For years, I carried resentment towards her, but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t an authentic emotion, just one I was committed to. I know, now, that the resentment was given to me by the people judging her. I never felt unhappy about her departure. I actually felt relief watching her pull out of the driveway that day. I share this with you to highlight that the selfish act my mother committed was judged, as all selfish acts are, by people who deemed themselves of high enough importance to evaluate her. No one is that important. Their intention was honorable; They weren’t concerned about her, they were concerned about me. This concern was projected into words of criticism that turned me into a victim and her into a monster. They assumed, that I, the one perceivably most affected by the act, would be unable to interpret the experience on my own and grow from it positively. I was and I have.

I know that the fear of feeling that pain is what prevents so many people from permitting themselves to act according to what is best for them.

Having been called selfish so frequently in the last year, I am well acquainted with the pain from being judged and criticized by people we love and care about. I know that the fear of feeling that pain is what prevents so many people from permitting themselves to act according to what is best for them. I will tell you that even with the absence of so much that I love, I wouldn’t change a thing. I am not just living, I am alive. I can see. I can breathe. My heart is full and my mind is clear. I didn’t know that I could feel like this but, I can. In the grand scheme of how short our lifespans are, giving ourselves the opportunity to become our best version is worth what we have to lose to get it.

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Previously published on “Change Becomes You”, a Medium publication.

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