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She’s dead and gone and I’m not one tiny bit sorry about it. Does that sound harsh? Cruel? You know what, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, I really don’t care. It was a slow process, watching her die, slipping away bit by bit, only to regain strength for a brief time and be beaten down again. She finally “gave up the ghost” about 4 years ago and although others may not be, I, for one, am delighted never have to set eyes on her again.
The “she” to which I’m referring is the old me, and I confess, I killed her. She had to go. It came down to her or me and in a fight, I’ll always battle to the death. She was trying to kill me. Had been for as long as I can remember. She got what was coming to her.
The old me was a people pleaser. Insecure, terrified of being rejected, she was willing to do just about anything to “buy her way in” to whatever situation she encountered.
I don’t know what happened to her, to make her this way. Most people would blame her parents, or maybe the fact that she was adopted. I can’t say for sure, but I do know she was pretty messed up.
I used to watch her, from a distance. So pathetic. It was like she had no idea who she was, or what she had to offer (which was a lot). She never felt like she belonged anywhere or that she deserved anything good. She’d twist herself into knots, literal and figurative, to…
