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  • Terri

I Made You Who You Are.

A letter from the Universe.

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

You curse me for all the things I’ve done to you. 

You shout at me and ask me why, you scream about all the things that went wrong, and you blame me. And when you succeed you praise yourself, you say you did it without me.  Worse, you say you did it despite me. You keep telling the world I took all your joy away, and whatever you gained back, you did it at your own will, with your own power. 

You’re half right. I did hurt you. 

I brought you down in a whirlpool of misery, I made you ruin your karma, I made you bow down under the weight of your conscious. I forced you to make mistakes, and spiral into a situation where you’d lose everything, to coat you with despair.  I had to, it was the only way to make you mad enough to go after your dreams. Mad enough to finally let go of the rules of right and wrong that you held on too tightly, and finally go after what you keep saying you want. 

I made you skittish enough for love to finally retreat into the arms of the right person, I dragged you through the mud to make you swear an oath that you’d never sink that low again.

Photo by Gage Walker on Unsplash

And I know what you’re thinking: there must have been a better way.  If I had given you the childhood you needed, you’d be confident enough to succeed from the start. But that was never going to happen. If you were born with a different start, you wouldn’t be you. 

If your parents, the ones who tore you apart, had been different, they wouldn’t be the parents you had. And the parents that would have been, would have had a brat that never tasted the mud. They would be too ignorant to understand the world the way you do now, never determined enough to follow your dream, the dream they wouldn’t even have. You look up at me with narrowed eyes, gritted teeth and balled fists, swearing between your lips that whatever happens next better be worth everything you’ve been through. You’ve become terrified to settle, scared that you’ll accept less of what you think you deserve, solely as a way to give up. You rather die trying to go beyond.  With your middle fingers up, you dance through the storm you once feared to be undefeatable. The ice cold daggers no longer bother you. While life made you feel like a salmon struggling to swim up stream, you’re now ascending with ease and you barely notice it.  With your hands up conquering the storm you scream your victory cry, you praise yourself, undeniably confident. You look at all you’ve been through and you feel stronger than ever to have survived it. You say you came out the other end as the victorious protagonist, and I the antagonist. Yet, I am the one who made you strong. But, keep telling yourself you made yourself strong, that was the plan anyway.

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