The Real Deal

by Melanie Feeney

I always believed that I practiced self-acceptance. Well, for much of my adult life anyway. I thought that liking who you are, and where you are going in life was what it was all about. What I didn't realize was that much of who I was I had based on other people's expectations of who I should be.

In the winter of 2003-2004, as my marriage crumbled and I started to rebuild my life, I questioned the decisions that had brought me to this point and the expectations I had for the future. As I sifted and sorted through the memories and key moments in life that seemed to define me, I looked at myself, my actions, and the influence of others.

In the sorting, I came to the conclusion that I have a very polite exterior. I do my best not to be cranky toward others; I try to join in when groups get together; I am social. However, sometimes I do not really feel sociable--I just make myself engage in small-talk or whatever polite niceties seem appropriate at the time. There's a little cheerleader on my shoulder demanding that I put on a happy face and be nice.

Nice. I am a nice girl. As a child I ate my vegetables because I was tired of hearing my mother complain about my two brothers not eating theirs. I shook hands with adults, wore the party dress picked out by my mother, and did all my homework before watching television. I left college and got good steady jobs even though I longed to write but didn't dare, because artists are not reliable and I needed a good steady job. I talk to the loners at parties instead of my friends because it's not polite to leave people out, even if it means I don't always have a good time at parties.

I wasn't always so nice. When I was younger I was exuberant, perhaps a little boisterous. I blew out the candles on my cousin's birthday cake when I was three, not because I wanted to hurt her feelings, but because it was fun. It never entered my mind that it was a naughty thing to do. A few more incidents like that--just me being myself, in school and at home--and I was told in more ways than one that being me was not quite what was expected. It was okay every now and then, but day-to-day, could I please pipe down, behave, get in line and not cause trouble.

I became a Stepford-child. I was well-behaved. I was a good girl, a nice girl. I didn't shine (because nice girls don't shine, they are just nice), and I watched the less well-behaved girls be daring, and do things I wanted, longed, to do. The adventurous streak had been well and truly squashed in me. I never questioned that I had a choice in all of this. I assumed that at some point we all have to toe the line. Only in finally looking at others, including members of my own family, did I realize that I had, and have, a choice.

Now I am an adult and have the opportunity to wipe the slate clean. There are certain vegetables I don't like, so I don't eat them. I'm learning to have fun, be boisterous, and spend time at a party with my friends instead of trying to reach out to everyone else at the expense of my own evening.

For much of my adult life I based my idea of self-acceptance on what others thought of me without even realizing it. I have cajoled my inner five-year-old into behaving herself and prevented my inner ten-year-old from inventing new games. I have suffocated my inner fifteen-year-old's adventurous soul. My polite exterior is now starting to give way to these more exuberant and fun-loving versions of me. I am less willing to suppress my crankiness, or my silliness. I don't really care whether people "get" me, and I have no interest in having my job define who I am no matter how much other people might think it does. I have come to the conclusion that we get embarrassed by our own silliness, not because we ourselves think it silly, but because others do. What others think of us then becomes a powerful paradigm that dictates how we perceive ourselves.

I know now that self-acceptance does not mean liking the nice, polite exterior and polishing that exterior to make it even nicer. Self-acceptance lies in embracing, and even liking the crankiness, the grumpiness, the silliness, and the boisterous, exuberant inner me that is struggling to break free. A radical form of self-acceptance comes in allowing that part of me a voice for the first time since I was about seven years old. I'm sure others will be shocked--especially as they are so used to me being the nice girl. I, on the other hand, am looking forward to welcoming back that part of me who blows out the birthday candles because it is one of the most fun things to do!

The Author

Melanie Feeney is a writer, massage therapist and yoga enthusiast currently living in Utah. Her weblog can be found at healingpath.typepad.com/melanie.