it is never good enough to praise myself for it.

More than that, you are downright self-deprecating by default.

I have not lived the life I have wanted, or even one that I can be content with. It has not been the journey I had imagined, intended, or even close to what I desired.

I'm very curious as to what that would have been. Could still be.

But that narrative is always a lie, never the truth. There is nothing objective in it, only perspective.

This is something I ponder more often as I age, as the demands of life wane and I have more time to ponder. What was the true story? Is there one? Each person involved in an event sees that event differently, through their own distortive lenses. Perhaps the trick is to not worry so much about whether anything was true, or what effect it may have had, but to try to identify one's tendencies, one's defaults, and skew perspective away from that. For instance, I am very quick to think I am not viewed favorably in groups of women. I approach those groups with trepidation and self-censorship, so that I am not myself, exacerbating the problem. Self-fulfilling, like a prophecy. Was it something my mother did to me? Her friends? My sisters or cousins or aunts? Was it a condition my mother herself suffered from? I actually do think it was the last.

Because while I created it, I don't think much of it is actually mine.

Oh, it's all yours. Give it away. Burn it. Bury it. You are fabulous, truly.