Would You Dare To Become The Villain Of Your Story?
That was the question I asked myself. Would you dare to cast yourself in a less flattering light through your narratives?
Hesitantly, I accepted the challenge.
I drew inspiration from the recent posts of two talented writers I follow (“The Villain in my Story” and “I’m Jealous of My Sister’s Friends” . Ruby Noir and Shanti C K, thank you both for the inspiration.
The reality is that our stories will always show only our side of the tale.
Perhaps we haven’t always been the victims, or more than likely, we have all been villains in someone else’s story. I can confidently say that I haven’t been the easiest to digest.
It’s time to accept it. I haven’t always had the fairest and wisest reasons to explain my behavior or decisions. I must admit that I have been motivated by purely selfish feelings, guided by resentment and unconsciousness.
I try to move away from there, to evolve towards my better self by recognizing who I have been in the past, whom I have hurt, and even more so, acknowledging it and talking about it.
Because… should we only tell the stories that make us look good? Wouldn’t that be equivalent to always posting photos from our best angle or even with Photoshop? What if we dared to tell the stories that don’t make us look so good?
We are human, and we have made mistakes. We are probably making mistakes right now, and we will surely make mistakes again. We will contradict ourselves, change our minds, and that’s life — that’s who we are. But along the way, we try to be our best version.
So here it goes…
I was 10 years old when my parents divorced. I lived with my mom by then. In the early years after the separation, I received weekly visits from my dad. We went on outings, to the park, talked a lot — he listened to me. He never made me feel like a child; he was interested in my opinions and encouraged me.
Many things changed after the separation. My mom went from being a stay-at-home mom to one who had to go out to work. Now, money was a point of contention, and expenses were hardly covered. Nothing was like before.
I found out my dad would be a father again when I was 12. I still hadn’t accepted my parents’ separation. Somewhere inside me, I perhaps held onto the hope of reconciliation, of having the family we were before.
The news didn’t sit well with me; something in me said there was no turning back, this time the separation would be final. And so it was.
She was born, and gradually, my dad’s visits became less frequent — from weekly to every 15 days, then every month. He broke his promises, and it became rarer to have his company.
Even though she’s not to blame.
While she was growing up, being cute and funny like a typical adorable child, I was grappling with difficult adolescence, completely ignored and neglected.
Even though she’s not to blame.
When she finished school and had no idea what to do with her life, I had already built my own life by my own means.
Even though she’s not to blame.
While she demanded money from my dad to fund her tenth venture and used him as a chauffeur, I was already an independent woman.
And, even though she’s not to blame, she had all the support I needed and wished to have as I navigated through life.
She had the dad I had lost.
I try to convince myself that she’s not to blame, repeating it to myself over and over in a desperate attempt to be a better person, to be reasonable. But the wounds remain open; I still can’t heal. I am still guided by jealousy, envy, and a sense of injustice.
Even though she’s not to blame, I will always consider her as my dad’s daughter.
Now, would you dare to become the villain of your story?
Let me know if you do it.
