A Good Legacy

Epiphany this morning that felt like an exhale after being held under water...

I heard the statement, “Some people are chasing a good time, but not a good legacy.”

It physically hit me. No matter how insanely happy and safe this new life makes me, my old life scarred me. I carry that scar tissue everyday, and it makes those cuts harder to heal — even if they no longer hurt. (Grateful for a human that navigates this and understands it by the way).

This line found its way into a tiny, wormhole in my heart though.

The epiphany: I was not always a “good time” because I forced him to realize the parts of himself that weren’t up to standard. While I was and am easy to get along with because I don’t fight or argue — I DO shut down and turn off. I was an easy target because my silence was perceived as permission. Each time I went quiet, tiny chips of me flaked off, and if you’re similar, you know this means that eventually too many flakes fall and you are left with no more chances to give.

I wasn’t a “good time” because my entire essence became a mirror of everything he was not. I reflected back to him all the ways he didn’t measure up, all the ways he fell short. I was not the “good time” because despite my silent tendencies, I expected (and eventually demanded) more than he could give. A mirror that shows you all your flaws is eventually a mirror you stop glancing into. You find a new mirror.

I WAS (or would have been) the “good legacy” though — the investment. I was never going to fill that void of the “good time” he needed because I would consistently have been the reminder of all the ways HE fell short. It was not my own flaws or faults, but rather my light shining a spotlight on his. By nature, he always searched for the quick buck, the instant gratification, the funhouse mirror that showed the pleasing reflection. But I was the slow-growing bank account, the long burning candle, the department store dressing room mirror that shows every flaw.

It wasn’t my flaws. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t that I am so messy and hard to love. It was that I unintentionally forced him to glare into a mirror that showed him everything he hated. He could have used that as a benefit and chosen to fix the reflection, but instead he chose a blurrier mirror in a dimly lit room that will only show the pieces he wants it to.

It wasn’t me. My mirror isn’t broken.