Internal Affairs

Meeting Myself

I gathered my fragmented selves around a table, each part of me taking a seat while their ghostly critics hovered ominously behind. This wasn’t just an ordinary meeting; it was a reckoning. Across from me stood the embodiment of my highest potential: my healthy, wealthy, sensual, and successful self. She radiated an aura of calm confidence, as if she knew exactly what I was capable of becoming. She was perfect—a dream I could hardly believe belonged to me. Yet there she was, a reflection of all I could be, waiting to see how I would handle this inner chaos and prove myself worthy of blending with her.

I could see her in vivid detail, the life she led shimmering just out of reach. She moved with grace, spoke with purpose, and lived unapologetically. Watching her filled me with awe but also a pang of sadness. She was a reminder of who I already was, buried beneath layers of pain and self-doubt, overshadowed by unresolved fears and fragmented parts. To become her would mean facing everything within me that stood in the way.

The first part to step forward was Beggy. She was big—both physically and emotionally. A gentle giant with a presence that commanded attention, yet she was profoundly insecure. Beggy carried a weight of shame and self-doubt, a fear that seemed to tether her every move. It was a cruel irony; she was intelligent, creative, and immensely talented. Beggy knew this about herself, too, which made her inner struggle even more heartbreaking. Her knowledge of her own worth should have made her soar, yet it kept her grounded, afraid to stand out. In conversations, she would retreat, her words wrapped in nervous laughter, her eyes darting away. She never dared to criticize others, even when she knew she was right. She couldn’t stand up for herself, and she avoided challenges at all costs if there was any chance that those she loved might see her fail or, worse, judge her.

Beggy’s fears had roots, deep and tangled in the soil of my past. Her paralysis was not born of thin air; it was nurtured in the cold, harsh environment of my upbringing. The specter standing behind Beggy was my father—stern, unyielding, and merciless. He was the source of her greatest wounds. He ruled with a heavy hand and a sharp tongue, punishing any perceived misstep. I remember the sting of his words, the force of his blows, the look in his eyes when he told me I was a liar, unstable, just like my mother—his scapegoat.

He never listened, not really. Whenever I spoke, he would cut me off, dismissing my ideas with a wave of his hand and a barrage of curses. To him, my thoughts were nonsense, unworthy of consideration. His words were blades, slashing at any hope of self-assurance I might have had. My father always thought he was right, and there was no space for me to disagree, no space to be anything other than what he dictated. As a child, I was too scared to stand up to him. Fear rooted me to the ground, my voice caught in my throat.

The fear lingered. It settled into my bones and manifested as Beggy—the timid part of me that cowered even when the threat had long since passed. Her ghostly critic was relentless, whispering reminders of all the times I had been silenced, of all the times I had been punished for daring to be myself. Beggy’s shame wasn’t just about insecurity; it was about survival. She had learned to shrink, to avoid drawing attention, to laugh nervously and keep the peace, because standing out meant danger. It was how she protected me.

I sat with Beggy for a moment, feeling the weight of her pain. I could sense her reluctance to speak, her fear that opening up would bring judgment or rejection. But I needed to hear her story. I needed to understand her if I was to heal and bring her into alignment with my higher self.

I didn’t speak gently to Beggy; my voice was edged with nerves, mirroring the turmoil I felt inside. Each word seemed to strike a hidden chord within me, resonating painfully. As I tried to reach her, I realized that every attempt to connect stirred up old wounds, triggering memories I had tried desperately to bury. I couldn’t help but wince with every new revelation, feeling the ache of our shared pain. And Beggy could sense it, too. She looked at me, and for a brief moment, her eyes widened with the realization that her suffering wasn’t just hers; it was mine as well. It was killing me from the inside out.

The ideal version of myself—the vision I aspired to be—stood behind me, but even she was faltering. Every time Beggy’s fear bubbled to the surface, I could see the ideal self’s strength dim, her presence flickering. She wasn’t immune to this turmoil either. Fear filled her eyes, a reflection of what I carried within me. I felt the weight of it all—realizing that healing wouldn’t be as simple as silencing Beggy’s ghostly critic or ignoring the past. I couldn’t erase the trauma, couldn’t magically quiet the voice that echoed every cruel word spoken to me. I was as lost as she was because she is me.

“I don’t have the answers,” I admitted, my voice raw and honest. “I can’t undo what was done. I can’t make him go away or silence every cruel thing he’s said. I can’t forget the fear or wipe away the memories.” My words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. “But you know what? I’ve realized something. None of it has to matter anymore. His words don’t define me. Being afraid doesn’t make me weak. I’m tired of trying to meet his impossible standards, of letting his voice tell me I’m not good enough.”

Beggy’s eyes searched mine, hesitant but desperate to believe in a different reality. “But…what if I fail?” she whispered.

“Then we fail,” I said. “But at least we’ll fail as ourselves, not as the version he tried to force us to be. I don’t want to be perfect. I don’t want to listen to his voice in my head anymore, telling me I have to be. I’m done with it. I’m done being afraid of being less than perfect because I know, deep down, that I don’t need to be.”

Beggy nodded slowly, the smallest glimmer of hope lighting up her face. It wasn’t a grand transformation. She was still burdened by fear, and the critic still lingered behind her. But for the first time, she seemed a little less weighed down, a little less alone. I felt a shift within myself, too—subtle but powerful. I wasn’t there to fix everything in one sitting; I couldn’t. But I was there to walk alongside her, to confront our fears together, and to start rejecting the impossible demands that had shaped us for so long.

The ideal self behind me stood a little taller now, too. She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t untouchable. But she was real, and she was willing to fight for us, all of us, no matter how broken or afraid we were. This was just the beginning, but it was enough. We were enough, imperfections and all. And that realization felt like the first true breath of freedom I had taken in a long, long time.

"Playing Uno shouldn’t be terrifying," I told Beggy, frustration edging my voice. "It’s just a game—a chance to laugh, to connect. It’s not supposed to feel like a threat. Why can’t you take a challenge like this without fear?"

I could see her withdrawing, her defenses rising. She was slipping away from me, and I knew I had touched a nerve. She was triggered, deeply. Beggy hated any challenge that involved facing others. The idea of losing—of being seen as less, of being judged—was unbearable to her.

"Where does this come from?" I pressed gently, though I already knew the answer. "You’re not afraid of taking on challenges when it comes to studying, working, or striving toward something bigger. You put in the hours, you give it everything. But when it’s something as simple as a silly game, you freeze. It hurts you to lose, doesn’t it? Even when it doesn’t matter."

I waited, hoping she’d let herself be seen, hoping she’d understand that I wasn’t judging her—that I wanted to help. But the fear in her eyes told me everything. She was still trapped in that place, where every misstep felt like a catastrophe, every loss a confirmation of unworthiness.