I Don’t Care *Cries* I Really Don’t

I commented on someones poem earlier on this very topic and my brain was like “Expand it you son of a *****” Obviously I can’t say curse words, I try to make this a family blog some days. Other days I could give a shit….well crap….

Why is it that insults make such a bigger impression on us than compliments do? This is one of life’s great mysteries, if you type it into google it’ll say *Other people who have searched this have also searched: Where do we go when we die? What is the meaning of life? and If I meow at my cat will they understand me?*

I have had a wide range of compliments in my twenty one years of living, 99.9% of them from my mother (Love you mom). I have also had a variety of insults thrown my way, 99.9% given to me by my sisters….moving on….

As much as those compliments made me smile and made my day even brighter, they hardly made a lasting impression. I can’t go back into a file room and pull out May 26th, 2013 and be like “Oh yea I remember that compliment.” and then smile about it again. Those compliments are thrown our way and for some reason we become rubber, it hits us and makes that little impression we look down and see and go *That feels nice* and boing it bounces off into the sunset.

Insults though, are like a piece of gum that life puts in your hair in first grade thinking it’ll be funny. When you start freaking out though life pretends to try and take it out but rather smooches it even further into your beautiful locks. I mean yea you could shave your head, but that’s showing people you actually give a damn there’s gum in your hair. Best bet is to sit alone and cry whilst looking at picture of you without the gum and thinking “Those were the good old days”

I remember many of the insults I have been given in the past, and those wounds they last and they last. Thank you Taylor Swift.

Honestly though they leave a scar on you rather than the quickly fading impression. Best comparison is a compliments is like leaving your arm pressed against something and then taking it away and seeing the indents, I mean they’re there, you can see them, but they just fade and quickly become memory. Where as an insult is like walking down the street and randomly someone comes up and stabs you and whispers in your ear “You’re an ass.” You fall to the ground dying but the whole time your thinking “I’m not an ass.”

I mean we focus on these, we focus on the negative rather than the positive. Optimist, pessimist, or realist, it doesn’t matter because we all react a similar way towards them all. How do you beat them though, they are going to hurt, we’ve established that ground. It doesn’t mean they have to be a killing blow to your soul, you don’t have to walk around as a shell of who you once were because Bethany thought that shirt made you look fat. Bethany you bitch….

All you can do is accept it, I mean we all have our own problems and we have all probably thrown out our own insults as well. We aren’t perfect, and as you accept that the insults begin to heal in a sense. Even though they will always probably be there doesn’t mean they have to effect you. Moving on is the best possible answer.

3 thoughts on “I Don’t Care *Cries* I Really Don’t

  1. Consider this: when we do something well and we get a compliment we’re able to move on knowing we’ve accomplished something. When we get an insult it makes us think (no matter how unfounded the insult) that there’s something about ourselves–or our work–we need to work on. How this helps in a practical way is only in knowing that if we’re completely confident in the way we do things, then an insult won’t bother us. Or if we at least feel we’ve done the very best we can. As you say, nobody’s perfect.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s