The trail and the error

Do you call yourself names? I do. All the time. Names I inwardly believe are true. And names I know are not. I call the person who stares back at me in the mirror names because it gives me a relief. I call myself names in company because I feel by saying it for them I will save myself the embarrassment of having to hear it (or think it) and them the trouble. Being a control freak, like all those people who call themselves names, it’s sort of a defense mechanism for me. A taking power back kind of thing. A way to tackle the unknown in an attempt to make sure you know where you stand. Like those gay men who look for HIV+ guys to affect them so they can sleep around as they please afterwards. An adventurousness that has nothing to do with neither adventure nor courage. And I guess sometimes because I, unconsciously, am digging for a compliment. For compliment me they do. They laugh nervously at first and, as if to make up for it, they indignantly come to my rescue by bravely defending me from me. They tell me I wasn’t even almost what I think I am and that I need to have my head examined. They continue by listing my pros, compare them with those people who don’t have half those pros but are less self-judgmental & tell me I should see myself the way others see me. Ethiopians are adorable that way! 🙂

One of these adorable Ethiopians is my sister Blen. She calls herself names too. But feels she, atleast, is justified. But she has high opinions of her fellow self-hater elder sis, even when her elder sis is acting like a pig (correctly labeling, this time). She says if I didn’t hate myself so much, I’d see how good I have it. That if she was in my place, she’d have been happy as Larry (who, I have a feeling, is a fellow with a mouth full of teeth).

So it proved the other day. I was walking to Arat Kilo via HabteGiogis Dildiy with my little sister when I saw somebody making faces at me. “Siyastella!” I commented brusquely, no doubt looking it too.

Blen paused, both her feet and thought

“What exactly is your problem?” she asked, as she always do when she hears me cursing Angelina Jolie in a way that would have made Jennifer Aniston uncomfortable “Why won’t you just go your way and stop looking at people?”

“He is looking at me” I protested embarrassed at being admonished by a younger kin

“So?” She demanded “Do you have to call him names?”

“Why not?” I asked defensively “People call me names all the time. So I call them names to comfort myself. It’s a two way street ”

“How do you know they’re calling you names?” she asked looking surprised.

“I’d call me names if I were them, that’s how I know”

My 20 years old kin sighed “That explains it” she said.

If I hadn’t witnessed how wild a name-caller’s impression of self can be a few days ago, I’d laughed and that would be the end of the conversation.