Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love by Melody Beattie Page B
Authors: Melody Beattie
Tags: Self-Help, Personal Growth, Self-acceptance, Self-Esteem, North, Beattie, Melody - Journeys - Africa
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prefabricated, doled and rationed out to us in our youth, sometimes at the moment of birth, sometimes before we're born. So are many of our limitations—like not being able to ride a horse.
I was getting tired of presuming others had power and I had none.
I wondered how deep, and how ancient, my rage really was.
It had taken me many years to understand that I had power. It had taken me even longer to begin to understand Page 108
how to use it. Often I became confused about what power I had in any situation and what power I didn't have. When my son died, I felt so impotent that I forgot I had any power at all. When the doctor told me there was no hope, I swallowed my rage and bitterly accepted my powerlessness. There was nothing I could do.
I had set down my stick and walked away from it. I had forgotten I had a stick.
By now, back at the sandlot, the sun was almost ready to set. I told Essam I was tired. It had been a long day; I was ready to return to the hotel. He talked about things I could do the next time I visited.
"Usually the women do not mingle with the tourists," he said. "But they really like you. They asked that you come back for dinner or at least dessert. They want to see you again." He scanned my attire. I was wearing a dark sweat suit. ''I want to get you a dress,'' he said. "With your dark hair and dark skin, I could then take you into the village. People will think you are from here. There are many things for you to do," he said. "And soon you will be ready to go inside the pyramids and meditate.
Then you will get the special powers."
I felt excited, curious, and honored to meet the women. I didn't understand what Essam meant about "getting the special powers" from the pyramids. But as I sat on the bench outside Lotus Palace Perfumes remembering
Page 109
how I had felt riding that horse across the desert, I knew I had unearthed and resurrected my power.
A boy was riding a donkey around the sandlot. In his hand, he held a stick—a shorter model of the one I had seen the night before in the souk .
I told Essam I would be happy to do all the things he discussed. Then I pointed to the stick in the boy's hand.
"But I want one of those, too," I said, "to help me remember."
Essam smiled. He didn't say anything. I knew he understood. I finally understood, too. I didn't need to buy a stick. I already had one. Each of us does. All we need to do is pick it up and use it.
Scheherazade , the mythical heroine of the Arabian Nights, put her stick to good use . She lived in a land where the sultan — the king — had been deeply betrayed by his wife .( One day , the sultan had returned home unexpectedly from a journey and found his beloved cavorting with another .) To deal with his broken heart , he had had that wife beheaded . Then , to ensure that no woman would ever again betray him , he had mandated that each night he would take a new wife , a virgin . After sleeping with her one night , he would have her beheaded when she arose the next morning .
This had gone on for years . Mothers in the land were weeping , either in grief from losing their daughter or in fear that their female child would be next .
Scheherazade went to
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her father , a consult to the sultan . She asked her father to give her to the sultan so she could be the sultan ' s next wife . Her father recoiled in horror , but Scheherazade insisted . She said something must be done , and she was the one to do it .
She said she ha da plan .
For the next one thousand and one nights , Scheherazade enraptured the sultan with her storytelling skills . Each night , she told the sultan a portion of a story , taking it to its most engaging point . Then she would suddenly stop , asking the sultan for permission to continue the story the next day . The sultan of course agreed . Scheherazade ' s stories were marvelous tales about oppressed , middle class people who used their wills , wiles , artistic skills , and faith in Allah to fulfill
I was getting tired of presuming others had power and I had none.
I wondered how deep, and how ancient, my rage really was.
It had taken me many years to understand that I had power. It had taken me even longer to begin to understand Page 108
how to use it. Often I became confused about what power I had in any situation and what power I didn't have. When my son died, I felt so impotent that I forgot I had any power at all. When the doctor told me there was no hope, I swallowed my rage and bitterly accepted my powerlessness. There was nothing I could do.
I had set down my stick and walked away from it. I had forgotten I had a stick.
By now, back at the sandlot, the sun was almost ready to set. I told Essam I was tired. It had been a long day; I was ready to return to the hotel. He talked about things I could do the next time I visited.
"Usually the women do not mingle with the tourists," he said. "But they really like you. They asked that you come back for dinner or at least dessert. They want to see you again." He scanned my attire. I was wearing a dark sweat suit. ''I want to get you a dress,'' he said. "With your dark hair and dark skin, I could then take you into the village. People will think you are from here. There are many things for you to do," he said. "And soon you will be ready to go inside the pyramids and meditate.
Then you will get the special powers."
I felt excited, curious, and honored to meet the women. I didn't understand what Essam meant about "getting the special powers" from the pyramids. But as I sat on the bench outside Lotus Palace Perfumes remembering
Page 109
how I had felt riding that horse across the desert, I knew I had unearthed and resurrected my power.
A boy was riding a donkey around the sandlot. In his hand, he held a stick—a shorter model of the one I had seen the night before in the souk .
I told Essam I would be happy to do all the things he discussed. Then I pointed to the stick in the boy's hand.
"But I want one of those, too," I said, "to help me remember."
Essam smiled. He didn't say anything. I knew he understood. I finally understood, too. I didn't need to buy a stick. I already had one. Each of us does. All we need to do is pick it up and use it.
Scheherazade , the mythical heroine of the Arabian Nights, put her stick to good use . She lived in a land where the sultan — the king — had been deeply betrayed by his wife .( One day , the sultan had returned home unexpectedly from a journey and found his beloved cavorting with another .) To deal with his broken heart , he had had that wife beheaded . Then , to ensure that no woman would ever again betray him , he had mandated that each night he would take a new wife , a virgin . After sleeping with her one night , he would have her beheaded when she arose the next morning .
This had gone on for years . Mothers in the land were weeping , either in grief from losing their daughter or in fear that their female child would be next .
Scheherazade went to
Page 110
her father , a consult to the sultan . She asked her father to give her to the sultan so she could be the sultan ' s next wife . Her father recoiled in horror , but Scheherazade insisted . She said something must be done , and she was the one to do it .
She said she ha da plan .
For the next one thousand and one nights , Scheherazade enraptured the sultan with her storytelling skills . Each night , she told the sultan a portion of a story , taking it to its most engaging point . Then she would suddenly stop , asking the sultan for permission to continue the story the next day . The sultan of course agreed . Scheherazade ' s stories were marvelous tales about oppressed , middle class people who used their wills , wiles , artistic skills , and faith in Allah to fulfill
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