If you'd like to cut to the core of my insecurities, the best thing you could do, I'm guessing, is call me inconsiderate. It'd be so successful because I know that, in the darkest places of me, I really, really am. One of my best friends, without maybe even intending to, called me out on it just yesterday.
Without getting into the finer details of the whole thing, I found myself thinking about it for the rest of the day and even now into the next morning.
Because he's right. And I'm glad he's a good enough friend to tell me.
I know I'm not a perfect person and I surely don't need daily reminders of the fact – I need to be able to get out of bed, after all – but if I'm doing something to hurt someone I care about, I should know.
There was a stretch of time where I wondered if I could have real friendships with people again, the kind where people can tell me if I'm being a jerk. And knowing me, I'm going to be a jerk now and again.
But it doesn't seem like I have to wonder anymore.