Self-censorship

The self-censorship of knowing you have more than you deserve,
so much more than others,
and it was earned by your parents,
so you can't lay claim to it.

The self-censorship of knowing you don't do your best,
although you have been given more intelligence than others.

The self-censorship of having a retarded sister,
knowing that you have so much more to be thankful for,
and that she doesn't know any better.

This kind of self-censorship can turn into self-loathing.
It can corrode you from the inside,
filling your soul with self-doubt.

Being raised by a father who was himself rooted
in the old "spare the rod and spoil the child" philosophy
and by a mother whose own father was gentle, kind and learned
so that she couldn't intervene,
because she believed that a father only punished out of love,
and back then a wife didn't question her husband.

Learned to be compliant,
learned to appear happy,
learned to hide anger,
learned to conceal true emotions.

Learned those lessons so well
that one's true emotions are hidden
even from one's own introspection.

Those circuits activate so easily
even now.

The lessons of childhood
are not lost.

The lessons of self-censorship
learned so young
so shape a life
that it takes
conscious effort
even
today
to
know
one's
self.

But there is always another side.

One learns how to fit in easily,
one learns how not to anger others,
one learns how to empathize
with those less fortunate.

One can easily hide.

One learns to sublimate one's emotions.

One learns to utilize other paths,
such as musical expression.
One becomes adept at channeling powerful forces
through one's fingers
instead of out one's mouth
or through one's fists.

One fits in well with society.

One becomes adept at introspection,
the only path to self-understanding.

One puts one's intellect to work
and discovers it can be a powerful tool
for expression
through writing.

And so one might ask oneself,
"What's so bad that turns out good?"
or "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

But these glib expressions mask the depth of pain
that still throb
just under the surface
of consciousness.

The conundrum is this:
When does self-introspection
become wallowing?
When does understanding
become self-pity?

This is one of those odd pieces
with which I struggle to assemble
into the puzzle
that
I
am.