I am constantly, actively trying to be a better person. Better than what I revile, better than I’ve been, better than I am. It is an active and constant effort that I put forth every day.

Let me clarify: I am not saying that I am a good person. I am not. I know this. I am acutely aware of this, which is why I can say with genuine earnest that I am constantly, actively trying to be a better person.

I have misogynistic thoughts. They form in my brain, and I am the only one driving that thing, so I know they are mine. A part of me thinks these things, and then this active agent in my conscience recognizes them as wrong and shuts them down. I do not act on them, I do not own them, and I do not give them any credence. I eliminate them as soon as they form like an antibody taking out a virus.

I have racist thoughts. Classist thoughts. Elitist thoughts. Unconscious biases. Snap judgements. Thoughts of self-harm. Frequent, frequent thoughts of self-harm. There are things that appear in my head that I wish didn’t. Things that I wish I didn’t have to admit come from me. But they do, and I have to be brave enough to recognize that they are so that I can actively fight them, erase them, and reprogram that part of my head where they found life until they won’t anymore.

It is a constant, active effort that I put forth every day.

This active compassion has me taking stock of my expectations of others, as I would hope they would of me. We’re all struggling, particularly in this current version of existence. The year may have turned but the time has not. We’re still ostracized, fearful, angry, and fitful. 2020 has affected each of us differently, but it has undoubtedly affected each of us. As such, I try not to view others’ actions through the lens of my own experience. Some thrust themselves at their support circle, some minimize their presence, some disappear entirely. No one course is irrefutably right or wrong. We’re all doing our best.

So when a dear friend disappears from me entirely, I have to respect that they’re probably taking time to themselves, or their situation has changed to the point that they can’t be avaiable to me, or any other reason they’re distant that has nothing to do with me.

“It’s not always about me,” I tell myself.

“But what if it is?” I ask myself.

I think I may have been cancelled. I don’t know why. This raises a lot of questions, both about me and about my view of the interloper and the affected. First, as always, there is me.

What did I do? Or not do? I’ve combed through my social media output over the past year with a critical eye on what I may have said or admitted to or remained silent and therefor complicit towards. I am questioning every sentence I’ve ever uttered, every thought I’ve ever heard, every little thing that could have caused another discomfort or to feel marginalized in any way.

If you asked me if an accuser owes their attacker an explanation as to why they’re being punished or ostracized, I would shout “absolutely not!” If what makes you safe is removing yourself from the situation, do so and do so immediately. You don’t owe anyone an explanation; why even put yourself through that? Why assign words to their wrongdoing? Just cut ties and walk away. Cleanse yourself of it all. I support you.

But now I feel like I’m the attacker, and of course I want a fucking explanation. I want to be a better person, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. The truth is, as much as I want to be a compassionate and considerate citizen of the world, I know in my heart that I am unpure and broken. As such, I am aware that I may be fucking up without being aware of it, because I know that I am not perfect and haven’t eyes to see or cognizance to know what is empirically right and wrong. I am not perfect, and would never be arrogant enough to assume that I know how to be. Therefor, I need to be told when I am wrong.

This of course is in direct conflict with my belief that the injured are obligated to any dialogue with their attackers. So, what now do I do with my injuries? Have I been cancelled?

Or is this, like most of the mechanics of the world I inhabit, not about me at all? Am I just viewing this through the lens of my own experience? It’s difficult not to when the only set of eyes I have are mine, and clouded by Depression and feelings of worthlessness. As a major depressive, I am almost always consumed by guilt that I’m doing everything wrong, so when I’m called out for such (or not called out, only punished) it stings that much deeper.

“I did not mean to treat you oh so bad, oh but I did it anyway.”