megan collins

Not better or worse, just different

Lately, I can’t seem to have a conversation - whether it be with another person, or just hanging out in my own head, where I don’t utter the phrase, “It’s not better or worse, just different.”

This statement is put forward with varying degrees of certitude, depending on the situation under discussion and my present state of mind. It applies, it seems, to nearly everything in my life. About what I have to say about guys’ clothes versus what others have to say. About my shiny-but-fine hair in comparison to another’s dull-but-voluminous mop. About what I do. About where I live. About how I live. Can’t stop won’t stop judging judging judging.

But let me be clear - most of the time the focus of my withering stare is, well, me. When I’m arguing for different, and not better or worse, it’s usually because I’ve set about judging the way I do something. Because my blog recommends clothes that come from the Gap while others talk about clothes that cost as much as a Gap’s monthly rent. Because I freelance while others hold down secure jobs, enjoying perks like benefits and the pride that comes in not being paid by the hour. Because I’m still looking for someone to put up with me.

Other times, sure, I’m just playing Judgy McJudgerson. I have to tell myself it’s not better or worse, just different, when a potential suitor dresses funny, or when a co-worker doesn’t know all of the Republican presidential candidates. When I bust out a headstand in yoga and my mat-mate just toppled over in tree pose.

It’s a difficult thing to remove judgment, whichever direction it wants to spit its unproductive hatred. To abandon comparisons. Difficult enough that I’m not able to do it most of the time. And when I can logically convince myself that apples are not to be held up against oranges, or even Gala with Granny Smith because they’re still different some are meant for baking and some are meant for eating!, I find a small voice peeping, “but really, Galas are obviously better.” “Really, other people write better than you.” “Really, you can’t get along with someone who wears clothes like that.” Really really really.

I’m jealous of people who have moved past the insecurities instilled in high school, when one’s self worth was fluid - dependent on who’s sitting next to you in homeroom or how your hair looks that day. Of those who don’t feel the compulsive need to whip out one’s internal yardstick to measure…everything. I’m doing better than this person at this, but not as well as this other person at that. Maybe, horrors of horrors, I’ll never get past these feelings, but at least I’m fighting against them with earnest mantras of acceptance. As they say, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem! So the fact that I’ve become so acutely aware of how I see things, but also that I don’t want to see them that way anymore has to be a step towards progress. Right? Right? Just tell me I’m doing okay, and maybe I’ll start to believe it.