No, you really aren't the nicest person you know.

 

One thing that a young child I was blessed with was self-consciousness, and too much of it at that.  Growing up I felt awkward, uncoordinated, and ugly.  I had no use for sport because my biggest competition was myself, and we both hated losing.  And contrary to every camp counselor and gym teacher, "Athletics" did not imbue me with confidence.  It made me a target, and I held the honor of last chosen for every school year I was at Mercer of Byron Junior High.  Moreover, whether a twist of fate or not, I was always chosen for the skins team, which made the public humiliation all the more painful. 

My desire to be liked and accepted was always ground out like a cigarette butt by junior high gym teachers who were better suited to a U.S. Marines Training Center than an upper-income Junior High.  

Bullies picked up on that, and to show everyone what a waste of human flesh. I was shoved downstairs, had my locker trashed, and was I was put down, not only by some of the other boys but some of the better-looking boys.  As the years went by they were in my mind as I spent my first years in the gay dating world. In my eyes, I was good enough to use for sex, but nothing more. 

One of my worst tormentors however was a girl.  A short, mean one named "Bertha".  Imbued with a shock of hair that looked more like a broom, Bertha's master art wasn't physical abuse, it was verbal abuse.  And she worked with it like Vermeer worked in oils.  I endured it for two years. A pint-sized harridan, Bertha's words cut like a hot knife through my cold lonely soul.  The only time she was nice was when she wanted something - like to be the star of a photography project or help on a history test. 

We left Shaker for a more sane life when I was 14, mostly because my mother was certain that if another year happened like eighth grade, I was certain to kill myself, and most likely I would have.  In our new town, a new school system, I found friends.  Out of the 400+ high school students, subtract out about 20, and we all got along.  I was never manhandled, bullied, or abused.  High school was pure bliss. 

At the last Shaker reunion, I went to, a long time friend said that I should forgive Bertha for all the anger I held towards her.  "She's grown."  So said friend maneuvered me into Bertha's orbit, and Bertha instead of hello, treated me with a "Cookie? What are you doing here?"

In talking with Bertha, before I could forgive her, I mentioned that it was would nice to get along and start over.  Bette who was headed toward a table of her friends from school - Deb, Debbie, D'bora, Deebs, Dee, Deedee, and Angela - stopped, and looked at me and said the following:

"It was your fault we didn't get along.  If you thought I was the problem, well, you need help. Why I'm the nicest person I know."

And with that, she walked to her table. 

The table filled with her friends that she just threw under the bus.  

The same friends that she just claimed she was better than. That's what you are saying when one says "I am the nicest person I know."  It says that they are better than everyone else, and it says they don't give a damn about anything but them.

What I learned very fast is that you can't forgive a bully unless the bully asks for it.  And unless they ask for it, that's who they are - accept that move on. 

But I walked away having great admiration for Bertha's friends.  She uses them and they are there for her, oblivious to the fact that she uses them. I mean, it takes a whole lot of ignorance or patience to be friends with the Bertha's of the world, because, after all, she is the nicest person anyone, including her friends - who are something far below Bertha's wonderfulness, will ever meet.  

Of course, one day, Bertha just might wake up and realize it.  

But my sense she won't.  

Said another friend from school who had been burned by Bertha one too many times in high school, "Self-awareness was never her strong suit."