The ego is a bit of a bitch. At least mine is. My ego acts like a scared little boy in a big scary universe: monsters under every bed, boogeymen at every window, and evil monkeys in every closet. Everybody is out to get my ego, to hurt it, embarrass it, or even kill it. Yet, at the same time, my ego is a poser, acting tough, suave, and powerful, trying to assert its place in the world. My ego plays the bad boy around women, the know-it-all at the office, and the tough guy around other men. What a little bitch, my ego is.
I say it’s “my ego” for a reason. It’s not me. It’s merely a possession. It’s an object. It’s a thing. In fact, it’s not even a real thing, just something I created over my 34 years. Sure, sometimes I forget it’s just a thing, not really me. On any given day, my ego may be calling the shots most of my waking hours: reacting, projecting, whining, fearing, judging, pretending, lying, rationalizing, and so forth. None-the-less, I am not my ego. Hell, I don’t even like my ego. If I ever met my ego in a bar, I’d probably leave.
My ego clouds my authentic self. I don’t want that possession in my life anymore. As I am aware, moment to moment, I can choose to let go of the ego and be authentic. I can acknowledge my true feelings, express my true personality, and move toward my true potential. In the words of David Deida, I can exercise my “heart-commitment to discovering and living [my] deepest truth.” I can “make [my] life an ongoing process of being who [I am], at [my] deepest, most easeful levels of being.”
