I have a confession to make.
I know some of you will be shocked, and others will just sit silent in stunned disbelief, but I must unburden myself of this terrible secret. I must confess.
I don't like bell peppers.
There, I said it. I don't like bell peppers.
I never have. For most of my life, I believed that there was something inherently wrong in this. This may trace back to a conversation I had with an older relative, back when I was bout 7 or 8.
"I don't like bell peppers," I said.
"You don't like bell peppers?!?!" this older relative exclaimed, staring at me in horror as if I'd suddenly grown a second head or sprouted a third eye.
"What's wrong with you????"
After that, I began to take notice. It seemed to me that everyone else liked bell peppers. At least, everyone in my family did. Everyone but me. My mother even remarked, "I can't believe you don't like bell peppers."
For years, I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn't like bell peppers. I was ashamed. Embarrassed to admit that I didn't like bell peppers. I even went so far as to tell people that I was allergic to bell peppers, so I wouldn't have to admit the humiliating fact that I was defective. So that I wouldn't have to risk hearing the inevitable question, "What's wrong with you?"
Because I didn't like bell peppers.
It wasn't until I was well into my 30s that I finally was able to admit out loud to a living person that I didn't like bell peppers. For the first time since that verbal slap I received when I was a child, I actually stated out loud that I didn't like bell peppers.
And you know what? There was no shock. There was no horror. There was just acceptance. It was OK.
And I began to think that maybe there wasn't something wrong with me. That I'm not somehow defective because I don't like bell peppers.
And I found the most wonderful freedom.
So, here I am to say it again. I don't like bell peppers.
And you know what? There's nothing wrong with that.