When Love Is Abuse

A woman friend of mine has a handbag with the words “I wish I had the self confidence of a mediocre white man” stencilled on it. When I saw the caption, I laughed and then I realized that I can identify with that statement. I can identify because in so many ways I feel the exactly the same way.

My lack of self esteem and confidence are endemic and chronic. To quote Groucho Marx, “I wouldn’t join a club that would have me as a member.”

I don’t believe that my parents caused my lack of self esteem because they didn’t love me. I firmly believe that my parents wanted the very best for me. I believe with zero doubt that my mom still does want the best. None of these statements is mutually exclusive with the fact that I suffered abuse and erosion of my personality growing up in a very active way.

I don’t believe my mom ever intended that I become mentally ill. I don’t believe my father ever wanted me to be reduced (and yes, I see myself as reduced) to being where I am. I think if it had been avoidable, they would have chosen different paths. I think that my mom still wants the very best for me, even when she calls me “You stupid dumbbell.” She wants me to change.

The fact that her words hurt me now and damaged me when I was a child, that her opinions are as fixed as the Gospels, that she has no tolerance for deviation or opinion, that even a hairstyle of a newshost on TV can trigger a diatribe on foolishness and a racist rant on culture, that fact is immaterial. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that I take it on, that I let it hurt me.

I don’t have very good self esteem. I don’t have very good boundaries. I don’t have an awful lot in my life that I consider to be good.

As it is, I see myself, today, as a disabled person. I see myself with a deformity. I see myself as somehow sullied or not quite clean. I see myself as not as good. In many ways, I am certain that I qualify for ‘real life’. I just don’t see myself engaging it ‘properly’.

I have screwed up before, you see. Every few years I see myself in a job. I do well in that job for a time. Some have even turned in careers. At one point in my life I was a Linux system administrator. That’s a computer geek job. At other times I worked at other jobs. Then after several years the depression starts and either I end up getting fired, getting laid off or quitting just before I get fired. I don’t want that to happen again. The dilemma: try again and fail again or just don’t try.

After a while, “success”, whatever that word means, seems to be impossible.

Also, I never feel like I belong. I feel like an imposter. I feel like I shouldn’t be there. After a while, I fail again. I feel like there is something wrong with me. It must be my fault. And I fail again.

I am bad at defining who I am. There are too many blurry lines where I would change me to fit in. Sometimes anxiety about fitting in would cause me to lie. Sometimes I would get caught in the lies. It became easier in many ways not to have friends. Other times, I would talk about my friends at home. My parents would meet them and then after they left, my parents would dissect my friends. Loudly. In front of me. Nobody was good enough for me. I wasn’t good enough for anybody.

Alcohol and drugs sometimes helped. Then they stopped helping. Then I got sober. I was still stuck. I was stuck for many years and in terrible pain and sober. Then I got terribly sick emotionally.

I started to get help and I am getting better. I’m still afraid to have friends. I am still afraid to continue on. Ultimately I have no choice. Today is a bad one.

Hoping the best for tomorrow.

I still want the confidence of a mediocre white man.