How Young Donald Hustles for Love.

I scheduled my entire Sunday around watching the second presidential debate with my disobedient-political-activist Mom. We laid out snacks and settled in to watch our prized fighter. As we sat on the edge of our ringside seats snarling, cheering and keeping score, the gloves slowly came off. Round after round we felt the impact of the sharp right-hooks and devastating left jabs. We ate, we drank as we transformed into the brilliant witty moderating team. We were channeling Howard Cosell and getting louder and louder and then there was a defining silence.

I hit the mute button on the remote and like a runaway train screeching to a frantic halt everything stopped. I heard something. It was a tiny voice. It was very, very faint, but I know I heard it. I was listening hard. My listening became so concentrated it was the listening of a hostage negotiator talking down a subject. I got quiet. I went inside. Listening and…nothing. I could no longer hear it. Shook my head, cleaned up the snacks and when to bed.

The next morning I woke slowly, staring at the ceiling and in the quiet of my mind I began to listen, and then I heard the small sound. It was the sound of a little boy curled up and crying. The boy was Donald and he was alone. I sat up tears rolling down my checks, grabbed my laptop and Googled, “young Donald.” I launched an image and in full-screen mode we were staring at each other face to face and eye to eye.

It was as if I had time-traveled back to my office and sitting across from a sixty-year-old boy who never felt loved, special, important or good-enough. I was looking deeply into the soul of a human being who was nothing more than a shell. Just one more person whose unmet emotional needs would sever their growth. Never developing beyond the traumatic events of the childhood. Although they physically become adults they remain the angry child. It’s beyond sad.

He lacks self worth and so he puts others down, fills rooms with gold and opulence to show he is enough. Gobbling up property after property to try and fill a cup that can never be filled. Listening to the tape — the more Bully Bush was entertained the more outlandish the comments got. As if to say, “Oh good he likes me now, he will like me more after this next comment.” Wanting so badly to be a mammoth of men he’s become small. He completely lacks the self-awareness and accountability a full formed, emotionally mature person posses.

Now that you really look at it, it’s an “ah-ha” moment. That ‘enough’ will never be. The attention he’s getting in this election is just another play, I believe, deep down to achieve status and power to feel valuable. But again his language is so simple. His actions: “she got to talk longer than me…oh good, one against 3” are childlike. He never developed just common coping skills. Seeking love and approval by intimidating and manipulating people. Hoping all the stuff would fill the hole. But sadly, nothing will ever be enough. No tower, no plane, no amount of fame will ever fill it up. But this is how young Donald hustles for love.

This is the tale of the child who never felt good enough and becomes the next bully. His lack of self-worth turned into a tornado of pain, touching down and destroying lives in its wake. To understand the affects of deep psychological wounding is to understand this man. It’s all in here, and no he doesn’t get a pass. He gets our pity. This is the accumulation of a childhood of never feeling you’re enough. It’s the, “because I am hurting, I will hurt you” and the birth of another bully and the cycle continues.

In preparation for this final debate, I will lie out the snacks, sit back and once again witness the phenomenon of zero-self-worth spew into my living room. When the final bell sounds, our voice will be heard. We will walk into that voting booth and with the swipe of a pen and compassion in our heart we will stand up against all bullies. We are not victims. We are love. This election will prove just that.