Finding and owning your place in the world
The twisted road of self-doubt and insecurity
When I was young, barely ten years old, I remember my mother taking me to town with her. It sounds simple to many. Just another normal day going shopping but to a ten-year old, black girl growing up in those times in a dusty township, this was a big occurrence.
We didn’t own a car. Yes, unlike all my siblings, I had the luck to ride a bus to school every morning yet the taxi ride to town was different. Special, somehow.
Add the tall, magnificent buildings I would walk around and the white people I never got to see regularly except on the small television set we owned; I was more than ecstatic at the opportunity.
The cherry on top; if I played my cards just right and stayed patient long enough while my mother zigzagged between different shops, eventually, we would stop at a food shop. Fast-food. My favorite part of the outing, hands down!
We were simple too. Nothing expensive or fancy. As long as there were fries, which we call chips, some type of protein and of course the cool drink I only drank on special occasions, my day was made.
On the trips my mother would for some reason, announce that we’ll eat at home, my heart would drop. I would traipse home, face scowling and feet dragging.
Not so this time. Lucky for me, after traipsing to so many shops, my feet couldn’t cope anymore, we stopped at a food place. Fried chicken. A favorite of mine.
I followed patiently as my mother quickly chose a table for us to sit. After telling me what she wants and giving me money, I proceeded to the counter to make the order.
As I held out the money, ready to spout the order, this unsettling feeling suddenly overcame me. My mother had not said it specifically, but of course, it was the two of us, so naturally, I would get food for both of us yet for some reason, I suddenly felt unsure. I froze.
When the lady behind the counter glared at me, I panicked. Quickly ordered one meal. For my mother only. Confused and more than disappointed, I shuffled back to our table.
My mother took one look at the receipt and the change, asked why I’d bought just one meal. I told her I did not want any food. Not buying it and rightly so, she instructed me to go get myself food.
A highly sensitive kid who hated to feel embarrassed, I insisted I was fine. And then proceeded to sit across and watch her enjoy her food while I bit my nails. I was crushed.
My mother loved me. She had never said the words out loud simply because no one did at the time, but I understood this. It’s difficult to explain. Because as much as I knew this, there was doubt too. Loud, disruptive, even confusing.
This is the first time I acutely remember the doubt. Somehow, after that, it kind of felt like my normal. The last, in a throng of seven children, I never understood who I was in the mix.
How to be. What I bring that my other siblings couldn’t possibly bring. Was I different? Did I need to be? What was my role?
The same disquiet I struggled with at home, was a feature in other part of my life too. At school, despite starting strong academically, I often questioned myself. Was I good enough? Was I just an average student? Was I beautiful? Funny? Nice enough? Brave? Did I matter? Where did I fit in?
Many would call this normal. Just another part of growing up and developing what is termed a self-concept. They could be right too, all I know, the inner conflict was so persistent and without proper direction, I adopted a mask.
Unbothered. My favorite three words still to this day, are, I don’t care.
Skip a few years to adulthood and work. While many peers carried on as if they understood exactly where they were headed and the outcome, it felt like I was playing a part.
Swimming just enough to stay afloat but never really to reach anywhere. Which shore could I possibly belong to? Was I even made for it?
In love too, I was a non-typical. Happy to languish on the sidelines, observe than to engage. It was never marriage I was looking for. I was not, not looking for a relationship too.
The doubt simmered on though. What if someone got to know me, figured out how much of a fraud I am? What if I started to love their love, only for them to realize how not deserving I am?
What if? Was I? Am I? Incessant. To the point of wishing I could switch off my overactive mind.
If life was so simple, I should be old enough to know better now, the truth though, the unrest still persists. No matter the room, situation or how high the position, it burns so slowly, when it bursts like it inevitably does, it manages to shock me into stillness. Then comes the familiar mask. I don’t care.
Except how can I not when the very voices and opinions I seek to close out are many times the only reflection I have of myself. I’ve never considered this before. We spent too much time asking the why, at some point though, it shouldn’t matter. Not really.
To a point, I know who I am now. I understand my struggles. I own them. And I still stand. That is my place. Until I find another one.
