The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Forget about it.

"Invalid Entry" 

I tend to hang on to things well after they've lost any kind of immediate value. A packrat of melancholia, a hoarder of maudlin memories. It's involuntary, this odd pull toward the darker moments in life, and it's as fascininating as it is upsetting. I know I need to let it all go, hold on to the present and leave all the other stuff to fail in the days behind me, but it's a weird compulsion I have to identify myself in terms of my weaker moments, even though I know mine are nothing compared to those of others.

M. says he doesn't understand why I focus so much on my self-appointed weaknesses instead of looking at the things I've accomplished in life. I suppose I measure myself against standards which are a little too high for most people, perhaps because I was a superstar in elementary school and a slight force to be reckoned with in high school. An alright student with a crystal view to an easy future, I think I was blindsided when it suddenly occurred to me that things aren't always easy. There is always someone smarter, more driven, more suited to a life of prestige, and I took the safe road to obscurity, taking a job that I always saw as temporary until it became my life, the only connection I had to the world outside. Who among us doesn't have parents who think we could do more than what we're doing? It's an old, unoriginal hound dog song, isn't it? You could have been somebody!, the mother shrieks, an accusation wrapped in a proclamation. Then, the defensiveness would come up from in me, and I'd let her know that she's not so important herself, even though I hated saying it. Making people feel badly about themselves is something I have been given substantial training for, but it doesn't feel like a natural gift. I see the hurt in the face, I feel their tears spring up and then I hate myself that much more for saying what I've said. The ultimate manipulation on my mother's part, you see. She twists the knife and it only goes in deeper when I attempt to defend myself. She's masterful in a completely erratic way.

So many embarrassing, deeply wounding moments run through my head on a daily basis. In each one, I am the victim and someone else is usually to blame. I only recently realized that I identify with the role of the lamb too closely, and that it is probably without merit. It's why leaving the house makes me nauseous, why looking for a job and assuming real responsibility paralyzes me. I have come to believe I need tending to, that I am unable to function in the world because I never became a 'somebody'. Oh, I'm not looking for sympathy or validation. What I'm looking for is a way to forget, a road away from the war at home. I need to leave that banshee of a mother figure to shriek in the past, even though she's alive and well and calls me every other day to see 'what's happening'. I need to erase all the propaganda from my head (what exactly was she promoting?), and allow myself to see my life for what it is without honing in on the imperfections. Any time I want to take a step forward, I find the one reason I shouldn't and deem it reasonable enough to keep me standing in one spot. It's conditioning, I think, the inability to accept my own failure. What you do in this situation, I've been taught, is to not try anything at all.

I decided I was unlikable when my seventh grade best friend dismissed me for no discernable reason. She hid behind a garbage bin, hoping I wouldn't see her, and when I did she awkwardly approached me and fessed up that she wasn't interested in 'hanging out' anymore. It was unpredicted, this dismissal, and my reaction was to wallow in self-pity because I was a victim. I also decided I was hideously ugly when in the tenth grade a guy on my school bus made it clear he didn't want me to share a seat with him. This too was unanticipated and beyond rude, but because I felt so embarrassed about it, I muttered a few harsh words to him, which caused all the other students to roar with laughter and moved a few seats back. I still don't understand what that was all about, and I still hope he has a miserable life because, as is my way, I can't let it go. Maybe he had something going on in his life at the time, but because I felt victimized, it didn't occur to me to care.

But, it eats at you, the constant reflection. It brings on all kinds of inner problems, ranging from physical to emotional, and they don't go away with one good day. My bouts of self-loathing are as genuine as you can imagine, and I try to find my worth in the words of other people, which is next to impossible. I authenticate myself through the perceptions of others and I am the most defensive person you'll ever find, which does not bode well if someone dares to criticize me. I have been training myself to sit back and think about things instead of reacting, now. It used to be that I'd come at someone like a lionness after meat, but now I realize that my brand of attack and withdrawal doesn't really get me very far. What I need to do is let myself consider and feel, rather than attempt to shield myself so often. Sometimes criticism is a good thing, it just wasn't done with grace when I was growing up. Time to move on.

But, even though I know this, it is still an ongoing battle. I am always suspicious, always looking for the raised eyebrow. I still hate that guy from the bus now as much as I did then, and given that it's been something like twenty years, you'd think I'd be over it. You'd also think I'd be over the best friend who treated me like garbage a century ago because I have a group of women in my life who value me and need my friendship. You'd think. Still, whenever I think of those two people, I am immediately brought back to the feelings of inadequacy and sorrow and it makes me hate them as much as ever because I still haven't taken away their power. I know this, and I still give it.

I haven't been proud of myself in a long time. I miss that.

I imagine changing one's way of thinking is a little like giving birth. I envision myself screaming and panting and raging like a lunatic as I struggle to let it all go. It's like the misery is my best friend, a close confidante who occasionally punches me in the stomach and slaps me across the face. I want to let it go but I'm not sure who I'll be without it. Am I ready to be less of a lamb?

The world doesn't have much use for victims who don't want to rise above their station in life. I get it, though. We're a fairly boring breed, after all.