I talk a lot about why I started this blog. I talk a lot about my journey with my mental
illness. I talk a lot about my spiritual
journey. I do that in writing not to
share all of my business with the entire internet, but because expressing my
thoughts and feelings through my written words gives me clarity and
closure. I need that. For years, when the demons in my mind got too
loud, I would just yell back at them. In
case you don’t know, that’s how people get institutionalized. And since I have a child to raise, I didn’t
see a permanent residence in a mental hospital as a viable option. So, when I was on the verge of that becoming
a reality, I started writing this blog. Inner Peas.
As the name suggests, I needed to find some solace. And for the first year, sharing my thoughts
here kept me employed and out of a state hospital. As time passed, I realized that it was becoming
more and more difficult to share my thoughts.
Even more, it was getting difficult to organize my thoughts. It got to the point that I could no longer
express myself. I felt stifled, suffocated. I was embarrassed of my writing. My self-worth took a beating. And trust me when I tell you that it was not any
condition to take another hit.
I have been plagued by low self-esteem my entire life. But over the last few years, I have convinced
myself that I don’t deserve. Anything. I wasn’t worthy. Of Anything.
Most notably, I didn’t deserve to be happy. I made myself guilty for enjoying
myself. It didn’t matter if it was an
afternoon with my girlfriends or a weekend away. Vacations were completely out. I always had an excuse. “I can’t take the time off.” “I don’t have the money.” Mostly I was scared that if I had a good
time, I have to pay some monumental emotional price just for being content for doing
something for myself.
Those same self-deprecating behaviors crept into my relationships. I’m not even sure that deprecating is the
appropriate term. That would indicate
that I was exhibiting some semblance of humility. A better term would probably be self-destructive. As
noted here on multiple occasions, the men I have allowed to be a part of my
life were emotional fucking degenerates.
Narcissists, troubled loners, emotionally retarded sociopaths. Those were the men I would let in. And every time, I would be devastated when
they didn’t stick around. I convinced
myself that if I wasn’t good enough for them, I wasn’t good enough for any man.
About a year ago, I gave up completely on even allowing men to be
a thing. I didn’t need it, and more
importantly, I didn’t deserve it. Since
then, it’s just been me and BOB, my battery operated boyfriend. And I was cool with that. No drama, no hard feelings, no bad sex. I had convinced myself that I was OK with
that. I did a really good job at making myself
a believer, too. It was just
easier. It was during that year,
however, that there was one man who became the closest thing to a constant I
had had in a very long time.
Of course, there was a problem with that man. What man doesn’t have a problem, right? But this guy’s problem was much different
than most other men. He was smart,
funny, sexy as hell, and he really wanted me.
I just couldn’t believe that a man with an education and a career and like-minded
social and spiritual values could really care about me. We went out a few times over the last year
and a half. Every time we had a
wonderful time. Without fail, though,
every time the night drew to a close, I would get scared. Really scared. I was paralyzed with fear because he was just
so fucking wonderful. I would be devastated
when the inevitable rejection came. One
night, I became so afraid, that I had a panic attack in the middle of dinner in
the city. As we walked to the car, the
city fog made its appearance. The night was
damp and cool. I sobbed, convinced that
this would be the last time I would ever see him. Nobody wants a crazy girlfriend. And I had pretty much trademarked crazy that
night.
As we drove the fifty miles over the bridge to my home in Sonoma
county, he handled the situation with so much compassion. It was almost like he knew exactly how to
defuse the anxiety. He let me be quiet
and breath. But he would also
periodically remind me that he was there.
He asked me questions. He didn’t
try to make me laugh or patronize me. He
just tried to ground me. He did
everything they teach health care professionals about dealing with
anxiety-plagued patients. It was
amazing. Of course, I was still
convinced that was the last time I would ever see him.
I got home and finally looked at my phone. A text from my little brother read “how’d it
go. Best night ever?” I just replied “not so much.” Immediately, my phone was buzzing. I picked it up and took a verbal beating that
lasted about 20 minutes from a kid so irate with my self-disparaging behavior
that he lit me up with every profanity he could find in English, along with
three other languages, and a few he made up, I’m pretty sure. When he finally said “What the fuck is wrong
with you Angela?” All I had was “I don’t
deserve him.”
Conrad wasn’t the only person concerned with my behavior. My girlfriends threatened to disown me if I
didn’t find some belief in myself, in the fact that I could be happy. One guy at work walked in my office not too
long ago, he said “I was thinking about you last night. I was going to ask if you ever talked to that
guy anymore. Then I remembered you
fucked it up. I just wanted to remind
you that you fucked it up.” Thanks,
Pedro. That was a huge help. But he was right. Because that’s usually what I do. Nobody can turn pixie dust into a giant,
steaming turd like I do. Because I DON’T
DESERVE ANY BETTER. Period. Done.
End of conversation.
Now, back to all that talk at the beginning about why I
write. I write to find a way to get
right with myself. I talk about the fear
and anxiety because it helps me control it.
But until now, it has never made me feel any more worthy. The other day, one of the most magnificent
women in my life, a friend for more than a decade texted me and said “Everyone
wants to be happy, Ang. Everyone except
you.” Again, I repeated my mantra to
her: “It’s not that I don’t want to be
happy, D. It’s just that I don’t think I
deserve it.” To which she responded:
GET. THE. FUCK. OVER. YOURSELF.
So, I did. I called that
man. I told him everything. I told him why I could never let myself get
too close to him. I told him that he
deserved better. I told him that it’s
much easier for everyone if he found someone worthy of him. Through more time zones than I can count, he
told me that he’s perfectly capable of deciding what he wants and what is good
for him. So, I believed him. Even though it was hard. So, fucking hard. I’ve lived my life believing that happiness
is a frivolous luxury that will end up punishing those who are not deserving of
it. But I’m going to take the
gamble. I’m going to believe that
happiness is a real thing. That love can
also be a thing. Maybe I’ll find out in
Greece in January.
-Inner Peas
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