I Want To Feel Good Enough
Everyone else is worthy except me.
I wrote this entry but never published it. I’m in a better headspace in the few short weeks since I penned it. Still, I think it’s worth publishing because I’m a lazy mofo who took the time to write something and because it serves as a good reminder for me to never go back to this state of thinking.
I’m home from a date. My emotional state is not ready to date again after the end of a relationship with the first man I loved since my divorce.
As I drive home, I play some Taylor Swift. “All Too Well” is at my car speaker’s full volume as I scream, “You call me up again just to break me like a promise, so casually cruel in the name of being honest, I’m a crumpled up piece of paper lying here…”
I used to play it when driving home from Jeremy’s house, seeing how many iterations of a 10-minute song I could play before arriving at my place. My sobs mix with the sound of my howling like a dead hyena because I can’t sing.
Tomorrow is a big presentation day at work. Instead of finishing my slides, I turn on the rest of Firefly Lane on Netflix. Spoiler alert: one of the main characters is dying of cancer, which reminds me of my friend Nikki who passed last year.
I think of how I’m alone. There’s no one here to take me to my appointments if I get sick. Heck, I don’t have anyone to drive me when I get plastic surgery from an ex-boyfriend this fall (the perks of being an ex to a doctor are loads of free surgery).
In Firefly Lane, the dying character finishes writing her book. I’ve had people for two decades tell me I need to write a book. My story of growing up with immigrant, Muslim parents in a North American world was a novelty. Now, it’s so common that even TV shows like Ms. Marvel and Never Have I Ever cover my childhood issues, minus the superpower woes.
If I wrote a book, I’d call it Shlogging Through Life. I don’t know if “shlogging” is a word but it’s a term I used mentally when thinking about how others seemed ahead of the game of life. Everyone’s running ahead, following a solid pace and knowing where they’re going.
And then there’s me, “shlogging” behind like I’m running in the sand trying to keep up with everyone ten paces ahead.
I don’t remember a time when I didn’t feel different or deficient from everyone around me. My entire life is playing a fraud trying to fit in with everyone around her, praying she doesn’t get caught.
I don’t know a time when I felt good enough.
Looking at pictures of myself as a toddler or young child, that little girl believed she was a bad person. Do other children even register themselves as “bad” or “good”? I try my best to boost my kids’ self-esteem. As I type this, there’s an oversize picture on my wall from ten years ago. My son is three years old. I distinctly remember my first memories, the same age as him in this photo, believing I was bad. Downright “bad”.
Every therapist will say it’s up to me to determine my worthiness. It’s the same shit I tell my kids. No one else determines their worth. They determine their worth. But it’s too late for me. Everyone else determines my worth for me.
I have plenty of friends and coworkers who like me. It feels like I’ve conned them. That’s part of an evil person’s ploy after all; convince the world you’re worthy of praise, affection, and friendship. Performing my version of a Donald Trump rally daily is exhausting and feels insincere. “No, really, I’m so amazing, I’m the bigliest of the amazing people.”
Since I wrote that entry, I’m working on a glow-up of my life. Most glow-ups are physical (getting in shape and getting new clothes) but mine is emotional since my exterior is perpetually in Ready For Primetime mode.
It must seem odd to read about someone who spins herself around the same negative self-talk. Logically, it makes no sense. There’s no rational reason to keep doing it when it serves no purpose.
When you’re in it, it’s like you’re drowning. Any lifeline to pull out of the self-hatred feels like it’s inauthentic and it’s not meant for you. It’s as if trying to be a happy person is an egregiously selfish act for someone so awful, thus making it even worse to want a positive self-perception.
Wanting to be happy makes me feel guilty. We don’t want murderers and rapists in prison to feel happiness. We want them to forever wallow in their misery.
That’s how I felt. My default was to write “That’s how I feel” but I’m forcing myself to keep that in the past, even if it’s uncomfortable.
