Negative Nancy

I’m finding out the hard way that there’s a tremendous difference between having an intense desire to get over insecurities and actually being able to do so.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve envisioned myself gagging that nagging little voice in the back of my head and tossing her and her self-depreciations, doubts, put-downs, wildly irrational reasons, and idiotic misconceptions down an abandoned well, but it never seems to work. Not for very long. That bitch is determined. And strong. And obviously an exceptional rock climber.

I started this year, this blog actually, talking about my insecurities and how this was it…I was done with that. I was going to learn self-acceptance. I was going to learn to accept a compliment. I was going to stop inherently doubting every single thing I do. And, I was going to learn to see myself through other people’s lenses instead of the ones I must have mistakenly picked up at the magic shop or been given as some kind of long-con prank that make everything carnival-mirror distorted. I thought, and still think, that seeing myself the way other people do might finally fracture the images of myself that my brain so stubbornly refuses to let go of... or at the very least, I’d realize some things I actually need to work on versus the everything-is-wrong-with-me mentality that lives inside my head.

But, here it is nearing the end of the year and I still can’t take a compliment seriously. And, I’m not just talking about compliments on my physical appearance. Even the compliments about the strength of my character fall on uncompromising ears that absolutely have no intention of letting anything positive absorb into my being and stick. I go out of my way to be a beneficial presence in other people’s lives who often don’t have that, not in the form of peers anyway. I write and I help where I can and I visit and I distract. For at least a couple of people I know, I am their only connection to humanity beyond bars and walls. I’m the only person who cares, truly cares and not out of some sick fantasy. And, what do I do when I haven’t heard from that person in awhile? I immediately assume I did something wrong or that something is wrong with me. Even when I try desperately to push those thoughts away and wait and be patient, my mind works a thousand miles an hour coming up with any and every reason, reflecting on every word written or spoken, analyzing every possibility. When there is nothing I can find that I’ve overtly done wrong, my brain works even harder to hypothesize what it could be. I am never able to just leave it alone and see how it goes and give myself the benefit of the doubt. And that's in times when there is absolutely no reason that a person I go out of my way to help would be angry with me. In any situation, I’m never able to give myself the benefit of the doubt and let those kinds of thoughts cloud my mind like poisonous gas that stifles everything but the negativity.

I know, deep down, that I am an entirely rational being. Except for when it comes to myself, my self image, and the way I believe I must seem to other people. The whole saying about what other people think being none of your business is all fine and good when you don’t give a flying fuck about those other people. But, when it’s personal, well, that changes everything. I realize that this partly comes from years of knowing people who did criticize and hold irrational ideals about the way I should look and act and be…from having a parent who only knew how to be hateful and living in a town where I’ve never fit in and was ostracized for being different. On some level, part of the problem is that I expect everyone to act in the same manner. But, even after years of actually receiving compliments from time to time and having people believe in me, really fucking believe in me, and try to build me up, things remain the same.

It’s not that I don’t know how to fix it. It’s something I work on. I’ve had a million conversations about it with a close friend who has the same issues and we constantly work on being open and honest with one another and share how we both see each other and the reality of our respective situations. We’re a voice of reason for each other. But, we both still find that no matter how reasonable we tell ourselves we should be, that little voice creeps back in when we let our guard down and the doubts submerge every last reasonable corner of our minds. The dam ruptures and floods everything in its path that might have been a rational thought with obsessive insecurity . Are we able to stop the torrential downpour of darkness? Sometimes. Sometimes we help each other through it. But, most of the time, it’s a futile effort…. because that voice keeps on going no matter what finding one tiny crack and splitting the dam wide open once again. I know that I need to find a way to stop the poison from spreading as soon as it starts one way or another or the doubt takes over and it becomes harder once again to stop it the next time. I feel like for every 2 steps forward I’ve taken this year I take at least 1 back. Progress, when it’s made, has been abysmally slow and painful.

I refuse to give up, though. No matter how hard it has been, no matter how painful, I can’t just roll over on this and let that voice win. Determined rock-climbing-queen or not, I will take her the fuck out even if it means a sucker punch to the box. Fighting dirty sometimes has its benefits. The progress may be slow, but it’s still progress, and it may seem like I’m trying hard to convince myself here that I can do it, and that’s true. That’s what this entire blog is about…me forcing myself to be frank and vulnerable and all too real because I can’t pretend like it’s a nonissue if I’ve been open about how big of an issue it really still is in public for anyone to see.

One day I’m going to be looking through old posts, and when I get to this one, I’m going to celebrate how I knocked Negative Nancy right down to the bottom of the well with a well-placed punch to the throat and sealed that fucker shut for good.

(and, dear friend, I hope you're able to celebrate with me, too)

Of course, since it's Sunday, this is another Sunday Confession with More Than Cheese and Beer. I hope you'll check out her page to see the other submissions for this week's prompt "Able" and look at her facebook page for anonymous submissions.

Sunday Confession #2

I am not perfect.

This is not news to anyone especially myself. 

I am perfectly fine with being imperfect (sort of). 

That part, however, is relatively new in my world. Since reaching 30, I have become more involved in feminist views and, through that, I have entered the realm of body acceptance. It’s been a hard road, I must admit. When I was a young child, I was blasted constantly with derogatory comments from my father and grandparents about my weight. Either I needed to eat more or I needed to go on a diet. My dad often referred to me as “Crisco” or “Lard ass” instead of using my name when I would gain weight. When I was around 18, my grandparents offered me $500 to get to an approved weight. Needless to say, it created a complex. I hated the way I looked all the time. I hid behind baggy clothes and counted calories. Even in my early teens, I refused to go on the beach or wear a bathing suit in a pool. I stopped wearing shorts, skirts, and dresses. I existed in a dark world of self-hatred, eating issues, and thoughts of suicide. Instead of being supportive and helping me make healthy food choices, I was made to feel ashamed of my changing body. 

I spent my entire adolescence and early adulthood having never felt beautiful. 

Everyone tells you that it’s what on the inside that counts anyway. If only that were true, it would make all the difference. The fact is, though, that America is very much a physical society. We make base judgments about people on their level of attractiveness. There has been study upon study conducted about how much of an opinion we form in the first 10-20 seconds of looking at someone, and the results show that attractiveness decides trust, believability, aggressiveness, friendliness and more. In the last 5 elections, we have consistently elected the younger candidate of the main two political parties. Every ad related to makeup and clothing is filled with women who have ideal body shapes and facial features. We, as a society, are more concerned about body size and appearance than in any other feature of a person to the point where we consistently make flawed choices based on looks alone. 

Telling someone who has body issues that it’s what is on the inside that counts is like trying to convince an adult that Santa Claus is real. Oh, wouldn’t it be so magical if it were true, but the sheer volume of facts outweighing your statement makes the truth pretty fucking obvious so let’s just skip the bullshit, okay? 

So, in the end, I am insecure still that I am not part of the 5% of women who can actually fit the model body type. I have a lifetime of voices that still echo in my head every time I look in the mirror even though I am a size 12. I am insecure about food and find that counting calories is a rather difficult thing to stop doing. And, I am insecure that I can't love myself just the way I am. I look at blogs about body acceptance and wish I had that courage because I know I can be brave and strong and let go of these things. One day is what I tell myself, and I hope that's not a lie.

Sunday Confession (Insecurities) #1

I follow a blog called More Than Cheese and Beer that hosts Sunday Confessions. Today's confessions are about insecurities. Here's the first:

I had a combination Pulp Fiction/Lifetime movie moment during the birth of my son. It all started with the hospital suggesting pitocin to induce labor 1 day after my due date. That morning, October 19, 2005, at 6 am, the nurse started the pitocin and put the monitor on my very rotund belly, only she didn't secure it properly. For hours I was having contractions while nurses told me I was not and continued to up the dose of pitocin. After finally figuring out the monitor blunder, the nurses said the pitocin was far too high and the contractions very strong and decided to back off on the drug completely for awhile. I labored for 12 hours in this way before I finally saw my doctor. Nurses said I was dilating fine, but as soon as he saw me, he knew something was wrong and checked. One side of my cervix wasn't dilating at all. I had also been telling the nurses that despite my epidural, I was still hurting in my pelvis and vaginal area. They laughed it off and said that was impossible. The doctor noticed my elevated heart rate and blood pressure and suggested I have a Cesarean. I cried so hard. It was the last straw on a really awful experience. He gave me 45 minutes to see if things would change, but I know now he only gave me that time to come to terms with the surgery and calm down. By the time he returned, though, I was screaming in pain. I couldn't hear, couldn't talk, couldn't see. My heart rate and blood pressure continued to rise so high that as the surgery began and the numbness finally calmed the pain, I managed to tell someone how badly my chest hurt. Someone was immediately called to get a shot of Inderal to slow my heart rate down. It was well over 200 at this point. While this person was poised above me a la Pulp Fiction with an injection that would keep my heart going (though it wouldn't exactly have been stabbed into my chest), I heard my son cry for the first time. My body responded immediately, and my heart rate slowed on its own. Afterwards, while I was still too shaky from the side effects of the fentanyl used to numb me to even touch my baby, the doctor came to check on me. He said, "I was worried we might lose you there for a minute."

I'm insecure about the horrible scar I have because the doctor had to rush. My life was at stake; he couldn't take time to make sure it wouldn't be bad. I'm insecure about the way the Cesarean changed my body. I'll never get rid of that pouch of flesh. I'm insecure about my entire birthing experience. I'm insecure that I can never have another child--I'm too scared now to try. I don't know what combination of factors really caused that reaction in my body, and I can't or win't risk leaving my son without a mom. And, finally, I'm insecure because of the abortion I had in 2010 out of that fear.