“I
am so tired of not being part of the club. I don’t really like all the people
in the club, but I am so tired of not being included in the club.”
That
sounds weird, I know, but those are the words I spoke to my husband this
morning. I had had some emotions triggered last evening, and even though I was
exhausted and had taken my customary Tylenol PM, I was suddenly wide awake, and
the demons were nearly shouting in my mind. If you are an adult, you know the
demons. You likely have yours as well.
After
many years in my career, I am currently settled in a job that I truly love. I
know that my co-workers appreciate me (I am not someone who talks badly about
others, I try to always be positive, I am about the easiest person with whom to
share an office or a job, and I try to go above and beyond what is expected of
me). I get a lot of positive feedback, and I know I am liked. Because of the
years in which I knew no such thing, this warms my heart. I wish that
translated to having a lot of friends and an active social life, but I’m not
sure I would even like that if it did. My idea of a rocking Friday night is to
get in my jammies and watch TV (Netflix!) with my husband. I’d be happy if I
never left my house again except for work.
My
demons started in on their normal tirade:
I’m not good enough. Even from a very young age I was not good enough.
There has always been something odd about me. If you look at the picture above,
it tells you a lot about me. My little brother (who was probably five in this
picture), my dad and mom, and my little sister (who was about two years old)
are all looking at the camera. Even the two-year-old! Then there’s me. I was
about eight, and I am looking at something in my hands, completely oblivious to
what was going on.
I
remember always being very much inside my own head. I still can’t truly explain
some of the odd things I did during my childhood and teen years. I was
desperate for acceptance, but I did all the wrong things to get it, earning me
more shunning than accepting. Even my closest friend(s) pulled away from me
when we were around others. It perplexed me then; now I understand why they
would do so, but it hurts me now for the little girl I was.
When
my ex-husband took his own life, I fixated on this thought: He must have finally come to realize that a
lot of the turmoil in his life as an adult was not necessarily his fault but
directly related to who he was and how he behaved. I’m sure he didn’t act the
way he did out of some mean-spirited desire but because he had never really
learned how to behave any other way. His childhood was a horror story. But
finally being faced with the “it’s all my own fault” must have been horrible
for him. He always needed to blame others, but he finally realized he couldn’t
do so anymore. And he couldn’t take it.
I’m
not feeling suicidal, mind you. What I am feeling is exhaustion. My life has
been one disappointment and emotionally draining experience after another. I
now sit in a position where nearly half of the children to whom I have given
birth have anything to do with me. Unfortunately, some of those children have
my only grandchildren, some of whom I have never seen in person.
They’ll
tell you it’s because of my husband. Much of what they will tell you to bolster
that opinion is untrue. Some of the family has turned away because of what
these “children” have said, despite the fact it is untrue. No, it’s not him. I
could be married to the most awesome guy ever (in all their eyes – he IS the
most awesome guy ever in MY eyes). He would then be tarnished by his
association with me. So he thinks he ruined my life; the truth is I have caused
far more harm to him. His family still loves him, and they are nice to me, but
I can tell that even they don’t really get me. I spend so much time trying to protect
my heart that I probably come off as cold. I hate that because it is the
opposite of the truth.
I
am conscientious and loving and kind and hardworking. I'm also clueless, just like the little girl in
the picture. People joke about growing up and wondering when they would feel
like adults. It’s no joke for me. I honestly wondered if becoming an adult
meant I would suddenly be endowed with the power to truly see everything around
me and know how to interact. Not so much. It’s like the fact I was still
getting acne while in my 20s.
My
intellect tells me that I need to stop suffering from the loss of club
membership. My heart tells me otherwise. If it were any other club or group of
members, I could do that. I’d probably build a hard shell around my heart,
determining that these club members were just a bunch of jerks. But when it’s a
club to which I have a lifetime membership, but now that has been taken away,
it’s awfully hard to just.stop.caring.
I
probably need to seek counseling. I need to speak to a professional who doesn’t
have a faith-based or emotional reason to judge me for my thoughts, actions,
and feelings. I don’t need to speak to those who would just tell me what I want
to hear. Well, okay, I still need THAT, but I need to figure out how to just
get out of the clubhouse altogether and be able to clearly see all the good I
still have in my life.
I’m
not sure what exactly this is. I don’t remember any particular trauma in my
childhood. I just remember always feeling different. I’ve thought, could it be
Asperger’s? Could it be ADHD? Is it must my anxiety and depression? Do I have
bipolar disorder? I’m about 90 percent sure, though, that it is some form of
mental illness. No one’s found a cure for that yet, I’m afraid.
