The sum of my parts

(Sorry--I didn't proofread. I'm actually pretty depressed right now, so grammar and spelling are not tops on my list of priorities at the moment--only unraveling the traffic in my head is front and center today.)

Where do our insecurities come from and, why, in the face of intellectual reason, can't we just talk ourselves out of having them? If we could, millions of therapists around the world would have a greatly reduced client load, I assume. If we could set our minds at ease, would we just find something new to be unhappy about?

Sometimes I feel like I'm a fish swimming through an ocean of cultural messages I don't want to believe. I internalize those messages, though, because that which is true about me appears in such stark contrast to this sea of cultural expectation. It isn't possible that I am all right when everything about me is so divergent from those waves of images washing over me whenever I open my eyes. It is difficult for me to believe I am adequate in any way given the standards we are all expected to achieve or at least aspire to on a daily basis.

For a long time, I wanted to not care what anyone thought, I wanted to pretend it didn't matter, but I couldn't do it. My mind wouldn't let me be hoodwinked by wishes when concrete evidence was everywhere telling me that people do notice and they certainly make judgements based on appearance, behavior, and interests. And on accomplishment. And on physical ability. And on material wealth.

How we acquire our feelings of inadequacy is probably a complex process. I think about myself, and I know that I grew up in a family that placed a very high value on money, beauty, and athletic achievement. I always came up short. I am the third of four siblings, the second of two girls. Statistically speaking, we were interesting in that the birth order was girl-boy-girl boy. There is no true "middle child" in our family, but I would be the closest thing to it.

I am nothing like anyone in my family. I remember one summer when I was in college, Laurel came to visit. After one day, she said, "May, how in the world did you end up in this family?" It was a fair question given my status as the family oddball.

Lynn said that we are taught to hate ourselves. I suppose we could also be taught to love ourselves, but unlearning self-loathing seems almost impossible. I am 47 years old, and I'm pretty sure that at this point, those messages about my lack of worth are so ground into my psyche as to be hard wired. Can you rewire the brain? My psychiatrist says you can't, you can only try to fool it. It took years to chip away at any self-love I may have had as a child. Instead of living as an integrated mind/body individual, I see myself as a fractured collection of parts--personality, moods, unattractive person, shameful-ugly body, defectively wired brain--and those parts do not hang together as a whole very well.

At what point should we give up on trying to fix what we believe is wrong with ourselves? Is it even possible to put self-criticism to rest? I am so self-critical that even if I try to pepper myself with affirmations, they end up sounding like hollow, ridiculous platitudes.

My therapist, as I may have mentioned, asked me why I cling so tightly to my poor self-image and why I seem so unwilling to see myself another way. Here is what I said. "I can't see myself another way. I have mirrors. I read magazines--including the healthy, age-appropriate ones like More and O. I see what I see and what I don't see is anyone who is like me.

I think that's what I'm always hoping for--to find people who are more like me. Of course, having sworn of personal relationships, I would settle for finding people like me in magazines and in advertising and in movies.

Every once in awhile, I find a little spot of comfort, and it is in the least likely place I ever expected. It's on TV, on the Learning Channel: What Not to Wear. On the surface, Stacey and Clinton seem snarky and harshly critical, but if you stay with it, you'll find that their most compassionate moments are saved for the women who have the problem figures--and the larger issues of self-image, self-loathing, and dressing poorly to camouflage both. The women featured on the show (the overweight ones) usually reach a point where they avoid the real task at hand by buying shoes and accessories in excess (guilty). They try on clothes and eventually break down in tears in the dressing room. I have been there too many times to count, and when that train gets rolling, it pulls along all of the other baggage: I'm not good enough, this is all my fault, I don't try hard enough, If I were just a better/more diligent and focused person, I wouldn't be such a loser...and then it goes downhill from there.

I can't even explain how a diagnosis of bipolar disorder twisted an already complex web of possibly distorted thinking. I have tried for so long to be so careful and not make mistakes, not be too quirky as to be weird, not show my frequent bouts of stupidity...and then, BP. I walk on eggshells trying not to draw attention to myself anymore. I wanted to be noticed for so long, it's ironic that now I don't want anyone to notice too much.

Anyone with BP who feels like I do has a compounded level of internal stress that never goes away. It is this stress of self-monitoring, comparing, and holding one's breath waiting for the tell-tale behavior to reveal itself, or for a slip of the tongue that unmasks the truth about my illness. My therapist and doctor often marvel that I do not appear to be sick because I "present well."

I have been struggling to fit in and hide my deficiencies and abnormalities my entire life. Of course I present well. I'm just trying to meet the cultural standard of normality, and I've been trying desperately to do so for thirty-some years. Maybe this is my big achievement.

Give that woman an Academy Award.