The core beliefs issue

What comes before influences everything that comes after. In 2007, my therapist asked me to write down what I believed were the fundamental truths of my life at that time. I worked on the assignment for a week. In the four years since, I’ve changed my ideas some, but the hurt and perception recorded here at my lowest of low points have never really gone completely away. I don’t think it was a filtering problem then—I really did experience so much misunderstanding and impatience around me that it broke my heart and left scars in my thinking. It still influences what I believe about other people and what I believe they think about me. Yes, I would say the overall experience still colors the way I react in the present. An abbreviated version ran on this blog several years ago. This is the original text as I submitted it in therapy. Nobody took me seriously, by the way.

Core beliefs * February 13, 2007

• The people who know me just cannot, will not, are incapable of understanding my problem or making the critical distinction between a willful, controllable emotional issue and a physical, organic illness that happens to manifest through behavior, speech, and perception.


• I will always be judged—and harshly—for things I cannot control.


• I will always be held accountable for things I said but didn’t actually think or believe.


• My health problem/disorder will always be met with skepticism and disdain.


• I try and try to educate, but nobody gets it. Except Joanna, but she’s a doctor and she’s deeply compassionate and tolerant. She knows to put the behavior into its correct context instead of being insulted by it. She blames the illness, not the patient.


• I feel so bad, I am toxic to myself.


• I believe—know—it’s not my fault. I try to fix myself, I do everything I’m supposed to, but I am just really beyond sad. I don’t think this should reflect badly on me, but it seems to anyway.


• No matter what I do, I just make people mad and probably always will since my condition is permanent. I am held responsible for feelings and behavior that control me. I believe it is just easier for others to be mad at me rather than acknowledge that none of us can control or fix my problem.


• I am held to an impossible standard of behavior and wellness.


• Sonja does not judge Peggy Jo the way she does me. I do not believe she scolds and berates Peggy Jo when her behavior and words are irresponsible, erratic or unkind. Same issues, different tolerance. Somehow, I’m just expected to behave “better.”


• Everyone expects me to overcome what very few people ever do; this standard is unfair.


• People only like a winner. Performing as expected is good. Having a serious, complex problem is just plain unacceptable. OK, I get it.
• Nobody cares about me, only that I get back to meeting their expectations. I never, ever hear anyone say they care; they only care that I can attend to business as usual in all areas.


• I am unlovable.
• I cannot live this way. I will not survive it. I know this unequivocally.
• This world and the people in it just absolutely suck, especially the people I always thought would comfort me if I needed it. I can see that no comfort is coming—ever. I am disillusioned.


• I believe I will always feel abandoned and alone; this wound is raw and unhealable.
• If I can just act normal and meet expectations, I will not be judged. It’s so hard. Too hard.
• I do not want to live this way.
• I no longer want to live.
• Suicide is a civil right. It is a human right. It is inalienable. Period.
• Only death can free me from the pain, embarrassment, and disappointment I endure every goddam day. There is not enough therapy in the world.
• I am not capable of happiness. Not anymore.

• I can’t do anything right. I just can’t do anything right. Somebody is always mad at me for something--usually for being myself and not the self they're comfortable with. I wish Frank, Sonja, and my mother wouldn't get so mad. Why don’t they understand how hard I’m trying to meet their standard?
• Everything is hard.


• I’m useless if I’m sick. Useless. I see it in the faces and attitudes of everyone around me, and this message is particularly consistent. They have made this quite clear.
• My brain is defective. I am defective.
• My future is hopeless. All I can do is pay my debts and manage for the duration. It’s responsible, but is it actually worth living for? Yes. No one will be mad at me for dying, but I know that unpaid bills and unfinished business will generate a lot of resentment.


• I am worthless.
• Nobody cares about me; they only care about what I can do for them. In the absence of achievement and service, I become irrelevant to those who would otherwise praise me. If I can’t “do,” then I do not matter. I am not worth being liked on my own merit. Worthless.
• No one’s life will change if I’m not here—not beyond the most superficial consequences. Whose life will be altered if I’m not here? Nobody’s.
• I can’t feel any connection to people anymore, and frankly, I don’t want to. People are unreliable and disappointing.


• My life has no value, not even to me. Especially not to me.
• I’m a big, fat blob of “Why Bother?”
• I am physically repulsive. Homely, fat, and clumsy.


• What I need the most are love and comfort. Nobody—not my husband, not my friends, not my family—ever tells me that they love me. I only hear about what is unpleasant about dealing with me and what I am doing that is irritating to the people close to me. They are all quick to let me know I am annoying, but no positive words come my way. I listen carefully for that encouragement, but there is none—only the constant reminding that I had better snap to and work harder to fix this. I am not only expected to fix myself, but to do it in the absence of supportive love. This is killing me. Ultimately, this is what will kill me. When that happens, I am sure that people will have no problem telling each other how very much they loved me.


• There is no value in a life lived with so much pain, especially when compassion and understanding are so egregiously absent.

• I am in this alone.