Enough.

[ysobelle]

A common theme in my life this week seems to be betrayal. In my life, in the lives of my friends, in the world at large. It's a big old lesson in "Life isn't fair, get a helmet." I've seen really crushing things happen to people-- myself included-- and watched as they nose-dived into chasms of negativity and broken self-esteem.

I've seen parts of myself this week that horrify me. Not because I've done anything so grossly wrong, but because I've actually opened a door I didn't know was there and seen the worst parts of my self-image. I opened my mouth to try and talk about how I felt, and what came out was the most awful, visceral, vivid self-loathing I've ever heard. From anyone. It shocked me. It truly did. I still can't believe I said such things-- but I know absolutely they were true at the time.

And that's the key: at the time. I don't live on the gantry over that pit of seething despair. That's a sub-basement I've never seen before, though I suspected it was there. I knew it had to be. I've always known there was a black hole down there I always tried not to look at. I felt it, rather than examined it. Or perhaps the image of myself that I described late that night, staring out at the snow, was a picture thrown up by the fumes off that pit. I don't know. I just know that the things I said about myself are things I would never, never let someone I loved say about themselves.

I've spent the last few months of my life, ironically enough, trying to pull other people out of those nosedives. I've heard people I loved say similar things: they're ugly, they're unlovable, they're broken. They're scared, they're lost, they're confused. They're just deeply wrong, somehow, and no one will ever love them enough. And every single time, I've fought back. I've reacted in outrage and protest and torrents of love and support.

I'd like this to be the happy point where I speak about the epiphany of realising all those things I say for my friends are just as true for me: that I'm no more flawed than anyone else, and people do love me, and everything will be fine once we all realise that we're only human and that's enough. But I'm not at that point. Neither are the people around me, nursing their hollowness and insecurity and pain. Like me, sometimes such things, such absolute dark, consume them, and no light can get in.

But.

It doesn't make what I say any less true. When I say to these people, "You're magnificent. You're brilliant and witty and a light in the room, and people love you," I'm not lying. I'm not saying such things merely because they're the comforting things you say to someone wondering why no one loves them, why they themselves never feel they're handsome enough or thin enough or smart enough or anything enough. Why their mothers don't love them, why their siblings are so insane, why their fathers never call. I believe them. I believe in them. I love them.

It's just that I know someone saying such things to me isn't enough. The way I'm wired (and I suspect, the way my friends are wired) a thousand people can shower us with adulation and respect, but it never makes the voices go away. We never get over our pasts, our psyches. There is no way to run from yourself. No matter how many doors you have between your waking brain and your personal Pit of Despair, the noxious fumes will always rise up through the floor and cloud you, removing your ability to see anything in the mirror but that pit, that lack. The bad parts that overwhelm all the good.

I do believe, most of the time, that I'm more than that. But then, I have a wonderful therapist, and, apparently, an enormous amount of determination to just keep going. It may simply be I'm too stubborn to lie down and die, and too proud to cry in public-- usually. Maybe this awful, stomach-turning epiphany is a good thing: I've seen how I turn in on myself at my worst, and how awful I am to myself when someone tells me oh, you're fine, just not quite good enough. I have a better grasp, so to speak, of how any knife thrown at me is one I'll grab to make sure it gets me right through the heart. I've seen the engine of my despair, and perhaps, finally, I can set about dismantling it. Maybe knowing where the cesspit is, I can begin figuring out how to drain it.

It's not a quick job. As I figured out earlier tonight, I've been with my current therapist about five and a half years now, and was with another for many years before that. And after all this time, I'm only now getting to that bottom-most layer. I'm not surprised: while I've always been introspective, I don't think these are the kinds of insights you can have in the bloom of youth. I also believe I'm more willing to explore my issues and not just try desperately to live with them.

Will I ever get enough insight into the poison of self-doubt to be able to really help my friends? I don't know. All I can do at the present is say, "I know. I understand." And hope that for just a while, that's enough.

Comments

[ravenskye8.livejournal.com]

You can get all the insight you want, but you still can't help them. You can't change what's in someone else's head - they need to do that for themselves. What's worse, is because you're a friend, the best you can do is exactly what you wrote, know and understand, and be there to listen. Because anything you say to them is part of the myriad of positivity they get from friends and family that get discounted to worthless by those voices. Of course you'd say that, because you're their friend... if you weren't friends with them you'd think they were horrid.

Been there, done that, got the T-Shirt... haven't gotten to the point where I can burn it and spread the ashes. Might never get there. I know, and I understand.

*hugs*

[cypherindigo.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I am right there beside you, with the flame thrower.

The voices will be there, but you know -- We all have 2 hands and can flip them the bird.

[sweete-ladye.livejournal.com]

Pretty Woman:

Vivian: People put you down enough, you start to believe it.
Edward Lewis: I think you are a very bright, very special woman.
Vivian: The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?

It's sad that it's easier to believe the bad stuff - even from our own selves. We are not conditioned to believe the good stuff. We defer the compliments we receive with an 'Oh thanks, but..."

We just need to find a way to make the good stuff easy to believe and shut the evil voices up

[pseudonymous.livejournal.com]

Oh man. I relate to this - every word - far more than I wish either of us did. :(

Sigh.

[morriganswitch.livejournal.com]

I love you. and my voices love your voices. /hug

Hm.

[well-artesia.livejournal.com]

"And every single time, I've fought back. I've reacted in outrage and protest and torrents of love and support."

Well, maybe not EVERY time.

Just sayin'.

Re: Hm.

[ysobelle.livejournal.com]

It must have been someone else with whom I sat on the phone. Someone else I invited up several times just so she wouldn't be alone. Someone else who sat across from me at lunch, and to whom I listened while she cried. Someone else to whom I gave support-- and who said she very much appreciated it at the time.

I think we're done here. I don't know what it is you're looking for. I just know I can't supply it.

Re: WTF?

[ysobelle.livejournal.com]

Blink.

Wow, did you ever miss the point. Who are you, and why are you reading my journal?