I don’t know if there was ever a time in my life where I felt good about myself. If there was, it was so long ago and I was so young, the memory is lost to the passing of time. For as far back as I can remember, I have felt defective. Like there was something really, very, horribly wrong with me deep in my core. This has made me feel that I have to hide myself away because I’m not acceptable the way I am. I have to wear a mask. I have to work very hard to say and do the appropriate things in each situation I encounter. It’s a lot of work and worry and stress. I think there have been many times in my life where I deserved to win an Emmy or Oscar for best actress in a drama. Except, if I do my job properly, no one will ever know I’m acting.
Why, you ask, do I wear this mask and hide from everyone I encounter? Because of my goo. I don’t want to get it on anyone.
I don’t think there is much of anything worthwhile about me. I don’t think I have much of anything to offer anyone. I see myself as being a drain; a liability. I have “issues” or “baggage” or whatever you want to call it. Officially, I suppose I would be classified as being mentally ill because of my depression and eating disorder…oh, and self-hatred too, which probably isn’t healthy or completely normal. I suppose the depression, and eating disorder too, as far as that goes, is largely a result of having survived a traumatic childhood filled with physical, sexual, emotional and verbal abuse and neglect. A logical assumption and common outcome, I’m told. But as a result, whenever I’m around people, I feel as if I have to protect them from me. From my deficits. From my neediness. From my brokenness. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone. I wouldn’t even want to inconvenience them. So I hide and shield them from the person I am inside.
Because I don’t think I have anything to offer and because I hide my true self from everyone I meet, I don’t make connections. This results in near complete isolation. Isolation is painful. Not having normal connections is destructive in and of itself. But when one feels oneself to be a broken mess, the kind who could adversely affect those around them, what alternative does one have? In truth, it’s been so long since I’ve experienced a meaningful connection with another person, I’m not sure I’m actually capable any more. It leaves me feeling even less human. Less than…always, I am less than others. Though I try to contribute in a healthy and constructive, even positive way, I am so inadequate, I fear my failure is great. Isolation is probably the best solution. And so I hide. And keep my goo to myself.
All of my life, I have longed to find someone who could love me, in spite of my horrid issues, failures, inadequacies, worthlessness, needs, brokenness and depression. Not that I’ve accepted that I’m a mess and not tried to get better. I’ve been working for more years than I want to confess to heal and improve and grow. I just don’t think I’ve made much progress. So, since no one has come along who has been able to find value in me, imperfections and all, I’m alone, unloved, unconnected. Sitting in my goo and trying to make sure I don’t infect anyone with my gooiness.
Being all alone is intensely painful, but it’s better than inflicting myself on another.
Will I always be alone? Oh, God, I hope not! I don’t know if I can bear growing much older without another whose hand I can hold; whose heart I can carry within my own. Someone I can confess my fears and regrets, dreams and hopes to. Someone who will listen tenderly, even though they can’t make anything better. Someone who will share their soul with me…and who wants me to share my shattered, tattered soul with them. My impossible dream. Please, let it not be impossible! I know I have a lot of goo and that’s disgusting. But underneath, hidden away, there still remains a vulnerable, loving, giving being. I think she’s still there. Covered in yuckiness. Waiting to be discovered. Waiting to be wanted. Waiting to be cherished. Waiting to be loved. I think, perhaps, if that hidden creature, unacceptable as she is, could ever be wanted and loved, it just might, maybe, possibly, slowly but surely, wash the goo away. Maybe.