A Character Study

I had a bit of an epiphany this morning. While I fully realize these are thoughts which should be discussed with a therapist, I don’t have that option at the moment for myriad reasons and also what is the POINT of having a BLOG if I can’t VOMIT MY STUPID THOUGHTS ONTO IT. Also, no one reads it anyway.

So, it’s pretty clear that many of my life choices have stemmed from insecurity and low self-esteem. Married at 21 to the first guy who showed any interest in me - because obviously it’s meant to be if he can stand me! Better snatch him up! Then I spent ten years making myself smaller and smaller, and STILL never got to whatever size would’ve fit within the confines of the person he found it acceptable for me to be.

For a long time, I blamed him for a lot of the misery in our marriage. But the thing is, I allowed him to treat me that way. The reasons are probably deeply seated in some as-yet-undiscovered childhood trauma, but we show people how to treat us - and I showed him.

In my first “grown-up” (not really, just full-time) job after college, I was coerced? groomed? into a relationship with a man more than twice my age. I felt like I couldn’t say no, but in hindsight, I’m not sure I really tried all that hard. It’s difficult to argue with a fit, 6’2” man who gropes you in the breakroom.

I think what I’ve realized is that I’ve ALWAYS played the victim. Growing up, I always felt like my parents (my mom, especially) preferred my brother, that he was the golden child. In truth, I don’t think that’s accurate; but he was certainly always “easier” than I was. Not emotional like me. So smart he had to take math classes at night because they ran out of math for him at school. Effortless slimness juxtaposed with my teenage fluff. He was also gifted with the coveted family left-handedness and stunning singing voice, both of which passed me over.

I don’t think my parents showed him overt favoritism, thinking back, but I just always KNEW, deep down, that he was better than me by any barometer. And he still is; he has a great job with a great company, still married to his high school sweetheart, living in a beautiful house with their three kids. A nice portfolio which would, I’m sure, preclude any desperate calls to daddy begging for $200 so the lights don’t get turned off.

I felt the scales tip every time my dad gave me a “helpful” diet tip, or my mom chided me for being too emotional, or purposely ignored me when I asked her a question just to blow up if I asked again. I learned to be quiet, after a while. I wasn’t terribly good at it, mind you, but life was easier when I was amenable and silent.

With all that said, I think I FEEL like a victim, and I PLAY the victim, but I’m not, really. I actively put myself in situations in which I can continue to play that role. It was easy in my first marriage. Tougher in my second, but I can still play second fiddle to my husband’s first wife, who once called me “a downgrade in every possible way.” I laughed at that statement initially, but she gave birth to his children and lived the life I crave, so who’s the winner here? Is anyone?

And so, here I am. Leaning into playing the supporting role once again. Happily(?) putting my wants and dreams aside for someone else’s. Waiting, knowing that I’m not really waiting, but just biding time until the choice is completely out of my hands - which, let’s face it, it always was.

The role into which I’ve thrust myself only has one real task: to smooth things over and make as much as possible easier for everyone else, perhaps especially to my own detriment. Make sure that my discomfort makes everyone else comfortable. Ultimately, I’m a pushover. A doormat. On top of that, I’m a poor communicator. Maybe a more apt description is terrified communicator, because I’m perfectly capable of speaking words which say what I mean, but I am incapable of saying them rationally in the moment, so I just… don’t say anything. I don’t say anything until I’m at an absolute breaking point, and/or I’m terribly drunk (or, more likely, some combination of the two), at which point my conversation consists mostly of tears and snot and angst. Which, of course, only seems to result in the other person waiting until I’m done verbally spewing whatever rant I’ve been rolling around in the back of my mouth for weeks, a stricken look upon his face, so that he can shove it onto the back burner again and go back to the status quo. You know, like an adult deals with a frustrating child who won’t stop begging for candy.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say, really. Maybe I’m just trying to move through this feeling and get to the other side, whatever that might look like. If it exists, and isn’t just the sweet oblivion of failure. Sometimes I’m not sure that I even want to get to the other side. Because that means giving up the one thing I want, and I don’t know what the nail in that coffin is even shutting in. I’m doubtful it contains anything I truly need to shed. It might just contain me.

So, yeah. Just your neighborhood fuck-up over here, fucking it up. Is there really any other way to live?