I’ve learned the hard way that there are a few social faux pas that are sure-fire ways to careen any social interaction into a metaphorical lamppost. Lying about a subject you don’t know anything about to keep a conversation going, for example. You may have meant well, but people will sus out that you’ve never gone skiing and will distrust you from that point onwards. Also, don’t assume that you and a colleague are on the same page when it comes to politics. Sure, they might seem like nice people, and you joke about work frequently enough, but you never know who has very aggressive views on niche subjects like farm murder statistics. They don’t want a discussion, they don’t want facts, they will absolutely cut you out of their lives if you’re not on the same page.
But here’s one that makes people physically squirm when the subject comes up:
Admitting that you hate yourself.
I think if people are honest about their self-image, they would conclude that they aren’t the person they wish they were all the time. But to declare that you find yourself unbearable is like saying you’re infected with something. People will argue with you, telling you that no! You’re a wonderful person! Look how smart you are! Don’t you see how kind and generous you are to people every day? Like an outside perspective would be enough to suddenly overwrite decades of hateful voices in your head that are on a loop every single minute of the day.
It makes them very uncomfortable.
And then it makes them weird around you.
“I don’t trust people who don’t love themselves and tell me, ‘I love you.’ … There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.”
― Maya Angelou
Here’s the thing. I love deeply. I love my wife and my dogs with a fierceness that few people will ever be able to comprehend. I love my friends and all their oddities. I love animals and music and art in ways that ache my soul. They’re all easy to love, because they’re not me.
I don’t think I’ve ever liked my body. Let’s start from the literal top.
My hair is an unruly mess of curls, but not in a way that can be shaped in any meaningful way. I’ve been called grandma because it resembles a perm. Where other boys could get bowl cuts or gel their hair into spikes, mine refused to cooperate in any way to any conventional styling whatsoever. In my teens and twenties I wore my hair as long as it deigned to grow, which wasn’t much further than my brow when wet. I would then blow-dry it into a sort of poor facsimile of an “afro,” the “Jew-fro” as my politically incorrect friends would joke, as it was the only way I could make my hair into something other than a mess of pubes lobbed onto my head.
Why didn’t I just shave it? Because I have a huge head. I’ve been teased about it my whole life, but it’s not just the cruelty of children. I literally cannot find hats that fit my head apart from some outliers like visors. Which makes me look like a broccoli lollipop as it bunches my hair up. I once found a baseball cap at a flea market that fit my enormous dome that I wore for years until it rotted away. And shaving my hair just seemed to now make my head seem even more out of proportion, now with the added pale skin acting as a high-vis reflection tape of negative attention. On the topic of skin…
I have inherited an abundance of moles from both parents, many of which are on my face. They’re like a constellation of stars that grow hair disproportionally fast and thick, that bulge out and scream to observers to gaze upon my asymmetry and despair. And fuck trying to grow a beard to cover the worst of them, because those hairs are spread out like farmland telephone poles. I didn’t shave for about a year and the densest hairs I had were about five on my chin, while the rest waved around like corn social distancing.
I can’t find clothes that fit my proportions. At my peak physical shape, my shoulders were too broad for a Medium, but too narrow for a Large, which meant I always looked dishevelled. Jeans are either too long in the crotch or too tight in the leg. And I could have had them tailored, but I never had the money or skill to make that a reality.
I carry all my weight on my belly. I have a myriad of health problems that make living a chore every day. And on and on I can list all the reasons why, if given the chance to jump ship into a robot body, I would do so without even considering the fine print. At least then I could swap out body parts that upset me.
“If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else? Can I get an ‘AMEN?’”
― RuPaul
I haven’t even touched on all the mental and behavioural bullshit that I have going on. Some of it is genetic, like the autism making social and professional settings exhausting and potential distress minefields. The ADHD means that I’m constantly bouncing between hyperfocus and distraction, with no middle ground. And then there’s my friend Chronic Depression, who loves nothing to put a foot on my neck and tell me all the ways I’ve fucked up.
How the hell can I love myself, even like myself, when I am the reason even the best days are peppered with sometimes physical pain and constant mental misery?
Can I get an amen?
I know it’s not good for me. I’m talking to my therapist about it and my wife has been a saint about recognising the symptoms of a crash before I do. But I haven’t been able to figure it out. I get stomped into the floor by my depression until it gets bored, then I get up again and desperately try to fix as much of the mess it left before it comes back.
Some people say that I lack Purpose™. Why don’t I throw myself into something bigger than myself? That’s a tried and tested way of finding a reason to get up in the morning.
Well, I tried the religion thing. Turns out, they’re real big on the conformity thing and not being able to fit in a group whose whole thing is fitting in is like exfoliating a sunburn. They’re also not big on the “asking questions” thing and pointing out logical inconsistencies makes them real upset.
I’ve also tried volunteering. The times I reached out to NGOs were either met with no response, or a vague sense that they didn’t know what to do with me. And the time I went to help in person, they seemed surprised I showed up. I cleaned kennels alongside a paid employee that tried to hide his annoyance that I was underfoot. I was left with the strong impression that they would rather I just donated money instead. I left far emptier than when I went in.
Employment was also a bust. What the modern workspace demands over everything else is consistency, something my ADHD ass is terrible at. Don’t get me wrong, once I start a job, I get proficient in it very, very quickly. But once the novelty wears off it’s a herculean task to do the same things repeatedly. And then I start finding distractions, making stupid mistakes, generally fucking about until I’ve burnt out. The one time I thought I could make a good go at the whole career thing, I really gave it my all. I worked 11 hours shifts with a 4 hour commute, moved up the ladder in a call centre. Then I hit an arbitrary wall to my progression: I didn’t have a post High School degree. This meant that HR wouldn’t even look at my CV for a supervisory role. My supervisor at the time had a degree in Agriculture, which somehow meant that he qualified for a better role in processing refunds. Or something. All my past work didn’t mean anything in the face of the bureaucratic machine.
I’ve made half-hearted attempts at self-employment, but I’m just not the “Hustle” type. I don’t find joy in the hunt, I don’t believe I can do anything anyone will pay for and I’m just not motivated by money in the way people who are willing to build businesses are.
My wife and I don’t want children. It’s just not a thing that appeals to us in any shape or form. So there’s another dead end on the whole life-path thing.
So what is my Purpose™? I don’t fucking know. What I do know is that I need to do Something™ before I never get up again.
The closest thing I’ve found to a path forward is the following video by Lady of the Library, which discusses her own journey through self-loathing and how complicated the whole thing actually is. And she’s not trite or cute about the whole thing either.
Long story short, I have stories about myself in my head that are contributing to my behavioural patterns.
And I’ve also realised that some of those are stories that I didn’t write for myself.
My next step is to attempt to disregard those old stories and to start writing a new story for myself, one where I have a place I fit. I haven’t the foggiest idea on where to begin, but I think this is a framework I can use.
I’m not sure I can love myself. But maybe if I change the stories, I don’t have to hate myself either.