:)
:)
This week was the 40th anniversary of Woodstock and I was reminded that there was a period in my life when all the heroes in my life were celebrities who had died of drug-overdoses. In my mind, I identified with Janis Joplin who splashed her pain so unapologetically all over the stage and drank alcohol with the essence of one pouring antiseptic on an open wound. Now that I look back with a sober mind, I chuckle and find that pretty telling. Upon reflection I have come to understand my veneration of such open and blatant self-destruction and my emulation of such tendencies as really a cry for help from a person (me) who felt utterly and hopelessly powerless to be comfortable in my own skin.I
In my unconscious mind, I hoped that somewhere, someone would swoop down and save me from myself. My low self-esteem was a torment no matter how many times people tried to talk me off its ledge. There aren’t enough compliments or expressions of love in the world for someone who doesn’t love themselves.
Friends would say to me, “you look pretty” and I would actually disagree and try to talk them out of their opinion. If someone gave me a compliment, I would counter with numerous other reasons why they were wrong and how I actually didn’t deserve their accolades.
The truth is that somewhere in my heart, I wanted to believe them. In a way, I was fishing for compliments, but like a black hole of need, anyone’s kind words got sucked into the void and would never register in my heart or head. I took a compliment as a call for debate. If we went back and forth with “point/counterpoint” in regard to my good/bad points, perhaps, eventually I would be talked into seeing myself the way other people saw me and I would suddenly agree…”hey! You’re right! I do deserve love and happiness!”
I didn’t understand that like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz… I had the power to free myself all along.
