Journal Entry 9.1.23
The hardest thing to grieve is the loss of the thing you never had. I have never had a sense of self worth. I suppose I did when I was 1, 2, 3, or 4 but I am distinctly aware that by the time I was 5 I knew I was worth very little. My parents did not excel at teaching their daughters to fill their own skin, to climb to their greatest aspirations, and to believe that their differences might be an asset somewhere to someone. My upbringing was all about compliance and about punishing me for any time that I stood out as “different” (replace that word with “myself” and you will begin to understand).
I live a fabulous life now on a salt-water farm on the island of Vinalhaven off the coast of Maine. I am a skier and a sailor, a writer, an artist, an adventurer. I am interesting and interested. I laugh too loud, drink whiskey, and don’t care what I wear and what my appearance means to other people. I travel the world helping people access things that matter to them, honoring their communities and culture. I climb mountains, I break bones, and come back again, ready for the next adventure in a lifetime that has not produced many emotional rewards for me. People compare me to Peggy Guggenheim, to Katherine Hepburn, to Karin Blixen and Beryl Markham, Isabella Bird, and Vanessa Bell. People describe me to me and that woman sounds fabulous. But I can’t see myself that way. I see the person who was unwanted. Unwanted by family, unwanted by lovers, unwanted, unchosen, unembraced. Alone.
It is a lie of course. I have a fleet of friends who help keep me afloat even when I am on the other side of the planet from them. Who talk me through my suicidal despair and who text and call me until the demons recede back into the shadows of my house. I have a son who does not hate me—a huge achievement—and who, in fact, has a great deal of respect for me and likes and appreciates me. I am not alone. And yet, that sense of myself as a valuable, even admirable part of the the world is often missing. Occasionally, I fill up my own skin, am not ashamed, feel beautiful, and powerful. But it is rare. Usually, I am apologizing for my existence, certain I am wanted, and wait for someone else to declare that I have worth like a grand arbiter in the sky, weighing my soul for all to see.
I have become used to going through life without self worth, always slightly beaten down, always slightly believing I deserve the suffering I have endured. It take so much effort to believe I have value in the face of the “evidence” of the people around me that I do not, that I don’t even bother fighting their messages any more. I make, I adventure, but I don’t bother fighting the despair.