I always felt things in a big way. My emotions had a way of taking over me.
Rage would fill my lungs and send me screaming to the ocean in the dark when I thought no one could hear me. Sadness would spill from my eyes for the whole world to see. Anxiety would hijack my brain like cordyceps turning me into a zombie with a need for self-destruction.
All the pain, anxiety and anger I felt was rooted in one core belief – I was not enough.
One night after work a friend of mine had come over to my apartment to interview me for one of her psychology courses. She wanted to do a deep dive into my history and learn about all the little bits and pieces that made me who I am. She had asked me to describe a favorite childhood memory.
I couldn’t think of one.
For as long as I can remember I wanted to be an adult. I wanted to be free to make my own decisions. I wanted to escape the traps of manipulation my mother would set for me whenever her own wounds of inadequacy throbbed inside her chest. I was her scapegoat and as long as I was a kid, living under her roof, I was stuck with her shadow looming over me.
I may not remember the best day of my life, but try as I might, the worst one will always be embedded in my head. I’m convinced not even severe head trauma could help me forget.
I was 20 years old and on my way for lunch with my parents. My dad was driving, mom sat in the passenger seat and my sister and I were in the back of the 4runner. We had just started the drive when I realized my deodorant had worn out. I was embarrassed but decided it was better to just call it versus wait for someone else to realize it. You know that thing where you beat people to the punch, so you get to make fun of yourself instead of being made fun of. I tried to laugh it off, but the moment took a turn I wasn’t expecting.
My dad was fuming. Couldn’t believe that I would go to lunch forgetting to put on deodorant. He was angry and screamed, “What’s wrong with you? I don’t know where we went wrong with you!”
And there it was. That ache I felt every time they compared me to my sister. The disappointment I felt every time they criticized me instead of praised me. The pain I felt when I would hear them talk about all my shortcomings in their arguments with each other. This was the moment that made me realize that the people who were supposed to love me the most, were the ones planting the seed of inadequacy.
The car fell silent. I felt like I had just been kicked in the gut. Worse yet, when I looked at my mom’s face, she looked like she wanted to join in on the emotional beating. She sat there silently nodding in agreement with my dad. Had I been lying on the ground, I’m pretty sure she would’ve given me a hard kick in the ribs. My sister was the only one who came to my defense.
I cried hysterically the rest of the way to the restaurant. My brain frantically trying to find an explanation to make the words okay. I must have misheard. They didn’t mean it. Anything but this pain.
Instead of apologizing or trying to say anything to console me they still tried making me get out of the car to go to the fucking Pizza Nova. When I refused, they grew even more irritated that I had messed up their lunch plans with my big feelings. Everything was my fault. I smelled. I was emotional. I was all wrong. I was made from the worst parts of both of them, and they hated me for it.
Eventually, my dad would apologize for what he said. Over the years, he’d make up for it.
When I was 35 years old, I was moving apartments because I hated the place I had been living in after only four months, he said, “Yvette, you deserve the best. I’ll help you move.” And while it may seem small, it was words like those that helped heal our relationship.
My mom, on the other hand, would continue to cut open my wound of inadequacy. No matter how I showed up for her or how I grew, I could tell that in her eyes I was always going to be that shy little girl with no friends that forgot things like deodorant. It’s hard to grow in places that keep you in the dark.
After 37 years of trying to be more, I finally began to distance myself from her. The sad part is, she also let me go. I stopped reaching out, and so did she. Another relationship of mine, slowly dying in silence. Another action telling me I’m not worth fighting for. I’m not enough.
You see whenever I get my heartbroken or the world tells me no – it’s never about a boy or a job or rejection itself. It is, and always will be, about my crippling fears of inadequacy. All I hear in my head is, “What is wrong with you? Where did we go wrong?” And while I never do, I always want to ask, “what is it?” Part of me believing if I just knew what it was, I could fix it. I could be better.
But as her shadow falls behind me, I can finally start turning towards the light.
They say healing is a journey and not a destination. I don’t know if this wound will ever completely heal.
My dad wouldn’t start telling me he loved me until I was in my late 20’s. And while he mumbles it and can only say it in passing, it means the world to me because when I hear him say I love you, I also hear I’m sorry. And when I say, I love you back, I also mean, I forgive you. And that’s a start in the right direction.