Sour Grapes of Wrath
The post I wrote yesterday hit a raw nerve within me. I must confess that I hesitated for a long time before I posted it. I almost didn’t, but then I dared myself. I felt very exposed after I did, which is why I didn’t spend too much time on tumblr afterwards. I closed my computer, and ran away from the internet to hide in the offline world. I needed time to think about what I had revealed about myself, not just to you, but to myself.
And I was useful. In spite of all her stories about how wonderful her and my father’s life together had been before I was born, and how awful it became after I arrived. In spite of failing to save their marriage, and causing more problems for their relationship by being born. I was the glue which held them together for worse and even more worse. I managed to unite them over a common enemy – me.
The talking issue I mentioned in my previous post is directly linked to my early experience of life. So is my shyness. So are most of my issues.
As a child I knew my parents did not love me. It was logical, and they were very open about it to me, but not to others. In front of other people there could not have been two more doting and loving parents. The problem was that I was such a brat. Other people always intervened on behalf of my parents to tell me how awful I was. I did try a few times to point out that I was the way I was because of my parents. I didn’t expect to be believed. I did hope my uncle would believe me. He was a child psychologist. But he didn’t. Perhaps because he didn’t want to see the truth, the illusion was more appealing.
I learned very early in life that people were not interested in anything I had to say unless I was telling them how wonderful they were, even if that was a lie, perhaps especially when it was a lie. I stopped talking, and just became a listener. That became rather unbearable too. But it was better than shutting myself off from other people entirely.
So, yes. Communication is an area of sour grapes of wrath for me. I suck at it very badly. I realise all my problems have me as a common denominator. That every time I point a finger at someone else, I am pointing three fingers back at myself. That I am my worst enemy. But that I also have within me the solution to my problems. And that I will keep trying, keep challenging myself to face my inner demons, until I have a breakthrough, or die. I will never surrender, it is not in my nature. Even though nurture tried to destroy me, it has yet to succeed. Survival is a primal skill.
The most incisive psychological book I have ever read, which was almost written about me and for me but wasn’t, – I am, as far as I can tell, not a Narcissist, but then a Narcissist would say that – is: Going Mad to Stay Sane by Andy White. If anyone has had an experience similar to mine, and I know people have, then I highly recommend this book. He uses mythology as a psychological tool, so any fans of mythology might enjoy this too.
The First three chapters describe my parents and me absolutely perfectly. Cybele – The Devouring Mother, Gordius – The Absent Father, and Self Hatred: a Legacy. It was so cuttingly enlightening, that the debt of gratitude I owe to the author can never be repaid. I also owe a debt of gratitude, larger than life itself to the one person who loved me, and still loves me, apparently utterly and completely unconditionally (I want to cry, and I never cry). I don’t know why they love me, and I try not to question it, but accept it as a wonderful gift from the universe, and from my beloved human.
There. This is me laid bare. As bare as I can manage without deleting myself off the face of the internet. Something I have done before, and which I am always tempted to do, every moment of the day and night. But I realise the value of self exposure, of exposing your flaws so that they can’t be used against you, and so that others can benefit from your experiences, and share their experiences with you. I know I am not alone. We all suffer. I also know that my parents were the way they were because of their parents, and their inner torment. My favourite poem is This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin. It explains it all.
I also owe you a debt of gratitude. Your comments to my posts are very precious to me. Thank you. Truly, and very deeply.
Any questions or comments?